Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 143

Reviewing Reviews

Before I start, though, I really want to clarify-- I am, at the moment, flying sort of high.  Behind the Curtain is out, and so far, people seem to have really taken to Dawson and Jared-- and I'm glad.  But I need people to know (because so many of my readers are sweet and wonderful and kind and don't want me to feel badly about my writing and, in fact, would like me to do more of it) that I'm not looking for sympathy or anger-- particularly not on my behalf.  I just thought maybe I should revisit the topic, that's all!

Okay-- so to begin, the surge of concern comes in waves.

You know when a whack of new authors has had work hit the airwaves when your e-mail box and FB are suddenly filled with that painful, pitiful cry of the freshly wounded:

Why.  Why don't they like my story?  Why are they so mean about it?  Why?

I have probably addressed this a zillion times in the past (oh God!) nearly ten years, and the best time was probably HERE, in a post that I still give new writers because it helped me so much to write.  

But I feel badly-- that post is old, and just because I've managed (barely) to deal with my own emotions regarding reviews doesn't mean that the pain isn't still fresh and the blood still flowing for the newer writers.  I sort of feel like they deserve a fresh post, if nothing else, because if you've been with me from the beginning, you know that I've been just as wounded, just as puzzled, and just as angry about reviews as anyone else on the internet.

Having more reviews has not made the bad ones hurt any less-- but it has given me some perspective on why they happen with a perfectly wonderful book.  So this post is going to be about that.  For me, figuring out why the book didn't hit the spot does a lot to alleviate the crushing sense of failure I get when someone tells me that it didn't!

So here we go-- several reasons why a reader might not like a perfectly wonderful book:

Hype alone did you a disservice--

Do you all remember the movie The Departed?  Everybody loved that frickin' movie.  It had hotties, guns, violence, and Martin Scorsese.  So Mate and I decided that, in spite of an acknowledged distaste for Scorsese's sensibility, we would watch it.  After all, it was brilliant, it caused the stars to align, caused automatic weight loss, and solved the marshmallow shortage in four out of five households, right?  Well, all of that hype, and I can tell you one thing--

It was called The Departed for a reason.

Profound, right?

But here's the thing-- hype can screw you over.  If the whole known world goes READ THIS IT'S AWESOME, it sheds divine light on the accursed, it opens the flood gates of purgatory, and it cures herpes, and then people read it, one of three things will happen:

A.  People will read it and they'll think it's awesome, it sheds divine light on the accursed, it opens the flood gates of purgatory, and it cures herpes.  Lucky you.  That's a four or five star review!
B.  People will read it and they'll think they never should have read it because it's exactly as horrible as they knew it would be because it's angst or comedy or drama or m-preg or whatever and they never read angst or comedy or drama or m-preg or whatever and goddammit it is all the author's fault, and even if it isn't the author's fault, the world needs to be warned! 
C.  People will read it and they'll think, "My herpes has not gone away, and I'm pretty sure my Uncle Herbert is still in hell because he was a bastard.  People lied, this book is meh, and fuck you all!"

See--I watched The Departed, I'm still fat, the stars are still scattered, and we have no marshmallows, and so the movie must have sucked!  It's not rational, (but it feels rational) and it's basic human nature.  No book or movie is ever as good as the expectations/buzz/hype that can be generated about it on the internet.

And if you ever do find a book that causes automatic weight loss, by all means e-mail me, I really need to know!

And if it's not hype, well, chances could be--

Genre and sub-genre biases were against you!

There are some unacknowledged trends in reviews that are seldom mentioned, but they exist.  Now, these things are not true for everybody-- I'm sure people will read this and point out several people who have managed to beat these trends, but as a rule of thumb here are some things that happen to ratings that writers cannot control

A.  Short novels got no reason to live.

You think I'm kidding?  Go look at an author with a number of works out-- you will notice that, for the most part, novellas and short stories have lower ratings than full length novels.  Now, as writers, this can make us want to bang our heads against the wall, but as the reader, you've got to think.  Especially in this era where an electronic "book" can take you anywhere from an hour to a week to read, there are some skewed expectations when someone opens a book.  A novel has a different plot arc from a novella which has a different plot arc from a short story, but a reader doesn't see this.  All the reader sees is that the work ends.  Again-- this is not the reader's fault.  They're not supposed to be English majors, setting the story on Frey's pyramid and making sure it tracks-- they get to the end and think, "Wait…"  So an exquisitely crafted, word-smithed confection of a novella is going to get lower marks.  It's not fair-- it could be an A+ novella, but it's getting judged against the big boys, so really, it's like throwing a middle-school basketball player into a college game and going, "Poor little fucker-- but he tried!"--but, again, it's human nature.  Sometimes size really does satisfy, and that's not the reader's fault--but as an author, it's good to know, and not to take too personally.

B.  Comedy is less important than tragedy.

Now personally I think this one is bullshit.  I have multiple friends whose inner lives are scary places with unfriendly playmates and anxious dark corners-- these friends need comedy.  That's the whole reason they watch television or read-- to be entertained and to be taken out of these dark corners and into the light.  But--as important as comedy is, as difficult as it is to execute, there will always be an overwhelming popular sentiment that it's frivolous.  Well, maybe so, but as far as many people on this planet are concerned, so is fiction, and we all know that's a crock of crap as well.  So if an author has written a funny book, it doesn't matter if it's Shakespearian or Moliere level comedy-- it's going to get dinged from a flawed paradigm.  Again, not the reader's fault any more than the state of the environment is the reader's fault personally-- it is through a faulty world paradigm that needs to be culturally addressed, and, well, environment, wars, economic collapse-- humanity has better things to do than fix the paradigm.  However, authors should take note-- environment, wars, economic collapse are all reasons to read comedy: it gives us the strength to keep going and continue to be optimistic about a frightening world.  So, you know-- screw critical paradigms, and by all means keep making us laugh!

