Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 142

Shiny!

It all started like this… 

See… I was doing some housecleaning.  Seriously.  OLD housecleaning.  Pre-kids housecleaning.  Uhm, sacred drawer of intimacy housecleaning.  Yeah.  That sort of housecleaning.  Anyway-- I threw "stuff" away, like you do, and looked across the street.

Now, we live across the street from a church with a little private school attached.  The faith is uberconservative, but the people there are very nice.  When Big T started school, he, of course, went with whatever special ed program available-- the bus came and got him and then brought him home.  When Chicken started school, our district had not yet started open enrollment, and our neighborhood sucks.  We didn't want to put her on a school bus to be taken to a crappy school.  You had to see her, too-- I don't have any pictures on the computer from that time, but, well… she was tiny.  She had a growth spurt in her Freshman year, but for the longest time, she was shorter than average, tinier than average, and she had the tiniest, most piquant little heart shaped face, dominated with big brown eyes. I couldn't send my baby away!  But I had a job, too.  So we sent her across the street, to the nice women who always wore dresses and never cut their hair.

Of course, there were some drawbacks.  For one, they didn't let the kids read about magic, and that's where I live.  Seriously-- no Harry Potter.  No C.S. Lewis.  Nothing but watered down bible stories and stock curriculum.  For another, most of their teachers barely had a BA degree.  Now, for the littler kids that doesn't matter particularly-- if you are good with little kids and you have a curriculum, you're doing your job.  But as Chicken grew, we were doing more of the teaching at home--value-wise, too, because these weren't our people.  We had run ins with teachers who wouldn't let her go to the bathroom until it was too late (because it was a CHURCH school, and you had to be DISCIPLINED) and run-ins with teachers who didn't believe that she was really trying in penmanship (in which she got a grade, believe it or not.)  I had to go in there and physically write something to show the teacher that A. She came by it rightly, and B. We didn't really give a shit how good her penmanship was, it didn't indicate how smart she was.  By the fourth grade, we'd had enough church school, and the district had opened up anyway, so we sent her to the local school for a year, and then to T's school for a blissful, two-year period wherein they both attended the same middle school.  

Anyway-- so I know the church school across the street.  

And there I was, looking at the kids playing in the brown field (like us, they let their lawn die during this horrible, hot, dry, winter) and throwing away, uhm, unmentionable items.  

*giggle*

Oh gees. These people freak out over Harry Potter.  What would they do if someone knocked over my trash-can full of vibrators?

*giggle*

I came back in and got on the computer (where I live and breathe) and Tweeted/FB'd that very sentiment:  "Just threw away old "unmentionables".  We live across from a church--I hope nobody knocks over my trashcan."

And, like it does on social media, that little comment got seen.  By my publisher.  Who loved it.  Adored it.  

Asked me very prettily to write it.  Even put Mary-my-Mary on CC to talk me into shoving it in front of the queue.  

I really can't ever say no to Elizabeth, ever.  This was no exception.

Shiny! was written in good fun-- and nothing but.  There is a lot of me in there, if you know where to look, but it's the happy me, the philosophical me, the me that bounces back and doesn't wallow.  (Yeah, she's here!)  I sort of love Will, a big, doofy, good-willed everyman, who tries his best and takes his time and who is, in all his generous humility, a superstar to the people who love him.  I love Kenny too, snarky, sarcastic, a little bitter, but basically whole and sound, and so very willing to open up to Will's sweetness and drink it in.  There are no tragedies int his one.  No deep  dark secrets.  No hidden wellspring of epic pain.  I'll ask my angst-whores to be patient-- Blackbird and Beneath the Stain will rip their hearts out, but Shiny! is just that.  Happy.  Shiny.  Sweet.  

I hope you all enjoy a little bit of sunshine, at the end of what has been (for some of you) a long, bleak winter.

Shiny! is available for pre-sale at Dreamspinner Press and All Romance e-books, and will be released tomorrow, when you can get it on amazon.com as well.


Description:

Will Lafferty and Kenny Scalia are both having sort of a day. Will gets fired for letting fifth graders read Harry Potter, and Kenny finds his boyfriend and his sex toys in bed with a complete stranger. When Will knocks over Kenny's trash can—and strews Kenny's personal business all over the street—it feels like the perfect craptastic climax to the sewage of suckage that has rained down on them both.

But ever-friendly, ever-kind Will asks snarky Kenny out for a beer—God knows they both need one—and two amazing things occur: Kenny discovers talking to Will might be the best form of intercourse ever, and Will discovers he's gay.

Their unlikely friendship seems like the perfect platonic match until Will reveals how very much more he’s been feeling for Kenny almost since the beginning. But Kenny’s worried. Will’s newfound sexuality is bright and glittery and shiny, but what happens when that wears off? Is Will's infatuation with Kenny strong enough to stay real?

Oh!  And I thought I should add-- 
Rhys Ford, Charlie Cochet and I will be at Google Hangouts, doing a Fireside Chat on Saturday, Feb. 22, 5 p.m. EST.  If you want to leave us questions, RIGHT HERE at DSP's blog, and watch for the link on Twitter and FB right before the chat starts.  I promise (especially after the dry run this morning!) to wear makeup, because gawd, no one wants to see me without it up close and personal, and I may even have a dog in my shirt.  
Come join us and feel free to send questions!
And enjoy Shiny!  This one is all about the sweet :-)

Lego Dreams

So the family and I went and saw The Lego Movie today-- and I have one thing to say:

EVERYTHING IS AWESOME!  

Seriously-- how can you not love The Lego Movie?  A perfect blend of earnestness and snark, how can you not love a movie that laughs at it's own meta-ness, and teaches not only the joys of non-conformity but also the importance of understanding the directions?
It's like this movie was made for me!

It also has the world's best theme song.  Ever.

See?



And the thing with me, is that I didn't appreciate legos until I was a mom.

Of course, sometimes I appreciated that they were evil fucking building blocks of Satan-- but that was usually at dark-thirty a.m. when I stepped on one in my bare feet.  (BTW-- the current curse of wishing that someone steps on a Lego, like, say, Jeff Davis, creator of Teen Wolf, is one of my favorite pop culture tropes right now.  It has the perfect blend of diabolical evil and complete childhood innocence.  I approve.  Jeff Davis, step on a Lego!)  But mostly, I appreciated Legos with Big T.

Big T could spend hours alone with his Legos.  Hours.  Very little of that time was spent building.

Most of that time was spent setting the figures up to interact.

He would put them in a saloon or a pirate ship or a space ship and then proceed to write mumbled, largely unintelligible dialog for his people, and then move them to another location.

Now that T wants to make movies, this behavior seems to be a precursor to that especially-- but I was the one who spent my time coaching him through social situation after social situation as he grew up, and I know what he was really doing.

He was practicing.

He was practicing conversing in the magical thing called language that the gods had cursed him with as a barrier instead of gifted him with as a tool.

For Big T, those Lego guys were his trainers, his proxies, his coaches through the uncertain and treacherous terrain of the spoken word, of body language, of an honest exchange of ideas.

He loved them.  He loved all the Lego aspects, but that one in particular.

Big T is working hard toward adulthood now.  Although he's twenty-one in actual age, he's just now becoming more autonomous, but his progress is still pretty clear.

In his room he has a giant vat of Legos-- ginormous-- with the building blocks leftover from an entire childhood of our indulgence with his favorite world.  Every now and then we ask him if he wants to give them to Zoomboy.

Not yet, he tells us, getting a little wobbly in the heavily furred chin.  Not yet.  He needs to cling to them a little longer.  They make his new and continuous forays into adulthood a little more safe, just by sitting in his room.

That's okay.

The entire message of the movie was that Legos get to be anything you need them to be.

Just like dreams.

Valentines Day?

I got quoted today on U.S.A. Today Blog about my favorite Valentines Day sweet, which I think is really funny.

See, the thing is, I ADORE writing love stories, but I have a very odd sense of romance.I have given up being a fan of the romantic gesture, or the big box of chocolates (unless I craved chocolate.)  I mean, for a while, I hoped for these things, but after LITERALLY bolluxing every attempt Mate made to be a suave, romantic sonuvabitch, it occurred to me that I was one of those awkward people for whom romance was a little more complex.  Yes, you could set up the toy helicopter and the thing of flowers in the middle of the living room, but odds were very good that would be the day I didn't get home until two in the morning and the helicopter would have stopped whirring around and the flowers would be droopy.  (True story.)


Yes, I could bake the cookies with a fever of 103 degrees, and deliver them to the place we both worked, almost getting fired when I got caught.  However, that would very possibly frighten my intended into bolting for the hills the very next day, while I consoled myself with Journey Songs and bulimia.  (True story.  We made up later.  Mate regrets.)

Yes, he could get the lovely flower and the unicorn earrings and put them in the produce part of the refrigerator on the one day in seven I decided to cook vegetables, so the surprise is spoiled.  (True story.)






The fact is, after twenty-six, twenty-seven years, we have come to appreciate the valentines that don't happen on purpose.  The dancing in the kitchen when a pretty song comes on the computer, the moments when we charm each other by accident, that touch on the leg or the foot that we give each other when one of us is sleeping and the other has to move about the room.  



























However, in the past few electronic years, I have learned that just because my beloved and I have perfected our own real romantic gestures, that doesn't mean that my girlfriends and I don't have the need for all the foolish, sweet, gooey, sugary fun things that come with the idea of Valentines day.






I think it was Miss Julianne (from whom I shamelessly stole the demotivator below) who first pointed out that Valentines Day was really for your buddies.  The love thing is between two people-- the dishing and swooning and mooning and whispering that makes up the day itself actually seems to be a happier thing when we're doing it with our peers.  After all-- love is private.  Talking about love, not so much.




Talking about love is making the fantasy beautiful, sharing it.  It's what romance writers do best. 



Chicken is, even now, sending me silly poetry about Teen Wolf in order to cope with the stress of "VD" as we've been calling it.  In a way, she's celebrating her singleness.  She's not on a man-hunt.  She doesn't want a boyfriend.  But the crush of love and expectation of being a couple is wearing on her everlovin' nerves.  So she celebrates with me, and I laugh my ass off-- because she's really clever and entertaining and-- well, isn't that what we do?



We can't count on the perfect boy doing the perfect thing on V-Day.  We can't count that our romantic gesture will be either received or interpreted right.  But boy, we can count on support as we recount our tragicomic romantic woes with our friends.  




Some of our favorite television shows are based on this.  Some of our favorite moments from other shows capture this.  This idea that platonic love can be the thing that sustains us when romantic love falters is REALLY what this day is all about!




















So celebrate it.

Enjoy it.

Embrace it.







I've given you some of my favorite silly little pictures, some of my favorite songs that mean love.  Even a lubricant commercial, to make you smile.

Share at will.


















And if you have a beloved, and your romantic gesture is successful, be really grateful.

Never forget the days when you were single, and the kiss goodnight was as far away as the moon, and you had only the sunlight of your friends to sustain you.

What I'm wearing today...

It's sort of my uniform after getting home from any trip, but it's got the same basic style, shape, and function:

* ripped jeans

* stretched out T-shirt

*  bra that doesn't chafe

*  underwear that don't droop

*  softest, stretchiest hoodie

*  flip-flops

* scarf

*  booby hamster

I'm home-- oh baby I'm home!


Some things that happened in the last hours of my trip…

*  The sun came out.

*  I got to go walking on the beach.

*  I took lots of pictures-- many of them panoramic, because Daytona really does look like the pictures and the movies, and that's sort of cool.

*  I realized that even though there are many nice hotels on the strip, there are some hotels where the 80's went to cook meth and die.  I was REALLY happy to be in one of the nice ones.

*  I got to have dinner with Gini Koch and T.C. Blue-- T.C. writes m/m, and we've been to cons before, but Gini is het sci-fi/humor (think Terry Pratchett with girl power!) and together, we had a blast on the last night .


*  I discovered that you CAN make a sexual innuendo about anything, even shelling lobster in Joe's Crab Shack (thank you Gini and T.C.!).

*  By hilarious chance, Gini and I got seated next to each other on the plane from Daytona to Atlanta-- she is a glorious traveling companion.  She even bolted a sandwich with me during my shortened layover.

*  The plane from Atlanta to San Francisco spent two hours on the tarmac-- I slept through both of them.

* I woke up about half an hour after take off and read a book cover to cover.

*  My seat mate for that leg of the tip told me I looked like a fatter version of Debra Messing.  Since Mate has sort of a crush on her, I took that as a compliment.


*  The dog was so excited to see me when I got home that he peed all over the house.  Twice.

*  The cat camped out on my feet when I went to the bathroom this morning-- no hand humping involved.  I was a pooping human woobie.

*  The kids were thrilled that I was home-- I was hugged to death.

*  Squish wore her hat to school.  Zoomboy got Lego Harry Potter years 1-4 for his video game.  Everybody wanted some mom.

*  Mate said he missed me.  This means a lot to me-- I always feel like I don't do enough when I'm home.  It's good to know I'm missed.

It's my first day back, which means I'm doing my best imitation of a comatose garden slug.  No-- not kidding--I don't even do laundry my first day back, hence my traditional uniform.  I'm useless.  I'm a barely sentient paperweight.  For instance, now, after my traditional gazunga hour nap I may get some work done on my drug addicted rock star.


Besides watching television with my kids?

It's what I look forward to most in the world.

I'm glad to be home.

10 Reasons Knitting is the Skill Set for the Zombie Apocalypse

 Okay-- you all see the lovely woman standing on my right?  That's Deborah Cooke/Claire Delacroix, and she's lovely, funny, bright as hell, and we did a meet and greet today.  Not many people came, but I was thrilled to be in the same room with her, and we had fun.  I presented ten reasons Knitting is the Skill Set for the zombie Apocalypse during the event, and Claire said, "Somebody MUST blog it!" and so I will present it at the end of this post!

So, a quick, random run-through of some of the other events in pictures…

Poppy and Amy on the first night-- they're good friends and adorable, and I loved them!  We are in Denny's, and there WAS magic there, and we just fested on carbs… t'was grand!

Here we have Damon Suede and Amy again, having an amazing conversation about literature that I was privileged to be a part of!  One of those fun things that people come to cons for, honestly.  Twas awesome.

Over here, we have a selfie, me and Damon-- he is laughing because he has figured out the secret of selfies-- don't look up, because then people can see your extra chin AND whatever is inside your nose!

And here, we have Precious Paranormal Poppy Denison, who was my companion much of the weekend.  She promised Mary-my-Mary that she would look out for me, because we all KNOW how I can get when surrounded by shiny squirrels, and she has done an admirable job.  She is currently wearing Squish's scarf hat which I finished when I arrived.  Squish is thrilled-- I can't wait to give it to her!

Over here, we have a late night round table at the character ball… from left to right, TC Blue-- who is lovely and awesome as always, our friend Chudney, and Damon Suede, looking as exhausted as I feel, and holding court.  Also at that table was Damon's fun and awesome friend Lyla, the wonderful and ever so helpful Taylor Law, and you can see T.C. Blue once again (which is always a very good thing!)

Oh-- some other things that happened?

#CMCC TRENDED on Twitter the other night, as we panned the perfectly dreadful movie, Little Red Riding Hood.  Live tweeting during a bad movie is sort of damned hysterical.  I hope this becomes a party fad for college students everywhere, because… too much fun!

Also…

We won Flash Fiction.  I mean the whole table won Flash Fiction:  Damon Suede, Alex Hughes, Lucien Diver, Kiernan Kelly, Alicia Fox and I had an amazing time making up stories that ranged from T-Rexes and turkeys to Mermaphrodites on Pizza.  Seriously we made shit up on the spot-- I think we all had at least two or three moments of totally winning the show which meant that the entire panel was raucous and exciting and awesome.  WOOT!

And…

I got to have dinner with Damon and our agent, Saritza Hernandez, which was delightful, because she's GREAT, and we never get to see enough of her!

And that brings me to the meet and greet-- and the top ten reasons that knitting is go to survival skill for the zombie apocalypse…

Number 10--

Pointy sticks make excellent weapons.

Number 9--

String can be make very effective traps.

Number 8--

Knitter's stash makes effective house insulation for those pesky power outages.

Number 7--

Wool is self-extinguishing--which comes in handy when your city is on fire.