C.  Alternative Universe is easier to write and should therefore be critically shafted.

*shakes head*  I'm sorry.  It's true. Well, not true, but very popular in critical theory.  I used to hear high school students say this all the time: "Well it's not real. It's not as good!"  I used to hear people on amazon.com forums say the same thing.  Now as a writer I know that crafting a good science fiction, fantasy, or urban fantasy world and then using it to stage a romance is a hideously difficult thing to do.  People assume that because you create your own world, it's easy-- you don't have to subscribe to any rules.  The fact is, you have to pull those rules out of your own ass and then make sure they're etched in stone or people will be falling in plot-holes and spraining their id's all over the manuscript, and that is some damned hard work.  But readers don't always know that-- and given the fact that public education tends to crap all over fantasy literature--and romance literature too!-- we're just lucky they agreed to read our work and then didn't decide to burn us as witches.  Someday, fantasy literature may get it's due-- but, it's not today.  Still, just like comedy, it needs to be written.  That Alternative Universe that an author built so particularly in his or her mind really may be the exact place that a reader needs to hide from his or her own demons.

D.  Romance is for bored housewives and horny househusbands and not the stuff of real literature, so we can shit all over it.

Yes, this one makes me want to full out tackle a motherfucker-- but I still get it and I'm sure other writers do too.  I have written pages and pages about how important romance is to our society, our culture, and our family unit, and I'm not going to do it again here-- but writers, just be prepared.  This is a difficult preconception to fight.  Don't spend your time fighting it.  Spend your time writing the best romance you can, so that people who actually don't have their heads in anatomically awkward places can appreciate what you do.

So those are some of the more popular genre biases--don't try to change them, just accept them, they've been around for ages.  They're sort of like that really really old, politically incorrect relative who embarrasses you in restaurants-- they're human, we should respect them for what they are, but just like when my grandmother started to rave that we were all taking her money and constipating her on purpose, we really couldn't take that too seriously, or it would really piss us off.

E.  First person is really easy so it should get graded harder.

Okay-- uhm, no.  And anyone who really thinks that needs to read Racing for the Sun and Christmas Kitsch back to back, and ask themselves the same question that I did as I was writing them back to back:

How does the author have both those distinct voices in her head and not go out of her frickin' mind?

Well, I sort of like to think it takes skill.  Writing is not acting-- when an actor takes on a part, the physical presence, with physical limitations are still there, in the character.  When writers take on  character and write from first person, we are completely free of that physical boundary.  We are constructing a word by word world of another human being's mind and living in that world.  This is no mean feat of imagination blended with reason.  This is, in fact, extremely difficult.  I've written books that have different characters using different narrative techniques.  Keeping the first person's voice distinct and truly individual is a really frickin' hard thing to do.  Doing it more than once doesn't get easier.

But, again, like bias against AU and romance, this isn't necessarily something broached in public school, so it's a paradigm we need to fight with quality.  For some people, that first person voice is what they need to set them free.  For others, well, maybe free isn't where they want to be, and, again, that's something to respect.

So those aren't all the genres, but you get the general idea.  And the general idea boils down to this:

Different Strokes for Different Folks


If you look over my reviews on GoodReads (and I do-- sometimes just to get a general sense of what to expect from a book coming out so I'm not shocked or slammed,) you will see the following contradictions:

*  A review for Under the Rushes that claims the first part of the book was crap and the second part of the book was brilliant right over a review that claims that the first part of the book was brilliant and the second part of the book was crap.

*  Reviews for Keeping Promise Rock that hate it because of the angst and wish I could stick to works like If I Must and Gambling Men.  

*  Reviews for If I Must and Gambling Men that are disappointed that I didn't give it my all and write another book like Keeping Promise Rock or The Locker Room.  

*  Reviews for Keeping Promise Rock that say it's not as good as Making Promises.  

*  Reviews for Making Promises that think Shane and Mickey are much better that Crick and Deacon of Keeping Promise Rock. 

*  1* reviews for Chase in Shadow from the same person who gave Dex in Blue a 5* review.

*  A review for It's Not Shakespeare from someone who lived in Northern California and is in a multicultural relationship who thinks I captured the racial dynamic and the location dynamic very very well.

*  A review for that same book, right under the first review, from someone who thinks that the white people in the book were a cruel stereotype, but that I completely captured the Hispanic people in the book with intimacy and immediacy.

*  A review for that same book, right under the second review, from someone who thinks that the Hispanic people in the book were a cruel stereotype, but that I completely captured repressed white people with both intimacy and immediacy.

*  A review for Left-on-St.-Truth-be-Well that thinks the comedy and dialog were frickin' hilarious. 

*  A review for Left-on-St.-Truth-be-Well that didn't know what in the fuck I was talking about for most of the book.

*  Reviews for Christmas Kitsch that hate Rusty for his low self-esteem.

* Reviews for Christmas Kitsch that love Rusty for being just like they were.

And so on…

My point in all of this?

We as writers are working on our own perception of the world  We expand our sensitivities and try desperately to capture humanity with dignity and, (if we're writing romance) redemption, but even with three dimensional vision, we can still only see from one set of eyes.  The reader is another set of eyes.  The belief that all writers can write a book that all readers adore is preposterous and flawed.  It implies that we all have the same neighborhood, the same childhood, the same vision, the same mind.  The fact is that the simple act of writing fiction to be read by someone else is a tremendous, intimate act of communication.

Odds are good, there's going to be a breakdown in vision somewhere, because one of humanities greatest tragedies and biggest gifts is that we don't all share the same brain.

That being said, there are some things to keep in mind when you're getting criticism that baffles you:

* If you're writing a series of spin-offs-- you are writing different people in the same world.  Odds are, no two couples in the same room have the same beginning story.   Some of those stories are going to resonate more with some people than others.  So some people may like Deacon and Crick more than Shane and Mickey, and some people may love Jeff and Collin the most.  There is not a think in the world I can do about that.  It is simply the way we are.

*  If you watch the news or John Stewart, you will see that nobody understands race relations in this country-- and only the brave try.  If you have written a book with multicultural roots, congratulations!  But prepared to be hammered on all sides for everything from accuracy to perception.  This is one of those paradigm things that we--especially in America-- can not change.  When I taught, many of my African-American students would go to school in the south, hoping that they would fit in better at an all-black school than in Sacramento, where the mix was so very eclectic.  Some of these students would write back, and one of the most heartbreaking e-mails I got talked about coming home because--in the student's words, she was not "black" enough for the people at her college.  That is race in America-- it is a painful tangle of perception and region, and if the world had a handle on it, we wouldn't see news stories about racial profiling in department stores and people getting pulled over for no reason at all.  (I've been in the car with a friend when this has happened.  It was infuriating.)  If you attempt to tackle this in a story, and you are not one of the ethnicities in your story, you need to be prepared.  And you need to make sure you wrote that story with those characters in the purest, most unblemished faith possible, that you were presenting all characters with dignity, strength, and compassion.  Sometimes, that's the only knowledge that will get you through what follows.