Number 6--

If you realize you're doomed to become a zombie anyway, you can knit yourself a market bag for body parts and start your new life as a living undead ghoul with some preparation.

Number 5--

It is possible to knit a hammock, and we all know zombies can't climb trees.

Number 4--

Acrylic yarn melts.  Melting your old embarrassing stash to create a polyethylene armor to protect against zombie bites is a thoughtful way to recycle.

Number 3--

You can't run away with blisters on your feet.  New socks are important.

Number 2--

Cotton washcloths are good for sopping up blood.

Number 1--

You can also knit sweaters and blankets.

And that's the end of the show for today, folks… on Monday, I'll be coming home, but not before a walk on the beach and a chance to say goodbye to the awesome folks here at the con.

Ciao!

Yarn and Selfies

Don't take this the wrong way, but my ass hurts.

Yeah, not that way, you pervs (my people, I adore you all!) but in the more prosaic sense, by the time I got from SF Airport to Atlanta (where I am blogging from, while I wait for my connector to Daytona Beach), my left hind yaab was killing me, my tummy does not make for great laptop  accessibility, and, I'm sitting across from a Popeye's chicken after eating a really crappy sandwich wrap for lunch.

Excuse me while I whine.

I'm actually looking forward to this trip-- I had a good time in Florida last year (not to mention the fact that it yielded me the profoundly quirky Left-on-St.-Truth-be-Well,) and even though many of my friends who were there last year will not be there this year, I still want to go.  Or, rather, I want to be there.

I didn't really want to "go".  I certainly didn't want to leave.  You all may or may not have guessed, but as crappy and as messy as my home gets, I sort of like it there.

I certainly like the people there.  My Mate and I seem to have less and less time as the years go by.  This worries me.  So I was really grateful when Mate agreed to take me to SF the night before my flight left.  He kept asking me what I wanted to do with our sudden windfall of time, and I kept saying, "You're the one who took time off work to spend time with me.  What do you want to do?"

We went out to eat.  We watched TV. We cuddled. Not exciting, I know, but God, it felt so important.  And it was hard to leave him this morning--well, hard to leave at 4 a.m. anyway, but really hard to leave him, all sleepy and warm.

And it was hard to leave the kids, too, all quirky and cuddly as well.

But on Monday, I was getting a pedicure, and my friend Wendy called.  I explained what I was doing, and she was sort of puzzled-- and a little contemptuous.  She works very hard-- very often doing outdoor work in the mud, wearing boots.  She couldn't understand why I would spend the money and take the time getting my feet done.  "I just can't justify the expense."

Last year, I might have felt the same way.  Ten years ago I definitely would have felt the same way.  But today, I have gone to conventions and met some writers I admire the hell out of, and they looked like everything we all imagine writers to look like.  Beautiful, confident, polished.

No, not what you all imagine when you think of me, I'm sure.

But going to cons, you all meet me, and I want to be my best for you.  So it occurred to me, trying to explain my need for cute feet in open-toed shoes, that with different stages in our life, we get to try different things.  I get to try pedicures.  I get to try traveling for my job.  I get to try meeting really awesome people.  No, it's not knitting on my chair with my kids, but that doesn't make it any less me than the yarn and the kids and the booby hamster do.

So while I'm not exactly thrilled to be leaving home, I am excited to be going somewhere.  I've never been to Daytona Beach.  I understand it's really beautiful.

I can't wait to see it.

I can't wait to go back home and tell my people what I've seen.

*kermit flail* YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY

Okay, now that I've got your attention!

I realized that my blogging time at the beginning of the month got pretty booked!  I'm at Amy's Lane on the second Tuesday, and at Sid Love's on the third, and, well, who's going to write my blog.

So I asked for some help from my friends.  I opened my blog up, on the first Monday of the month, to anyone who has a new release or one coming for this next month.  Now, I told the truth.  I told them that I was not so much with the editing, and that I had an eclectic readership of people who liked a family blog and knitting, and romance, and, well, they were still crazy… uhm, enthusiastic about the idea, so here we are!  Let's hear it for my fellow authors, who ALL have something coming out this next month.  I mean, it's the month of love, right?

 So, let's start with The Big Bone Lick Pack, since it was the first to come up!


BIG BONE LICK PACK (ANTHOLOGY) Bad Wolf & Devil Dog by Kendall McKennaBig, Bad Bear by Jambrea Jo JonesShifty Fox Shenanigans by Cherie Noel
Welcome to the Big Bone Lick Pack: A more friendly and hospitable group of werewolves you’ll never meet! Visit with; ‘Devil Dog & Bad Wolf’, a ‘Big Bad Bear’ and enjoy some ‘Shifty Fox Shenanigans’. Watch yourself, ’round the state park, ’cause we had a grizzly on the loose, just a bit ago. Our brave men and woman of the Boone County Sheriff’s Department have everything under control. (Except maybe their own love lives!) But if you find yourself needing a doctor, head on down to Rabbit Hash clinic, or St. Elizabeth’s Hospital is just up the road a piece. We hope you enjoy your stay.
You can find it at Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, and MLR Press.

Next is 6 Days to Valentine by L.E. Franks! 

In Nick’s perfect world, Valentine’s Day would be struck from the calendar.
Nick’s dreams of a Happily Ever After were shredded long ago and the last thing he and his customers need is a bunch of happy loving couples rubbing it in their faces.
Bouncer Fat Boy Newman is willing to bet he knows Nick’s heart better than he does. He has just six days to change Nick’s mind about romance and the holiday and the perfect man to do it.
Too bad it’s not him.
Too bad Nick’s not going down without a fight.
Too bad he cheats.

Buy Here!

Looks fun, right?  (I know I want to read it!)
But if you want something a little more serious, (and with leather on the cover!) we can depend upon J.p. Barnaby.  Here we have In the Absence of Monsters. 
 Jayden Carter knew the path he wanted his life to take. He wanted to get his Master’s Degree in History and teach. But, when he answered an ad for a roommate and met mysterious doctor, Ethan Bryant, he’s brought into a world he never knew existed and his path changes. 

It changes again for Jayden and he leaves Ethan with their friend, Lexi, in tow. Ethan loses himself in a haze of self-destruction and pain. With the help of a childhood friend, Gabriel, Ethan battles the demons of his childhood and finds a way to survive. Gabriel and Jayden wage an epic war for Ethan, but in the end, they may all end up losing.
Adapted from The Forbidden Room and A House of Cards: Deconstructing Ethan
Buy HERE!

And, of course, if you like hot, and dreamy and spicy and, well, three ways, Jaime Samms always delivers.  Or, at least The Foster Family delivers for the threeway, but Jaime always delivers for the dreamy, spicy, and sweet.  


Growing up in foster care has left Kerry Grey with little self-esteem or hope for his future. A college dropout, Kerry scrapes by on a part-time job at a garden nursery. His friendship with his boss and working with the plants are the only high points in Kerry’s life. He’s been dating the man who bullied him at school, but when his boyfriend abandons him at a party, Kerry wanders down the beach to drown his sorrows in a bottle of scotch. 
Malcolm Holmes and Charlie Stone have been together for fifteen years. Despite Charlie's willingness to accept Malcolm's unspoken domination in bed,something is missing from their relationship. Early one morning, they rescue a passed out Kerry from being washed away by the tide and Charlie immediately senses a kindred spirit in the lost younger man. When Kerry’s roommate kicks him out, Malcolm and Charlie invite him into their home. As Charlie and Kerry bond over Charlie’s garden, Malcolm sees Kerry may be just who they have been looking for to complete their lives. All they have to do is show Kerry, and each other, that Kerry's submissive tendencies will fit their dynamic. 
But someone is sabotaging Kerry at every turn. As he struggles to discover the culprit, he fears for the safety of his new friends. If Malcolm and Charlie cannot help, their lifelong search for their perfect third may not end with the happily ever after they imagined.
Buy HERE.
Now when this next author contacted me, I got kind of excited.  See, I loved Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Trixie Belden, etc. as a kid, and as a grown up, I am HOOKED on the Eve Dallas mysteries by J.D. Robb.  So when I realized that Haley Walsh had written the same sort of thing for a gay English teacher, well, I got a huge case of the SQUUUUEEEEEEEE!!!  This is not the first in the series, but seriously-- look at that kid?  Don't you want to squish his cheeks?  And read his book?  By the way-- Haley wanted me to tell you that free, signed bookmarks are available-- her contact information is HERE.  This is FOXE FIRE by Haley Walsh


Can out-and-proud high school teacher Skyler Foxe find the Redlands firebug before he falls prey to a killer?

High school English teacher Skyler Foxe is now out and proud, even though a few months ago he had no intention of being so. But since the cat is now out of the bag, he embraces it as well as his boyfriend, head football coach, Keith Fletcher. But who is that good-looking gay parent hanging around Keith, causing mischief at the school as well as in Skyler’s private life? And then someone from Skyler’s past returns, stirring up trouble. Add to that a firebug and suddenly everyone seems up to no good, especially when a smoldering corpse is found outside of the local gay bar. Skyler can’t help himself and he gets up to his old sleuthing tricks once more. Buy Here

 And that brings us to Riding Tall by the always thoughtful, always classy, Kate Sherwood.


Riding Tall by Kate Sherwood Sequel to The Fall 

Joe Sutton and Scott Mackenzie have ridden off into the sunset, but they wake to the cruel light of reality. Joe loves his family, even with the add
Tired of taking and determined not to depend on another sugar daddy, Mackenzie returns to modeling in the city, but the wild clubs he once loved aren’t home anymore. Yet things aren’t right back at the ranch either. Joe is no longer the man he knew. Before the love of his life reaches his breaking point, Mackenzie must convince Joe he’s not lazy if he takes a break and not weak if he needs a little help. Finding the balance between give and take might leave them time for happily ever after.
Available February 3 2014, from Dreamspinner or wherever else fine romances are sold online.

 And we cannot possibly forget the inimitable man with a plan, Vicktor Alexander!

The Beginning (Sons of Adam):
Ronny Parker has always been aware that there was more to life outside of his Harlem apartment. When he goes to work one morning at Starbucks, he finds himself coming face to face with a reality that he was not prepared for. He finds himself the eyewitness to a fight between two shifters, a wolf and a lion, one of which bites Ronny and calls him “mate.” When Ronny wakes up the next morning he finds himself thrust into a world neither his family, nor his teachers ever taught him about and he does the only thing he can do. He starts to investigate.
Cole Tronk has been taught from an early age that he is never to mate a human, never reveal his true nature to a human and that he cannot be gay. But when he gets into a fight with his oldest friend outside of a Starbucks and finds himself smelling the most intoxicating scent ever, he throws all of those rules out of the window. Before long, Cole and his mate, Ronny are on the run from the governing body of the paranormals, humans who have now discovered that paranormals, magicks and supernaturals exist, and someone from Ronny’s past who is determined to kill them both.
Along the way, Cole and Ronny meet up with a group of paranormals, magicks, and supernaturals who are also gay, and who are researching the true history of the world and creation. What they find will not only change their lives, but the entire world and the future. Will Ronny and Cole’s mating survive all of these obstacles and when a millennias old lie comes back to bite them in the ass, will Ronny and Cole be able to deal with the consequences?

Buy HERE. 


And I wasn't going to do this, because I sort of pimp my own ride as it is, but then I realized, hell, I actually have a book out in February, and it would be sort of silly not to put it out there one more time.

So here's the blurb and the buy link for Shiny! which is out on February 21st. I will, of course, do a "Where did that come from?" post when I get close to the date, but for now, I so hope you enjoy.

Description:Will Lafferty and Kenny Scalia are both having sort of a day. Will gets fired for letting fifth graders read Harry Potter, and Kenny finds his boyfriend and his sex toys in bed with a complete stranger. When Will knocks over Kenny's trash can—and strews Kenny's personal business all over the street—it feels like the perfect craptastic climax to the sewage of suckage that has rained down on them both.

But ever-friendly, ever-kind Will asks snarky Kenny out for a beer—God knows they both need one—and two amazing things occur: Kenny discovers talking to Will might be the best form of intercourse ever, and Will discovers he's gay.

Their unlikely friendship seems like the perfect platonic match until Will reveals how very much more he’s been feeling for Kenny almost since the beginning. But Kenny’s worried. Will’s new-found sexuality is bright and glittery and shiny, but what happens when that wears off? Is Will's infatuation with Kenny strong enough to stay real?
And, as always, you can pre-buy HERE at Dreamspinner Press.

Pissers/Whizzers

Let's start with the pissers…

Pissers

*  Republicans in the Senate

*  People who say women can't write gay romance

* People who think any gay romance is porn.

* Stupid stalkers--the evil stupid kind, not the fun kind who pop up every now and then to say "Hi, Amy, I love you!" (To clarify?  Anyone I talk to on the net, know by name, or who has ever written me a fan letter is NOT on the pisser list!  I'm talking evil and stupid-- my fans, as far as I can tell, are AWESOME and AMAZING!  Those stalkers are on the whizzers list :-)

*  My dog, who keeps peeing in THE most inaccessible spot in my son's room

*  My cat, who is accusing me of something but lacks the opposable thumbs with which to draw up the indictment.

*  My kitchen table which accrues detritus at an astounding speed.

*  Time, because I have to travel on Tuesday and dammit, there's not enough time to do everything I need to!

*  Mate, because he can make a diet stick when I'm still on the, "Uhm, I have to input my caloric intake where?" stage.

*  The kids, because they never met an argument they couldn't embrace with all of their hearts and then share with the world.

*  Big T, for getting a job, going to school, having a life, and pretty much ensuring that I have to do the dishes again!  (How dare he!  The nerve!)

*  Milk, for disappearing from the refrigerator when the kids just walk by it!

*  Chocolate chip cookies, for being so damned good.

*  The dog, who, every now and then while camping out in my shirt will poke a paw right in the boob leaving me to gasp and catch my breath and not freak him out because he's still in there where he can do some serious damage.

*  The human body, for needing sleep.

*  My dragon for depriving me of sleep.

*  The rain, who only visited in teasing little touches but never gave us a fully satisfying water-fuck that California really needs.

Whizzers

*  Sinfully Sexy Books which is giving away an audio book of Making Promises.

*Prism Book Alliance which is giving away an e-book copy of the first three Triane's Son Books.

*  Mrs. Condit's, which is giving away a copy of Behind the Curtain.

*  The Jeep Diva, who liked Clear Water :-)

*  That I could prepare a blog post for all those places without my head exploding!  Seriously!  Go me!

*  That the stupid little dog is cuddly as well as homicidal and confused about house-training.

*  The picture I have as a header, which has absolutely NOTHING to do with ANYTHING on today's blog, but cracked me up anyway.

*  Zoomboy, who is telling psychopath jokes this week.  (What's a murderer's favorite road?  A psychopath!  Where do killers get their chainsaws?  Psy Co!  And so on.)

*   Squish, who is convinced that she has the feline version of parsel-tongue and that the cat spoke to her this morning.

*  Big T who does have job, a school, and a life, and is puzzled as to where his time goes!

*  Fun stalkers, who every now and then pop up and say "Hi, Amy!  I love you!"  but not in the scary way at all!

*  Mate, who is trying really hard to support me in my diet.  I just need to remember to wear the damned fitbit thing.  It helps.  Honestly!

*  Agnes Obel

*  German car commercials with wings.

*  DOBERHUAHUAS!

*  My cat, who still believes that the best cure for life is a quickie in the bathroom.

*  Chocolate chip cookies.  Because they are that good.

*  Mail order stores, for having my size available in stuff I can wear.

*  This list, which is making research for Beneath the Stain SO much fun!

*  My aqua aerobics instructors, who give me a reason to leave my computer three days a week!



Ciao!




*

Triane's Son Fighting

Triane's Son Fighting Have I mentioned the Batman thing?  I'm pretty sure I've mentioned the Batman thing.

In fact, I know I've mentioned the Batman thing.  Because, well, Batman.  I've written pages and pages on Batman, and heroic archetypes and the pantheon of superhero archetypes-- it is old hat by now.

But just like I can still look at my husband and like the feel of his skin under my hand, I still get off on Batman.

It doesn't hurt that my first experience of Batman was the old Tim Burton Batman-- because when Michael Keaton put on his Batman face, he went from goofy Mr. Mom to terminally fucking cool in a few facial muscles.