*  If you're writing comedy remember that people who loved Seinfeld often hated Friends, were indifferent about Frasier, and couldn't be bothered with Everybody Loves Raymond.  Comedy, particularly regional comedy, is a tough sell.  That's why comedians like Fluffy, Eddie Izzard, and Bill Cosby are a gift to all of us-- they tell universal stories with universal themes, and are generally loved.  But there's always someone who will hate them.  It doesn't matter how funny you are, someone out there will not get you, and be bitter.

*  And that brings me, in a roundabout way, to an ephemeral thing: regional differences are not alway easy to spot.  If you point them out in a story, people may not get them in the story-- it's something you have to be attuned to, and it's sort of an individual way of looking at the world.  People who lived in Florida loved Left on ST. Truth-be-Well.  People who lived in Chicago loved it.  People who had never been to either region were lost, because a lot of the conflict depended on where the two heroes hailed from.  Again--human nature.  Doesn't mean that story didn't need to be told, just meant not everybody is going to hear it with your ears.

*  Everything I just said about comedy and regional stories and racial perception goes double for Alternative Universe stories.  Steampunk, paranormal romance, science fiction, fantasy-- everyone has their own AU paradigm perfectly assembled in their gray matter.  If you want to start a riot, walk into a convention of romance writers and ask them about weight conversion in a shape-shifting romance.  People will draw blood over whether or not a possum shifter is really physically possible.  Once people embrace AU, they tend to be very very very picky about ratio of world building to romance to storyline, and walking that tightrope can be very tricky.  Your best failsafe is a net of the most perfect world building you can muster-- and a belief that you wrote the AU story you would have wanted to read.  Sometimes that's all you have.

And that brings us to…

The final conclusion--

Reviews are tough to ignore-- we crave feedback!  But we cannot pick and choose who will give us that feedback-- we hope it's someone who gets us, gets the way we view the world, gets what our characters are trying to accomplish.  What we get is a very different assortment of people who just want to be entertained, and glory hallelujah who can blame them?

The most important thing to remember is that somewhere out there, somebody loved your book.  Your publisher thought it was good enough to publish, there are reviews out there from delighted readers, and as for the not-so-delighted ones?  Well… it's like I told myself with the people who hated Rusty for having low self-esteem.  Would I really want them near my children?  My children would drive them batshit in about two minutes-- and that's nobody's fault.  That's just basic personality incompatibility.  It's not personal-- it's just how people are.

And that's the thing.  Most bad reviews are not personal.  It's just how people are.  The important thing to remember is that you created your masterpiece, and that somewhere out there another human being read it and embraced it-- it became, for a moment, their world built with words.  Congratulations!  That's a terrific human accomplishment.

I know that I am proud, humble, and frickin' thrilled every time-- every goddamned time--that it happens.

Epic hats of epicness and other oddities of hats

Amy's Cover Reveal of the week--
ISN'T IT PURTY?????Okay-- it's all about the random.  I actually feel bad-- I remember on Wednesday, right when I posted Andrew's post, I was like, "Wow!  I have so much to blog about!"  And then today, when I actually sat down to blog, my brain was like ~~~~~~~~~~~~  All crickets and white noise, all the time.  Part of that is the three edits dumped in my inbox, and part of it is that, well, school is back in session full swing.  Mate came home after his first week of work a little embarrassed.  "Real life wipes me out!"  Well, yeah, baby.  I think I can get on board with that!

Anyway-- so a lot of running kids to and from school, a lot of "Mom, I'm out of lunch money!" and "Would you sign my homework!"  A lot of "Oh crap, what am I making for dinner?"  and plenty of "Oh Holy God, the Laundry Monster is BACK and he has TEETH and he wants my BLOOD!  BACK YOU FUCKER BACK!  I'VE GOT A TRASH BAG AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!"

Well, that last one might be in my head a little.  Or, you know, a lot.  But that doesn't mean it's not true.

Anyway-- as you can see, I've gotten a new cover (and the galley edit to go with it) and it's BEAUTIFUL.  Paul Richmond, who has done my Promise Rock covers, as well as Mourning Heaven and the Christmas Advent Calendar overall covers, was asked specially by Elizabeth North to revive his "Cheesecake" line of art.  He did, especially for this cover and Elizabeth (who requested this story personally, Goddess adore her) has her Shiny!  I hope she loves it as much as Paul and I do-- this whole project was so much fun!

And to my right we have AMY'S HAPPIES OF THE WEEK.  

The Paranormal Romance Guild gave me a cornucopia of honors-- awards in best series, best novella (along with Aleksandr Voinov), best M/M paranormal fantasy story, best book in a series-- and  damn, I'm forgetting a couple and I feel bad!  I posted them in my FB Group (Amy Lane Anonymous-- go to FB and look us up, we take all comers!)  and I'm going to put them on my web site, but for now in the short term?

They made me so happy.

Gloria Lakritz has been my friend and cheerleader for years.  She's funny, energetic, dearly devoted to her family, and so active in the paranormal romance community that everybody should know her name.  I love her dearly, and she has been such an advocate of m/m in the romance community.  Grammy and the PRG with their unflagging enthusiasm are sort of pioneers with blogging-- before there was an overflow of book blogs, there was the PRG.  It's growing stronger every day, and although I am, at best, a peripheral member, I still remember my roots with Grammy-- and I'm proud.
 Next on the list of things to I've tried to save for you all--

Amy's Memes of the Week

This first one makes me really proud-- I tweeted the saying, and it hit FaceBook, and in a day, it was a thing.  Will Parkinson put it on a meme-- and the fonts are a little warped, but I really love how awesome what I wrote looks when it's got graphics!