It really doesn't hurt that my second Batman was the animated 1992 series, the one voiced by Kevin Conroy, whose gravel tones have probably soaked nearly a billion sets of panties by now--so, not just mine.  And that Batman was my favorite.  Taciturn, sardonic, he didn't give a rat's ass about the showmanship of the bad guys, his stocky, heavily muscled body had been honed to do one thing: kick their evil snarky asses.  Batman?  I loved that guy.

He made the angel's fall of the Gothic hero look so fucking cool there was ice on his skin.

That he shattered when it was time to rumble.

So when I do fantasy superhero stuff--nobody who has followed me for any length of time is at all surprised when my go-to guy is Batman.

When I first wrote Bitter Moon, my original goal was one short fantasy novel--don't laugh.  This was in the early days of my writing when I was not aware that writing short for me was sort of like looking like hell for Tyler Hoechlin.  I'm sure it can be done but it takes a lot of work on behalf of professionals, some make-up, and a deplorable treatment of the gifts Goddess gave you. But whether or not I could write that one short, the fact remains that the first book opens up with a foreshadowing scene that places us firmly in the center of the action in what is now the fourth book of the series:  the image of our hero, Torrant Moon-Shadow, slinking along the streets of Clough, his friend waiting to help him as they wreak mayhem on the evil doers who have the city in their clutches.

I wrote the entire first two books heading for that image, that idea.  The duality of the prominent daytime figure becoming a dark force of justice in the night.  And there is no way to write that without drama-- I know, I tried.  It comes out surrounded with angst and pain and glamour because those things ooze front  he concept itself.  We can not throw a cat or push a button without seeing some public figure being a hypocritical, self-serving hosebeast and doing it legally with the full blessing of the powers that be.  I know I'm not the only one who ends up jumping up and down at my computer, sputtering like a flat tire.  "Did you… but look!  That's… it's so STUPID!  Evil… just… I mean… oh for crap's sake, who in the human slush puddle is going to rise up and call these wankers on their sheer up-yours fuckery!"

Triane's Son LearningVery often, it's no one.  And even if our helpless, puddle-stuck government does manage to accomplish something, the same douchefuckers who were fouling up our country take that as permission to go somewhere else and ooze people pus from their pores.  The assholes who weren't allowed to fuck up the environment in America go to India and screw with their ocean.  The idiot-bigots who tried to make life miserable for the LGBTQ population here are no in Uganda and Nigeria, rallying to pass laws that make it illegal for 20% of the world's people to even exist.  It's like laundry-- cleaning the world of this human sludge is never done.

We need help.  It feels like we need help that is better, stronger, faster than most of us plain humans, because the list of heinosity just continues.

We need Batman.

And so Batman is who I wrote.  But if we want our Batman to be worthy, he can't fight the poisoned claws of corruption without a terrible cost to his own soul.  The closer you get to the manticore, the more likely you're stung by the scorpion end, and that's Batman.  He can't always leave the bad guys in puddles of moaning henchmen-- sometimes he has to kill.  Sometimes he makes mistakes.  And he didn't set out to hurt people-- he set out to save them.  And he can't ever just get over the things he has to do, because then what would he be?  A sociopath with extreme abilities to hurt people, and we'd be twice as fucked as we were before.

Triane's Son RisingSo we need Batman to save us, but Batman can never be saved.  He can never stop fighting.  Because if he stops fighting the laundry of human pain will build up some more and some more and some more…

Poor Batman.

He's just so delicious to write.

So, Triane's Son Fighting is coming out on January 29th, and this third book in the series finds our hero in the dark molten core of the Batman experience.  He's not just Batman, he's pulling the people around him into doing Batman things too.  He believes there's a hero in all of us--and to some extent he's right--but poor Torrant.  He's not prepared when his heroes in training start taking the hits that he'd planned to take.  The idea that people might suffer for him, when he's suffering for the rest of the world, makes him crazy--and thus hinges much of the story.  This book pushes some of the boundaries of YA-- but it is still 16+ YA (also called New Adult and Emerging Adult literature.)  There is love here, both gay and straight, and pain--which knows no gender.  There is action and adventure, sorcery, and a big white snowcat just for kicks.

If you haven't read it before (because it's been out for a while) and you're willing to forgo reading a romance for reading an action/adventure/fantasy with some romance in it, by all means pick up the first volume

and head on from there.

I mean, Batman.  Don't we all need Batman in our lives?



Description: A Harmony Ink Press Young Adult Title

2nd Edition

Sequel to Triane's Son Learning
Bitter Moon Saga: Book Three 

Outraged by the destruction of innocent lives and the threat to his family’s safety, Torrant Shadow and Aylan Stealth-Moon ride to Dueance, the capital of Clough, with a desperate plan: Torrant will impersonate Yarri’s dead brother, Ellyot Moon, and infiltrate the Regent’s council to help change to the government’s policy toward the Goddess’s chosen from the inside.

But from the very first night, Torrant and Aylan are pressed into service in the shadows of the ghettoes, fighting for the lives of the brutalized people within. It’s a bitter job, made more so by close scrutiny and mockery from Consort Rath, the ruler whose policies have created the discrimination and cruelty wreaking havoc in their country.

Torrant’s only bright moments come from Aylan, whose love and loyalty never falter, and the hungry, compassionate minds of the younger regents. Believing that all they need is a worthy song to follow, Torrant sets about leading them to accomplish the salvation of their country. But not even Torrant can be everywhere at once. When faced with one disaster too many, he realizes one man alone cannot right the wrongs of an entire government—not even Triane’s Son.

1st Edition published as Bitter Moon II: Triane's Son Reigning by iUniverse, 2009ISBN-13978-1-62798-341-9Pages350Cover ArtistNathieCategoriesNovelsAmy LaneHigh FantasyBisexualYoung AdultBitter Moon Saga by Amy LaneFantasyHarmony InkBook TypeeBookFile Formats Availablemobiepubpdfzip/htmlOther FormatsPaperbackBuy at Dreamspinner