 
And I think I got this from someone on Twitter:


And I got this from K-Lee Klein:

And this one from Mary My Mary












And this one from Mary my Mary with a slightly threatening subtext of get your ass in gear and fucking write.  Which is flattering.  And a little frightening too.

And this one from Mary my Mary too.  Because she's generous that way :-)



AMY'S BEST YARN MOMENTS THIS WEEK:
And we've got two things going on in this photo set-- we've got the epic hat of epicness-- which is complete!  (This was taken right before Mate went to bed-- he was SOOOOO tired!)  And next to that was the easier hat I'm making for Squish, which I have dubbed the less-than-epic hat of adequacy.  Self-striping yarn.  What can I say?  I'm a fan. Especially because I'm STILL working on weaving in the ends for the epic hat of epicness.  I'm saving a little pile of yarn ends, so I can look at it and gloat at my awesomeness when I'm done.



















Then we have my other social media moments--

Amy's Facebook post of the week:

A Conversation Between Me and My Dog:

Dog: Yip yip yip!

Me: What is it, Johnny? Where's the fucker? C'mon boy, what're you barking at? Where's the fucker?

Dog: Fucker! Get him! Get the fucker! He's here! Get the fucker!

Me: I don't see the fucker, Johnny-- where is he?

Dog: Yip yip! There IS no fucker! The BASTAGES! There IS no fucker and the absence of fuckers OFFENDS ME!

Me: Man, if there's no fucker, just go outside and pee!

Dog: I shall go outside and PEE, and there is a big dog next door, and he is a FUCKER! Oh THERE'S the fucker! Lemme bark at the fucker! Bad fucker, bad!

Me: I'm doing laundry. Let me know if you kill the fucker, dog, I'll be here.

And…

Amy's tweet of the week:

Omg! This book keeps talking about "wet folds" and I keep thinking, "Jesus, bitch, dry your fucking laundry!" Het really IS for pussies!!!

Followed by…

Amy's most random thought of the week (ala Teen Wolf)

Amy:  Hey!  Derek and Darach are almost homonyms.  Amy's dumber self: Well, yeah, but if Derek's a boy and the Darach is a girl, how would that work?  (Feel free to beat Amy's dumber self with a big pillow. Puns that bad should be shot)

And seriously-- 

Since I didn't do any laundry, fly any places or do anything but write and get edits in my box, I'm thinking this is about as exciting as it gets.  

But that's not going to stop me from blogging in two more days-- I think I keep track of this stuff better when I do it more regularly.  

Andrew Grey introducing Dumped in OZ!

I want to take a minute to thank Amy for having me as her guest.  She’s a dear friend and I love her to pieces.  I’m sending her and all her friends a huge hug. 
I got the idea for Dumped in Oz while I was on a business trip to Kansas.  I was feeling a little dumped on and I used those feelings in the story.   I actually visited the town where I set Dumped in Oz, Wamego Kansas.  And yes, I did go to the Oz Museum and the Oz Winery.  I also took a walk down their version of the yellow brick road.  It was a lot of fun.  The town was just as wonderful as I described it in the story.  So with this story I actually started with the setting.  Then I got the idea for my main characters, Lyle and Roger.
However I had a major decision to make as I was writing the story.  See it’s a small town in Kansas and I had the choice to make the people in town accepting or not.  The thing is that I have visited Kansas twice and I was struck both times about how gracious and open the people were.  And I very much wanted to celebrate that.  So I decided to make the people in town protective of each other and that protection extends to Roger, who as a recovering alcoholic, needs that protection and support.  Not everyone and everything is perfect in my version of Oz, or the story would be quite dull.  But I think of this story in part as a hat tip to the people of a state most of us simply fly over. 
BlurbBecause of an opportunity he’d be a fool to turn down, Lyle Powers transfers to his company’s warehouse in central Kansas. The last thing he expects is to meet another gay man in the small town, let alone one who captures his interest.

Roger Kypers is a recovering alcoholic with a twelve-year-old daughter he only gets to see for part of the summer. Neither Lyle nor Roger is looking for a relationship, and they fumble at the start, yet emotions build as Roger shows Lyle the landmarks of Oz.

But when Roger’s wicked witch of an ex-wife threatens to take his daughter away for good if he doesn’t act “normally,” he’s faced with the challenge of letting her get away with it, or fighting to accept himself and standing up for what he knows is right.
Purchase Link: Dumped in Oz
Excerpt“Yes. I do almost all of our baking,” the man told him. “I’m Roger Kyper, the owner and baker.” He extended his hand.“Lyle,” he said, shaking it. “I’m staying at the inn next door for a couple of weeks.” Roger held his hand a few seconds longer than necessary and then released it, not breaking eye contact. “I’ll be working at the Shoebox warehouse near the highway,” Lyle continued. He figured being friendly was the way things were done here, and he wanted to fit in. “Sorry I got here so close to closing.”“It’s no problem,” Roger said, moving out of the way when the server returned with Lyle’s bierock. “I’ll let you finish your brunch.” He moved away, and Lyle watched him go out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to be seen watching another guy, not in a small town like this, but he couldn’t help it. Roger was hot, and he moved like a dancer. Lyle swallowed hard as his mouth went dry. He turned away and went back to his cinnamon roll. As he ate, the restaurant employees wiped down the chairs, swept the floor, and gathered the flower vases from the tables.When he finished the cinnamon roll, he ate the bierock, humming softly to himself at the savory taste of bacon, sausage, egg, and ham all mixed together, combined with the bread. Dang—it had to be a local delicacy, and it was amazing. Lyle finished eating and sat back. He realized he was the only person in the room. The servers had finished their work, and he now sat alone.“I see you liked it,” Roger said as he came back in.“It was great,” Lyle said with a smile. “Am I keeping you from going home?” He stood up and looked for his check, then picked it up off the corner of the table.“Not really. It’s Sunday afternoon, so take your time.” Roger didn’t leave right away, and Lyle stared at him for a few seconds. Then Lyle moved to the side and walked toward the back of the house. He stepped into a tiny bakery with a single case, now empty, but delicious scents lingered in the air. Roger went to stand at the register, and Lyle handed him the check and money.“Please give the change to the server,” Lyle said.“She’ll appreciate that,” Roger told him.Lyle said good-bye and left by the back door, stepping out into the heat. He looked around and walked up toward the street, deciding he’d take a walk through the park. As he headed to the sidewalk, he saw Roger lock the door before jogging down the stairs. Lyle waved and continued across the street into the park.It was gorgeous, with shade trees, paths, and playgrounds, like most parks. He also passed a fountain, and a cannon set in concrete, continuing his stroll down a footpath that led over to a bridge where a small pond narrowed. People fished off the bank, and Lyle saw a small wooden model boat landing near shore where a father and son operated a remote-controlled boat. Lyle stood on the bridge, leaning against the rail, just watching.“Nice, isn’t it?” a familiar voice said.Lyle turned as Roger joined him on the bridge.“It is,” Lyle agreed. “What is it about this town?”“What do you mean?” Roger asked.“It seems so perfect,” Lyle said, and Roger chuckled lightly.“Most folks who live here grew up here. And we believe in taking care of what we have. Everyone pitches in to take care of the park and keep the town clean. There isn’t a lot, but we do okay. A lot of people in town work either at the feed mill or at Caterpillar. Some work at the Shoebox warehouse too. And there are lots of farmers and farm support.”“It’s like stepping back in time,” Lyle told him.“That it is. Since we don’t have a lot, we want to preserve what we have. Years ago, when folks started tearing down the old buildings to create new, some folks got together to try to rescue what was still around,” he explained, motioning toward a cluster of small buildings. “So we started the Wamego museum. We moved the old buildings to one location, just like we moved the windmill into the park. Folks here are proud of their town.”“That’s obvious,” Lyle said. “Do you get a lot of visitors?”“The Oz stuff brings in a few tourists and curiosity seekers, but mostly it’s just us. Except for during Oztoberfest—then the town fills up with people wearing green everything. It’s a real emerald city, and the characters come out all over the place. People dress as their favorite characters from the movie. Basically, everyone has a great time.”“I’ll look forward to it,” Lyle said.“Then you’ll be here a while,” Roger said.Lyle nodded. “About a year. They’ve put me up in the inn for a couple of weeks, but I need to find a place to live. I figured I’d ask around at work to see if anyone knows of anything. I understand a lot of them live in Manhattan.” Lyle looked around. “But this is so nice.”“It’s too quiet for some folks,” Roger said, leaning on the railing next to him.“I think quiet is nice. Harrisburg isn’t big as cities go, but it’s noisy and fast.” His condo building always had people coming and going. Lyle turned to look at Roger and saw him looking back. Lyle’s belly did a little flip as he recognized the interest in Roger’s eyes. Then it vanished and Roger turned. Lyle stifled a sigh as he watched the remote-controlled boat glide under the bridge. He turned and watched as it floated out the other side and made a lazy circle on the water before starting its return trip. “I could use some quiet.”Lyle heard the kid laugh as the father handed the controls to the boat to him. From the bridge, Lyle saw the kid smile as he took the controls. The boat glided back to the center of the pond and then began making all kinds of circles and loops. Lyle turned back toward Roger, and he could have sworn Roger turned away just as Lyle began looking. Lyle opened his mouth to say something, but Roger pushed away from the railing. “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he said. Before Lyle could open his mouth, Roger had turned and started striding back along the path through the park.Lyle watched him go, wondering what had happened. He shrugged and pushed away from the rail himself, continuing across the bridge and on closer to the stone windmill. Lyle looked around the stone structure and saw Roger coming up the other way. He watched him for a few moments and realized he was being watched in return. Lyle walked over to where Roger stood. As he approached, Lyle once again saw a quick flash of desire, and then, just like before, it was gone and Roger turned away. This time Lyle watched him walk all the way across the park and back to the restaurant. He had no idea what was going on, so he pushed it from his mind. He wasn’t here to hook up, or even to meet anyone. He had a job to do, and he planned on doing it to the best of his ability, and taking some time to think and contemplate what he wanted. He certainly wouldn’t get caught up with a small-town closet case too afraid of what the neighbors would say to even be seen speaking to him in broad daylight.He ambled back through the park, then stopped by the community pool to listen to the kids as they screamed with watery delight before continuing on and back to the hotel.
“Did you have a nice walk?” the hotelier asked as Lyle approached the stairs.

Letters to the World

Okay-- Mary Calmes has reminded me that it is time for "Letters to the World".  Now, some of these letters are very freaking sincere, and others are, well, a wee bit snarky.  I'm going to start off with the sincere one, because it makes me proud, and then I'm going to snark my heart out.

Okay-- are you ready for sincere?

Here's really damned sincere:

Dear volunteer translating crew of Vulnerable-- 

I am overwhelmed.  You took on the task of translating my first published story-- warts and all-- for the sheer love of what you were doing.  You each picked a chapter and went for it, and then gave it to me to publish.  At first, I was reluctant-- it felt as though you'd done all the work, including pick out and purchase this gorgeous cover for me, but you all, in your generosity, told me it was okay.  You enjoyed the work.  You wanted people to read this book and see your work on your resumes.  And you wanted my work to be seen.

What you've done speaks to so much that I believe about literature-- even genre fiction-- and about how it is universal, and how it speaks to people and not academics, and how it is important to our voices as human beings.  I'm honored to have been your translation project, and I'm thrilled to introduce your work to the world.  Thank you, a million times a million-- I cannot possibly find words for you.  I have been difficult to reach, and tardy in my responses-- much of that was my unfamiliarity for what I was doing, and a plethora of other things crushing in my head.  But part of that was the feeling that I had nothing to offer you besides this story, and I was humbled by your work.      

Thank you so much.  I'm so proud to announce this to the world--

Vulnerable, by Amy Lane.  The Italian Translation.  Now available on Kindle.

Sincerely, all of you,

Amy Lane


*whew*  Okay-- that was sincere and heart felt.  Are you ready for the snark?