EXCERPT
Prologue
Goddess Stories




THE HEALER sat in the waning twilit hours of the Beltane Faire and watched the couples dancing in front of the bonfire in preparation for the wilding. His wife—short, plump, and sturdy—came and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, touching her cheek to his.
“They’re all waiting,” she told him, not wanting to look into his eyes. The pain was there, all of it, as fresh as it must have been thirty years before, when he’d first ridden off to the east and left her. It was just as bad now, just as bloody as it had been, when they’d ridden back to town nearly a year later.
Goddess, how Yarri hated Beltane.
Once upon a time, it had been her favorite holiday. When she and Torrant had come to Eiran, it had been a symbol of rebirth and spring, beauty and family.
But that had been before he’d left her to save the world. That had been before his heart had been ripped out, and she, Aldam, and Aylan had barely been able to put it back together. That had been before she’d had to watch him, for nigh on thirty years, resurrect this pain for their town and their family, make it fresh and red all over again.
“Beloved?” she said, and he turned toward her, the softness on his face for her and her alone. Then he came to himself, remembering what he had to do. He wiped his mouth with his hand and stood, his hazel eyes assuming that artificial brightness she always associated with this moment, on this evening.
“You don’t have to do it again this year,” she said, taking his hand. He touched her cheek and smiled again, this one almost reaching his eyes.
“Of course I do! It’s important. Besides, the little ones expect it.”
“The little ones just want a story and a song from their Pa-pa,” she snapped with bitterness that surprised them both. “This hurts you!”
“It should hurt me.” He ran a hand through his short hair, the salting of gray obscuring but not hiding the white crest at his temple. He’d wondered aloud lately, after watching himself age easily through the years, if he would have to dye his hair brown in order to show that mark of magic like the badge of honor it was. This morning he’d stated rather firmly that never having to hide the white streak again would be enough.
“That pain bought something important,” he continued when she looked away and refused to answer.
“Well, then.” She turned away sharply, angry with him for doing this to himself. Hadn’t he given enough?
“Hey!” He caught up to her and took her hand. “You knew this would hurt us when we started.”
Yarri eyed him sourly. “It’s one thing when we were young,” she said at last, “but shouldn’t there be an age when you get to stop ripping your own entrails out for the greater good?”
He winced. “Appropriate, beloved,” he said with a grim smile, but she couldn’t even return that.
“This hurts you.” It was stated baldly, without flinching. Yarri was as she always had been—the years had not softened her, but they had given her a little grace. “It hurts me to see you hurt,” she added softly.
“I’m fine.”
She shook her head adamantly, her long, silvering braid rippling past her wide hips. Once it had grown back, neither of them had ever wanted to cut it again.
“Every year you say that, and every year there are nightmares. We’ve done this for thirty years—you know that, right? For thirty years you tell this story, and every year the two of you spend a week sharing a bed back to back, swords in hands, whimpering if you actually do close your eyes.”
He looked away. Starren and Yarri had known, from the first night of their return, that Torrant and Aylan would never be able to shake some memories of that terrible time. For the most part, neither of them minded overmuch, but Torrant and Aylan were honorable men. Their wives didn’t give a flying bucket of pigshite about the niceties of fidelity, as long as their beloveds could rise from the darkness and embrace them in the light, but that need for each other when they were frightened or reminded of the darkness never faded. Sometimes honor flinched, and honorable men had to live with that.
Yarri was not concerned with honor. She had learned long ago that she would take her beloved living, breathing, and struggling with his conscience over still and dead on any day.
“I could give a shite if you and Aylan bugger each other until your hearts pop,” she said, shifting in impatience when Torrant winced. “Look, I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces, because I truly don’t care—I never have. But I can’t watch your heart break, not one more time, not again. Ellyot’s youngest isn’t feeling well….”
“All that sugar.” He smiled, and she rolled her eyes in agreement. For a moment they were a perfect burst of harmony, a shared expression of a lifetime of living to be the other’s heartbeat.
“And Bitsy’s baby is teething. I’ll take them to the house while you do this. I’ve heard it before.” Her mouth, which was usually shaped like a plump and pleasant little bow, was pinched together, almost invisible in her irritation.
Still, he thought he’d try one more time. “The song changes every year,” he said lightly, and her look grew even darker.
“No it doesn’t!” she hissed. “It never changes. ‘Oueant’s Son,’ ‘Dueant’s Son,’ ‘Triane’s Son’—none of it matters. What matters is that it was real and that we lived and that you and Aylan and Aldam and….” Her voice faltered. Not even she could mention those other names, the names of their honored dead, on a breath of ire. “All of us,” she finished lamely. “All of us did this.” Yarri sighed and eyed their five children unhappily. They were waiting gravely, their families and friends grouped around them. Their father was going to play. Yarri couldn’t, not even for the love she bore her husband, figure out how to tell him how much the aftermath of this story hurt him.
“What matters,” she finally said, “is that we shed blood, not a little of it your own, to make this world a better place, and that you shed more of it every year when you go out and tell this story, and I’m sick of it!”
He smiled, the grooves around his mouth deepening, his dimple popping, and his lip curling up on one side. It was an absolutely lethal smile, and it had taken him a while to learn its power, but many women still fantasized about the lead healer of Eiran.
He had only ever cared about two.
“Thirty years, my heart’s peace, that we’ve been telling this story, and you still don’t understand why it’s important that I tell it?”
She looked away, feeling childish. She had never been poised, never been quiet and docile, and she assumed that was one of the qualities he loved her for—or in spite of. She hated feeling petulant, spoiled, and unkind.
“You tell me, then!” she snapped, unhappy with both of them. She should drop it. She should just drop it. She should be a good wife and listen to his story, let him spend his week sleeping in Aylan’s bed, and accept that he loved her without question.
“It needs to be remembered,” Torrant said firmly, holding her shoulders. “That’s what’s important. We need to make sure that no one ever needs to go out and live this story again.” His voice hardened, and his eyes flashed a glacial blue, frigid and sharp, at odds with the warmth he practically radiated.
“Right,” she replied, her brown eyes wide. She rarely saw that color anymore. She might have lost her hard-won maturity in an effort to protect her husband, but she was not a fool. “The little ones will be fine. I’ll stay and listen.”
Very carefully, as though not to puncture her delicate bubble of acquiescence, he leaned forward and touched her forehead with his own. He cupped his hand between their chests as though there was something precious, something lovely and sweet and fragile, housed in the space between their heartbeats. Her mouth softened, and her tanned, freckled, barely wrinkled face creased into a tender smile as she cupped her hands over his.
This. This lovely warmth between them—this had never changed, and it could not be killed.
His gorgeous, gods-beloved smile came back, and he swung around to greet the family, all of them, gathered around the Moons’ traditional picnic table. He had to wade his way through grandchildren in order to perch on the top of the table, after shooing a couple of the smaller ones off his lap.




AYLAN DID his own wading and handed his oldest friend his lute. Torrant took it gratefully. It was old as well—it had belonged to Lane before him—and the wood was mellow and sweet with age and oil, years of melancholic songs dancing across its strings.
“Thank you, Aylan.” For the first time a hint of uncertainty crossed Torrant’s face. “You’re staying, right?” There had been a few years after Starry had come of age when the two of them had tried to live without each other the week after Beltane, and Aylan had been unable to stay and listen. The absence had hurt them. It had left them shredded and infected, and one Solstice wilding, Starren and Yarri had conspired for the two of them to meet. Hadn’t they all fought for the right to wild and love, to make love and make family as they saw fit, and not the world at large?
“Of course I’m staying,” Aylan replied, with a killer smile of his own. Aylan’s smile had improved with time; the bitterness that possessed it in his youth was completely gone now. “If I’m not here, you don’t tell it right.”
“Ha!” Torrant guffawed, secure now that Aylan would be there to see him through this. “If you’re not here, no one whines when the son of Oueant gets his due!”
Aylan’s look of disgust was enough to pull the last of the tears from Torrant’s heart, and he smiled at his children for their approval. The oldest two, the twin boys, of all the family needed this song, he thought achingly. So much of who they were was wrapped up in who had come before.
Lane hobbled up across the green, much of his weight on the pair of canes in his hands. He had been seated with the other elders, watching the sunset, but he too was faithful to the story as it was told at Beltane. Torrant’s eldest, Ellyot, ran up with a stool for his great-uncle Lane, and Lane sank onto it gratefully.
“Have you started yet, boyo?” he asked. His voice had aged, and his beard was long and full and white now, but his eyes still twinkled their merry blue, nearly as sharp in what they saw today as they had been in Torrant’s youth.
“Not yet, Uncle Lane. You know we can’t tell the story without you.” Torrant tuned a couple of strings and played a chord that proved his ear was still sound. Almost to himself, he said, “I wish Aunt Bethen was here.”
“Oh, she is, but she’s getting impatient. Now start!”
The rest of the family laughed, and Aylan’s youngest, a scant and scandalous six years old, piped up, “You’re going to tell the story of the Sons of the Three Moons, right, Uncle Torrant?” The little boy’s hand was firmly entrenched in the hand of Ellyot’s youngest, as they had been since the little girl was born. The sight of the two of them, so easily moon-destined, so beautifully meant, made Torrant’s heart constrict with pain and joy.
“Absolutely, Djali,” he replied. “Are we all ready? Do we all remember how it starts?”
His five children started the first verse, their voices falling in and out of harmony, but still strong. When they were done singing, he began the story itself, the words changing as details sharpened and faded with the passage of years, but always, always, starting with the same image.
“A ruthless ruler, mad and powerful, had been persecuting Triane’s children for many years. One day, Triane’s Son and his best friend, the son of Oueant, the moon of Honor, rode into the cursed city to stop him.
“They bore between the two of them a terrible secret….”




Part X—The Deceiving Moon




And You Are?