Here we go:

Dear parent who blocked traffic in two directions in front of my children's school for five minutes right before the bell rang--I have no words.
People were pulling AROUND you going too fast in a school zone while you endeavored to get your shit together.
And then you LET YOUR KIDS OUT ON THE STREET ANYWAY.
You frighten me.
Stay off the street.
I'll cutabitch.
No love--
Me.
Aherm-- okay, that needed to be said.  And this one too--
Dear fanatics of health food and the food bullet--
Did you know whey protein is BINDING, no matter how much fruit, spinach, and carrots you chop up with it?
You couldn't warn me, for sweet hell's sake?
I would have stocked up on dulcolax, and made sure there were lots of peaches in that weight loss smoothie-- not to mention bought more freakin' toilet paper, thank you very much.  Dudes.  Nobody could mention this?
Yeah.  You owe me an apology.
Could you hand me a novel when you come by with that?  And if you really loved me, you'd bring another pack of Charmin.
Grumpy and irritated,
Me
Dear family--
In no particular order--
Zoomboy, No.  Tupperware isn't a new form of fancy knitting.
Mate, everyone loves your fudge.  Stop gloating and start planning next year's batch-- you need to top this!
Big T-- you're twenty-one, but if you want to drink some of mom's wine, you have to bring a bottle to the table.  Just saying.  Simple matters.
Squish--when you wrap my scarf around your neck and wear a T-shirt over that poet's skirt, you look like a very short middle-aged woman from behind.  I don't know how this happened.  Was it the ugh boots?  Was it the simple peasant's braid?  Was it your sturdy walk?  I cannot say, but you do my people proud.
Chicken-- A., we'll miss you when you leave tomorrow.  B.  Just because your brother sings "Frankenstein is on your side!" to the Nationwide jingle, that does NOT make him weird.  It just makes him pop-culture saturated.  I'm saying.
I love you all with all my heart--
Mom

Dear veterinarian people,
I appreciate that you love my cat, and that you think she's freaking hilarious,  but telling me that she's a cheap drunk really made me mad.  She never puts out like that for ME. But I guess it's not your fault she only one-offs me in the bathroom.  *sigh*  And you're really nice to her.  
Slightly jealous, but still loving you!
Steve's food delivery service


Dear Rain Gods of California--
I'm not sure why you're pissed at us, but I'd blow you if you'd jizz water on California's bosoms.  I could probably get my entire block to do the same-- male, female, we don't care, we will put out for some frickin' water this winter!
Call us!
The central valley and Sierra-Nevada

-- 
And now for my final letter, which is very very sincere--
Dear Andrew Grey-- 
I so appreciate your offer to come blog for me on Wednesday, January 15th, to talk about your new book Dumped in Oz.  You are a darling man and a dear friend and I can't wait to see what you have to say!  You can stop by my odd and eclectic digs any time!
Love you!
Amy

And once again...

Goodreads isn't getting my RSS feed-- I have no idea why! For the record, I've posted TWO blogs since the one that's been hanging out here for a while. You can find them at www.writerslane.blogspot.com --- I just thought I should say something, since, well, I'm not the most EXCITING author out there, and it's not like I go bungee jumping and busting spy rings and sleeping with international superstars on a regular basis, but, well, that last blog post was up there for a week, and I do actually breathe in and breathe out and accomplish a little more than that.

Just had to be said.

Amy

You're Welcome

As I went to log into blogger, I okayed a comment saying "Thank you for Behind the Curtain" and it hit me-- I have such a love/hate thing going on with reviews that I often forget my favorite reviews of all don't happen on amazon or GoodReads-- they happen on Twitter and FB and on the blog or in e-mail, when people thank me personally for a story that touched their hearts.

So, uhm, you're welcome.  Everyone who's thanked me in person, said something kind about my stories-- it means more than you could possibly know.  I mean, there are some perks to this profession, I'm not gonna lie.  Some days, when Mate takes the kids and I don't work out, I can go until three in the afternoon without putting on a bra.  I mean, dudes, who needs a corporate jet!  I'm flying free!!   Seriously-- there are some awesome things about writing for a living, and some painful things, and some regular, run-of-the-mill hassles that I shan't bother you with, but I have to tell you that one of the very best things about what I'm doing right now is you guys.  After eighteen years of education, where my peers told me that being called a fat bitch was a mark of a job well done, getting told "Thank you!" on a daily basis for doing something I love?  It's even better than going without a bra.  *nods seriously*  I am totally and completely serious.

So, well, that shiny little nugget totally interrupted  what I'd planned on writing about-- but since THIS was in the cybersphere today, I figured maybe it meant to be said. (And if you click the link, make sure you have no liquids nearby.  It's very funny, I swear.  And TRUE, so very freaking true!)

Anyway, Behind the Curtain came out on Monday, as you may have guessed.  So far, folks seem to like it-- it's not as angsty as some of my work, a little angstier than, say, Going Up or Turkey in the Snow.  I'm sort of still running on empty-- getting those works out on that schedule on top of Christmas and Thanksgiving took a toll and left some damage-- but it's very, very nice to know that the work is appreciated.

And other than that?  Well, I wrote a new Amy's Lane article-- in which I left out some of my key steps for keeping a short story short and now feel completely stupid.  But, for a partial list, go ahead and check out right here.  Anyway, I guess you can't get everything into a brief article on a deadline-- and that gives me something to write about next month!  (I'm serious-- every first Monday of the month, I text Mary or Gin and say, "Holy fuck!  What am I writing about tomorrow?"  They usually laugh at me, like that could not possibly be a serious question, and then I cry, because dudes, Mondays are gym day and little person day and what I really want to write about is the as of yet unexplored wine collection I've begun to stock in the hopes that having unopened bottles of alcohol will make me appear cool and yet not desperate. But that doesn't happen, so you get short story pointers instead.)

In other news, I'm working hard on Beneath the Stain, and it's another song with some rock and roll in it.    The fun part is that I've gotten to look up some forgotten songs in an effort to tackle some topic.  One of my newest and most favorite (and I loved it when it came out eight years ago, too) is K's Choice, "Not an Addict."  There's something very seductive in denial, and both my characters in Beneath the Stain deal with that.  (For those of you who think I've gone Amy Lane Lite permanently, rest easy.  When Blackbird Knitting in a Bunny's Lair comes out, there will be angsty pie to share, and with Beneath the Stain?  OI!  Is it bitter, my friend?  Yes, but I love it, because it is bitter, and because it is my heart!)

Anyway-- my kids are tired and un-entertaining okay-- that's a lie.  They're a little entertaining-- Zoomboy has found the last of the Christmas candy and keeps asking me if I want to give him a "kiss with his kisses"-- btw?  Nothing is more disgusting than a 10 year old making fish lips at you.  And Squish told me yesterday that my "New Year's Resolution Protein Shake" tasted like Playdough, and I was like, THANK you! because I knew there was a flavor profile I couldn't name and that was it!  But aside from that, the big kids are embracing their last few days of slackerdom.  Chicken goes back to school next week, and Big T goes back the week afterwards, and, well, we are almost back to normal around here.

Of course, by the time we hit normal, I'll be on my way to Florida for Coastal Magic.  Go figure.

But I'm going to leave you with the haunting K's Choice and  Not an Addict.  Because, you know, I'm just a writer.  I'm not an addict.  There's not a need, or a pressing urge or… you get the idea.

Behind the Curtain, Epic Hats, and a lot of Vegetation

 I have to admit-- having all three release dates cascading down on me in less than a month was something of a shock.  I did not expect that, and I'm sure people are sick of me.  Amy Lane?  She has another one out?  Really?  Isn't there a rule, like a mongrel dog popping out too many puppies?  Doesn't she need to be fixed?

Well, yeah, probably, but I'm not going to concede yet that I'm broken, so we'll just leave it at this.  Anyway, I'm proud of Behind the Curtain, particularly because it came so soon after Going Up!  Going Up! was all about grown-ups, (okay, well, sort of-- Zach really was the perfect example of the socially-handicapped 8th grader in a man's body) who have decided who they are and what they are going to be.

Behind the Curtain isn't anything like that.     

Dawson Barnes isn't a fully fledged grown-up yet.  He's not as young as Rusty in Christmas Kitsch, and he's definitely higher on the confidence and self-realization scale, but still-- he's very cognizant that the best part about college is that he's open to possibilities.

Jared Emory, his love interest, has only one of those.

Dance.

Together they have a rather quirky chemistry, but they also have the seeds of Dawson's adulthood: Dawson needs to see the world from the other side of the curtain.  In order to do this, he needs to look beyond what's simple and what's easy, and commit himself to a path.  In this case, his path is Jared.

Like Christmas Kitsch, this book borrows a lot from my own experiences as a young adult in love.  Unlike Rusty's story, Behind the Curtain plays with my background in theatre, and my love of that big vaulted room with the dusty velvet curtains and the hard, bright lights, and the stories told on stage.  I sent this one to Chicken, and she read it and said, "Geez, mom-- you really did pay attention when you were backstage at my dance recital, didn't you!"

I said, "Well, it wasn't like I wasn't in theatre from sixth grade through Junior College, was it!"  Of course, unlike Dawson, I decided not to make theater my major (I had nowhere near his talent backstage, and none of Jared's talent in front of the curtain) but still…

There is a peculiar kind of magic when you are living in the theater.  Every emotion becomes exaggerated, and every gesture is infused with meaning.  People date, break up, cheat on each other, grow up, and all of it is on display, even if it's not on stage, because the atmosphere is so closed, so devoted to in front of the curtain and behind it, with no thought to outside the theater, even.  The moment people become aware of the outside of the theater, that's it.  They've grown up, and they're no longer part of the claustrophobic little family on the stage.

That's sort of what this story is about.  The moment you realize that your little makeshift family during college isn't going to be your family forever.  It's the moment you grab your lovers hand and say, "The world is so much wider than this place, and we're going to explore it together."  That doesn't mean you leave the theater, per se-- it just means you outgrow your home turf and move on to other things.

Behind the Curtain is out on Monday, January 6th-- and, of course, I'll have an excerpt and a blurb then-- but I wanted to talk about it now, because it really did jump out of the box and surprise me!

And as for what we've actually been doing here around Chez Lane?  Well, I think the pictures speak for themselves…

On New Year's Eve, Mate took the kids out to the zoo while I sat and let my foot recover from, well, being my foot, I guess, and other than that?  Lots of movies, lots of resting, lots of gearing up for another busy, busy year.  I don't know what to tell you-- time well spent, but not time well reported really.  I guess really, I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Oh yeah-- I swear on my life that's a hat Chicken is holding.  I'm going to keep going and keep going, until it's long enough to wrap around the neck and work as a muffler too.  Seriously, folks, that is one epic hat.  But then, what else did y'all think I was gonna knit?

Catching Up

A reader sent me this-- llama and alpaca run a business together.  Love it very very very much-- had to put it in the blog for any reason at all. Vacation, man-- you've heard of it!So, you all know the deal, right?  Vacation isn't really vacation-- sometimes it's just personal work instead of professional work.  A reason to visit relatives you rarely visit, an excuse to sit on the couch and bond with offspring-- and with friends visiting-- and a moment to seduce animals to your side of the world by being their so called "petting buddy" which really means emotional manipulation of the basest sort.

You guys get it-- vacation!

Recharging and regrouping.   And, fact is, I'm regrouping and recharging, because I apparently need it in the worst way.  My plantar's fasciatis is rearing it's ugly head, and, well, Behind the Curtain is out in eight days.  I still need to post holiday fudge and Rusty swag for sweet hell's sake-- so, yeah.  Not a lot of tweeting, not much FB, and a lot of me sitting on the couch and knitting while I gather my wherewithal or, you know-- get my shit together so I can get my shit together.  I was honored to be able to knit with the adorable and amazing Miss Julianne Bentley, who took me around the yarn store in a whole new hilarious way.  I love talking to people who knit and laugh and get my jokes.  Makes me so happy-- and did I mention the adorability?  It was a really good day.

Today we visited Mate's mom, who is still living on her mother's property.  Today, I heard the total history of this stone.  Now, I've always loved the stone-- it's an Indian grinding rock, on which the Native Americans used to grind blanched acorns into flour.  A rock like this would have been passed to generations-- that's how the holes got so big and the pestle rock so perfectly rock shaped.  Anyway, this rock didn't always sit in the middle of a cow field.  It used to sit in the big irrigation pond-- but the government had people relocating their irrigation ponds, and when they drained the first one dry, well, they found this and had it moved somewhere it wouldn't get covered with water, because, well, uber cool, right?  The rock had been on the property since Mate's family bought it from people who were originally deeded the acreage in the homestead acts.  Mate's family came over from Iowa in 1862 and worked for nine years.  They were able to buy it in 1871.  I sort of love that story-- although they're sort of a doughty, tough people, not particularly Celtic in soul, there is something hearty about them, insistent, and embodies some of the best of what Mate is-- dependable and real and honest.