THEY WOULD not have known who he was when he entered the gates of Dueance, trying hard not to gag at the stench of the crucified bodies hanging over the archway. They would not have known who he was as he made his way through the neatly bricked streets of the city’s main common area and into the square where the consort’s palace, the Hall of Regents, and the regents’ apartments all faced each other, with the entrance to the square serving as the fourth wall.
After he presented his letters of introduction to the concierge at the regents’ dormitories, asking politely for a ground-floor room with a window and a water closet, odds were good that his name got out. It certainly received a satisfying reaction from the self-important little man who waxed lyrical about the library on the top floor of the apartment building, talking at length about how it was the finest collection of law books and financial tracts in the three lands.
“And poetry, now that you’ve burnt down Triannon,” he said with no dryness and a bitter lack of irony.
The concierge turned red, looked at the name on the letters of introduction, and promptly tried to choke on his tongue.
The young man across from him smiled with only the faintest lifting of his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m….” The small old man looked up at the strapping broad chest of the young man and swallowed at that level, expectant gaze. Years of training kicked in, years during which he’d observed the foibles of the young, the moneyed, and the feckless and not only didn’t raise an eyebrow but didn’t let an indiscretion pass his lips in the company of anyone but his bored wife. “No problem at all.” He smiled blandly, and the young man indicated the concierge should lead the way to his apartment with a raised eyebrow over shockingly clear hazel eyes.
“I thought not.” They proceeded to a sumptuous apartment, full of heavy burgundy velvet draperies and a truly hedonistic sateen couch, cover done in jewel-colored embroidery. The bedroom was as large as the sitting room and kitchenette put together, and the bed was big enough to house five, with a sin-dark mahogany four-posted frame and a matching wardrobe as big as the ferry to Otham. There was a small patio outside the bedroom and a washroom annexed to the bedroom, with a window overlooking the marble-walled shower and toilet. There was also a promise of maid service and discreet laundry service, as long as he put what needed to be washed and pressed in the offered hamper.
“There’s a canteen in the west wing corner,” the concierge offered with a smile, “so there should be no problem if you get caught without stocks during curfew. They offer all three meals, if you like, but most of the young regents take their breakfast in the marketplace.”
The man looked at Torrant with a smile, hoping for some response to the amenities, but he got a rather dazed look in return. Had the concierge known, his shocking new tenant was both humbled and disgusted by the excess.
The new regent, in fact, yearned for a simple house of battered board walls and a thick slab of a kitchen table instead, with the sound of family inside and the roar of the sea without. He would have settled for a country surgery, with newly built bedrooms, a tiny water closet with a wooden seat on the commode, and the smell of dust and cedars in the hot, dry summers. He would have wept for the loft in a horse stable, with a quilt on the straw and a picnic of bread and apples at the ready.
But wanting was easy, and doing was hard. What the young man actually did was park his duffel next to the bed and wait for the concierge’s attention.
“Are the regents in session now?” he asked, hoping all his rehearsing with Aylan made that question come out casually.
“Not at the moment, sir. They take a break in the midday and reconvene around dusk, when the temperature drops in the city.”
The young man nodded. Good. Give this old man with the pulse beating in his throat a chance to spread the word, and then he could make the entrance he’d planned.
“How do you want to do this?”
He looked at Aylan, who was too grim for the late spring sunshine spilling gold from his hair. “Quickly, without blood,” he’d replied dryly, and Aylan had rolled his eyes.
“Your mouth to Triane’s ears. Now think—are you going to play the ingénue, allow the fat boys to lead you where you want to go? Or…?”
“Definitely option two.” The thought of dissembling was too awful, too repugnant. There would be so much subterfuge already, and he had never been good at it. “I can’t do this if I’m faking everything—it will be hard enough faking my name.”
Aylan nodded and then shook his head. “It will be harder that way, in the end.” He said it softly enough that the words were almost lost in the jangle of horse tack.
Of course, Aylan would know.
“Is there anything else—” A hesitation. “—sir?”
Torrant’s mouth quirked up, and even the apparently stolid old man, who seemed married to his toes, flushed. “No,” Torrant said quietly, his eyes darting around the room and wondering which new set of clothes he should wear for his grand debut to the Hall of Regents. The old man made to leave, and a sudden foreboding shivered through Torrant’s chest and knotted itself down in his guts. A year, they’d told the family. A month, he’d thought to himself, but what if it was closer to a year? He looked at the duffel bag and his lute case and thought unhappily that he would probably need more to wear than what his ex-lover had shoved in his saddlebags as he and Aylan were departing from her home, forged letters of introduction smuggled in with his lute.
“Um,” Torrant said tentatively, hating the eagerness with which the concierge (what had been the man’s name?) turned around. More fodder for gossip, he supposed. “A….” What was the word? It was comforting that none of his brothers would have known either. “A clothier? Um, haberdasher? I didn’t bring enough clothes to stay for long.” The idea of staying long in this city already made his stomach churn.
“Absolutely, sir,” the concierge said, a relieved smile gracing his wizened features. The name may have been strange, but the behavior seemed to be what the old man was accustomed to. “I can send him in with your midday meal.”
“Thank you.” He was, in truth, grateful, as much for something to do while he waited as for anything else.
The clothier brought in his food—fruit, a sandwich, a flask of wine—and proceeded to cluck over him, gushing about all the many ensembles he could create for the new regent. The new regent felt badly about saying “No, just a few outfits for this season. I’ll let you know if I’ll be here for the fall.”
“Oh, but, sir!” The clothier was a compact, fluttery man with an extraordinarily embellished waistcoat and a minutely trimmed goatee. “You must… don’t you see? Regents attend balls. It’s a social obligation. They need to dress for the senate and dress for dinner. They need clothes for fencing practice…. You cannotfunction socially without more clothes than this.”
The new regent closed his eyes. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford it, right? He had a sudden thought, then. “Right. I hear you.” He nodded. Good—he’d do it, sing the song and dance the jig if he had to, but if he were going to, he wanted something practical as well. In spite of what he’d said to the family, he was reasonably sure he and Aylan weren’t going to escape this venture without their alter egos coming out to play. “May I make a request?” he asked and then began to outline what he wanted, ignoring the clothier’s protests that such a garment would not be fashionable in the least.
“All the better” had been his mild answer. “I’ll take two.”
The clothier swallowed. There must have been something chilling about the way the handsome young man had said that, because the designer seemed to realize he was swimming in water far deeper than he was comfortable with. “Well, then,” the man ingratiated, “can I at least take this garment from you?” He picked up the simple, battered cloak of forest green with its shocking yellow liner and almost had the thing yanked from his hands.
“No!” Torrant clutched the cloak to his chest and glared at the clothier as though the man had tried to steal a beloved pet for the stewpot. “No.” Torrant swallowed, tightly, and his eyes gleamed suspiciously for a moment before he gave a distraught smile. “My sister made it,” he said at last, glaring at the clothier. He hoped the hitch in his voice when he said “sister” hadn’t caught the man’s attention.
The man took the hint and bowed. “Of course. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll have a few items delivered before nightfall.” So Torrant could wear them to the Hall of Regents. Of course.
He nodded and bid the man good day.
When the door was closed, he sank to the oversized bed, clutching his old cloak to his chest, feeling his first round of shudders sweep him, from icy bowels to clammy palms. Sweet Dueant, brave Oueant, could he really do this?
He looked outside and saw the dark spring shadows had barely moved from the moment he’d ridden under those cursed gates, and the small bit of food he’d eaten when the clothier had been there congealed in his stomach. His face flushed under his shivers, and he fought the urge to vomit. With deep, steadying breaths and purposeful movements, he reached for the one thing at this point that could calm him down.
Cradling his lute in his lap, and being careful to preserve his voice so he could sound strong and sure later, he deliberately wrote a song of longing. He inscribed the words in painfully neat letters on the parchment, being mindful never to use his beloved’s name. Still it whispered through the air, through his new, uncomfortable clothes and the sumptuous, ridiculous room. When he heard the clock at the square ring the half hour, the name followed him, until he was afraid he would stand before the regents, decked out in bravura and fraud, and it would scream from his skin, making the one giant lie of his name irrelevant.
Yarri.
He wore her name like a flag on his heart as he strode across the marble archway from the apartments to the hall. He could hear the whispers as he went, coating him with lies he hoped would be stronger than his belief at the moment, and he bore his head high and his chest out as though his boots were weighted with truth.
The sea of young regents, some of them not much older than he’d been when he’d gone away to university, parted for him like two separate armoires of fanciful velveteen clothes and extravagant feathers, and he pretended not to notice the startled gasps, the stares, and the wide-eyed, childlike wonder at his presence. All of it was glamour; it would help when the time came.
The hall itself was vast. His first thought was that there were relatively few outer rooms around the great hall, and his second thought was that the building didn’t look this big from the outside.
His third thought, random and irrelevant, was that he could get heartily sick of teal-colored velvet and mahogany wood, both of which were plentiful around the inside of the hall. By the time his eyes sought out the small antechamber separated by a waist-high, wooden partition from the semicircle of chairs and desks that wrapped partially around the consort’s dais, he had the fanciful notion that he and Aldam should start making teal labels for the toxic medicines in their surgery. This particular shade would warn any inquisitive child, he thought with wide-eyed distaste.
Then he was in the antechamber, presenting his borrowed name sotto voce to the record keeper with the scroll and quill pen, who was so shocked he knocked over his inkwell and stared nakedly at the young man with the dark chestnut hair and the hazel eyes. The young man’s sardonic smile let him know his disapproval had been acknowledged.
And then he waited for his turn to speak, fully aware of the wildfire sweeping the room, his borrowed name dancing in the flames. To calm his nerves, he paid attention to the man who was speaking, and that sardonic smile at his quirkily beautiful lips deepened. How perfect.
“I’m telling you they were ready for us,” the man was saying desperately. “There was a battalion of trained soldiers outside of the school, and one of the Goddess’s own beasts with the warriors on the front lawn!”
“And I’m telling you it’s impossible!” snarled the squat, scarred man to the left of the consort’s seat. “Eiran has no army, Cleant only cares about farming, and Otham has no interest in our business. Now tell me, since your superior officers seem to have all deserted, did you at least rid us of the sorcerer army being trained at Triannon?”
The soldier suddenly looked troubled. “They were children,” he said after a moment. “I think you must be mistaken, sir. They were children, and they got away.”
“They were sorcerers,” spat what looked to be the secretary general, only to be interrupted smoothly by the thin, aesthetic-featured man with the salt-and-pepper hair and full mustache, sitting on the consort’s throne.
“I’m sure they looked like children,” he said softly, understandingly, with a condescending smile. “We all know that the Great Whore is deceptive. Now, resume your narrative, young man. How did they get away again?”
Oh, Torrant couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity if he’d scripted it. Pushing through the swinging door at the antechamber, he walked swiftly toward the soldier at the podium, and spoke with a carrying voice trained by years of singing by the fireside.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Torrant said, smiling that hard smile and meeting the eyes of the secretary general and the king consort with a fierce and dreadful joy. They moved with underwater slowness, staring at him in shock, and the smile only deepened. “I can tell you how those children got away from an entire company of soldiers descending on a school of healers and poets. My cousin and I evacuated those children out the back entrance while twenty-five men in our local militia died to protect us. Those ‘warriors’ that this man speaks of were beardless boys, defending their home with the help of a couple of aging professors who had never drawn blood in combat in their lives.”
The collective gasp of one hundred and fifty regents, as well as assorted registrars, secretaries, and retinue, sucked the air right out of the room, but now that he had spoken, now that his boiling fury was vented for the people who should be flayed with it until they bled, his own anxiety was forgotten.
“Who are you?” asked the secretary general when he had recovered his tongue.
His eyes on the pale shock of the king consort himself, Torrant Shadow replied, “I’m the person you two have been trying to kill for the last twelve years,” he lied with just the right amount of nonchalance. “I’m Ellyot Moon.”




HIS OLDEST son (by ten minutes at most), truly named Ellyot Moon, had always loved this part as a child, but as he aged into adulthood, it troubled him.
He stood now, his arm around his tiny wife, looking at his father with an undisguised compassion. For his entire life, his father had never pretended, not even to tell him pleasant lies as a child. The cat never ran away; it died. His da was never a hero; he was simply a healer. There was no happiness guaranteed; it was always on loan, because Joy could never stay in one place for long.
The only exceptions to the truth, ever, had been his “uncles,” Aylan and Aldam, and the fact that they were uncles had not been a lie so much as it had been a fact made true by force of will.
That truth—as well as the reason Aylan had kept the battered, ripped, and blood-crusted cloak in his closet, long after the thing had become too stiff for use—had taken several Beltanes to figure out.
But beyond these subtleties, his father was everything he said he was: as average a man as he was average in height.
Except that he wasn’t. It was his very truth that made him extraordinary, and this extraordinary truth made his lie, the one terrible lie of taking Ellyot Moon’s name, such an enormity of sin.expand

Amy Lane Welcomes Sid Love!

Hi all!  A couple of things before we get to my guest, Sid Love, who wanted to talk about his book with the gorge-mous cover!

First off-- I was supposed to post a blog on Friday, but since Tuesday's post went up late-- and since it got a lOT of traffic-- I thought I'd leave it for a little while.  I hope that's okay- I don't want you all to think I just pumped that out at two a.m. and spent the next two days sleeping.  (Just the morning.  Mate took the kids to school for me on Wednesday.  I was sort of knackered.)  Anyway-- I'll try to jump back on the wagon on Monday, to make up-- kk?

Second off-- this whole hosting of authors is getting to be a thing, and I hadn't planned it that way.  People just keep asking me, and, well, I do like people, so I say yes.  I always feel bad-- this isn't really a blog where people expect to see new authors-- I'm always afraid the people who post here won't get the traffic they want.  On the other hand-- maybe they will, and I'd love to share my good fortune--and my outstanding, amazing, beloved readers with the world.  What I'm thinking of doing is opening up a specific date and time, say, the first Monday of the month (since I actually have two guest post obligations in the first week of the month as it is) and then just make one big combined post of people who want a chance to say hullo.  What do you think?  If you catch this post, give me a shout- out in the comments if you think that's a good idea, and that yes, what started out as a knitting/family/teaching/writing blog and then sort of morphed and expanded and changed, can handle one more shift to accommodate my fellow writers, who are often so very good to me.  

And third off-- I missed some stuff in the post about reviews.  I did-- some of it I've said before, particularly in the Amy's Lane posts, and some of it that's particular to me.  I may or may not address that, or I may save it for another Amy's Lane (because the first Monday of the month is always a rough time for me.  "What am I going to post again?  Ear, empty-- please check other orifices!)  We'll see.  So much of what I do is locked in stone, I'd like to leave myself open to play a little.  But yes-- I may come back and address tropes and reviews and such. I think there's more to say-- in a level-headed, objective manner-- that has not been addressed in my usual "They were mean to meeeeeeeeee!!!"  fashion.

And now, on to Sid Love, who runs a lovely blog of his own, and who gave me an amazing review of Behind the Curtain right here.    You saw that cover up there?  

THIS IS A BIG FURRY DEAL!  It's Paul Richmond, who also did my Going Up! and Shiny! covers, and this is the first day the cover has been seen on the net!

So everybody welcome Sid Love, and his new cover and his new book-- *yayayayayayayay!*


TITLE: Holding on to Hope
 
AUTHOR: Sid Love
 
PUBLISHER: Dreamspinner Press
 
LENGTH: 68 Pages
 
COVER ARTIST: Paul Richmond
 
BLURB: Bradley Parker has waited twenty years for Mr. Right, and on Valentine’s Day, he finally finds him. It’s love at first sight, and Brad even loses his virginity to the man of his dreams. But when he wakes up the next morning unable to remember anything—even what the man looked like—his best friend, Leslie, is convinced he imagined the whole thing. Brad knows he didn’t make up the best night of his life, but he has no idea of the danger he’s putting himself in as he struggles to recall the details of his perfect man. His search may lead him to parts of New York City he never dreamed existed and a war being waged in the shadows.
 
PRE ORDER LINK: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4724
 

RELEASE DATE: February 14, 2014
 
AUTHOR BIO -
 
Sid Love grew up in one of busiest cities in the world, Mumbai, listening to the excerpts of Indian epics from his father every night. While it served as an inspiration back in time, he has always had an ambitious mind. In 2007, when he had just turned sixteen, he decided that he would make his lifelong dream come true—to become a well-known, respected author some day.

Ask him and he would refuse to accept that he is obsessed with books. Or movies. Or TV shows. Addicted may even be the right word. He is a die-hard fan of Jane Austen's romance novels and loves to reread them time and again.

You can find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sid.love.16?ref=tn_tnmn or tweet him anytime: https://twitter.com/FatefulMercy, or simply e-mail him at sidlovethewriter@live.in.