So there you go.  Grinding rock.  All sorts of metaphors you can get from that.

Anyway-- time is, of course, surging by like tide.  I am also editing Triane's Son Fighting, which will be out by the end of the month.

I am actually sort of excited about this story coming out this month-- I'll be able to take three of the four stories to Coastal Magic with me in early February, and that's going to make me very very very proud!  By the way, folks-- there is still lots of room for readers at Costal Magic-- by all means get your passes now, because I'd love to see you there!

Anyway-- so, time.

This vacation thing.

You see that cat?  That's me, asking where the time went!

Seriously-- holidays used to seem like they lasted forever-- do you remember that?  But not right now.  Now they fly right by, faster than my children's birthdays.  So, if you catch me laying low a little, not quite twittering or Facebooking as much as I am wont to do, it's because I'm savoring my holiday-- and my children.  Tonight we watched Stardust.  So much awesome-- not the least of it being that Zoomboy and Squish were absolutely captivated.  It was a very, "I raised them right!" moment.

Anyway-- don't forget that Going Up is on sale at Amazon, , ARe, and Dreamspinner Press, and it seems to be helping a lot of people wrap up their holidays on a good note.  That makes me happy :-)

Enjoy your New Years all!

Amy.

Making Like Broccoli

I know for the kids it's December 25th, but I've got to tell you, December 26th is my favorite day of the year.

Why? You may ask.

Well, for a number of reasons-- all of which, I have to admit, are both selfish and hedonistic.  I refuse to apologize for this.  December 26th is the slacker's favorite holiday for the following reasons:

*  The house was cleaned on the 23rd and 24th, and although there was a riot in the living room on the 25th, most of the rubble is in the recycling bin, and housework can wait.

*  There is GOOD random shit on the television.

*  Someone (wonder who?) has been cooking for days and there is a fucktonna food in the refrigerator to feed my spawn and myself.

 *  There are a lot of new books out to distract me from the fact that nobody else is working.

*  There is enough diet coke in my refrigerator to send me to the moon.

*  The cats--scandalized by the riot in the living room the day before-- largely ignore us, providing we feed them.
Squish at my parents with a
4 month old puppy they were
dogsitting.
* Whether or not the laundry is done, we're mostly wearing sweat pants anyway, so it doesn't matter.  Hell, only a desire to not knock my own boobs with my knees in a few years forces me to even put on a bra.

 *  My children are exhausted, and by happy happy coincidence they have just been handed a whole bunch of lovely diversions that allow them to immerse themselves in quiet activity for most of the day.
That dog loved by
leaning.
*  Because the family has been gone or busy for so long, the dog thinks having us all to himself is the best thing ever, and wants to snuggle and give us attention.

*  Absolutely nothing is expected of me or mine except that we process oxygen into CO2, and flush the toilet when needed.

*  Some idiot left cookies and chocolate around the house in staggering quantities.

*  Only the dedicated and the brave go to the gym on December 26th.  I am neither.

*  Whether or not I had all my knitting done in time for Christmas, my deadline has passed.  I can now knit for pleasure again-- as long as I knit the things that need to get done.

*  Most years, the last thing I published in recent memory was my Christmas letter, and nobody leaves 2* reviews on GoodReads for that.  

*  In this instant, like Peter Boyle says in While You Were Sleeping, everything is perfect.


***

Don't forget Going Up! is out at Amazon, ARe, and Dreamspinner Press.

Jessie Potts at HEA BookBlog enjoyed it very much!

Going Up! And Christmas wishes :-)

*smishes*  Thanks to all of you who commented on the last post!  I completely forgot to mention some of those movies, and I love them so much!  A Christmas Story-- we watch that every year, and that's just one!  So, anyone who commented yesterday and wants some Rusty Keychains, give me a holler-- I'll set you up after Christmas.

And, in the Christmas countdown, here's where we stand:

Have humiliated Zoomboy by making sure at least 2000 people saw the picture of him screaming on Santa's lap.

Have had our picture taken-- wearing bright Christmas red-- on the court of the Sacramento Kings.

Have bought gift we hadn't planned on but was perfect.

Have eaten other people's Christmas cookies (THANK you Laura Adriana and Berry Jello) until I feel like a fatball of Christmas joy.

Have injured myself by falling spectacularly in a friend's living room.  (Sorry, Berry Jello!  I'm still a little embarrassed.)

Have managed to go grocery shopping.  Sounds like a small thing, but it took TWO DAYS of good intentions and Mate's company to get it done.

Have managed to hug the kids.  They're really excited about Christmas.

OH! Have SENT THE CHRISTMAS CARDS.

Have sat up from a sound nap and said, "OMG-- DID I SEND RHYS FORD A CHRISTMAS CARD?"

Have wondered if, like Clarence the Angel, I am doomed to have the IQ of a rabbit for the rest of my life.

Have wrapped NO PRESENTS.  Repeat-- NO PRESENTS.

Have called mom to ask what I should be bringing for Christmas dinner.  Have been told "Lasagna, didn't your Mate and two oldest Spawn tell you?"

Have yelled at Mate and Spawn ferociously.  LASAGNA?  Deserved a mention, you think?

Have wrapped NO PRESENTS.  Repeat-- NO PRESENTS.

Have watched Muppet Christmas Carol for the third time.

Am listening to It's a Wonderful Life now.

Heh heh… have JUST watched oldest son wander around my office space-- HOME OF SIX ZILLION WRITING UTENSILS, asking for a pen.

Have strained my calf again, jerking trying to get him a pen.

Have revisited rabbit IQ theory again.

Have ALMOST knitted everything.



Have realized it's time to get off the computer and get my shit together.

Have wished all of you folks a happy solstice, a Merry Christmas, and a lovely yule.

***

Okay guys-- Going Up! Will be out on Christmas Day.  It's a very short novella, but the idea is, it's like a little Christmas aperitif, a dollop of whipped cream on your pumpkin pie, gravy on the mashed potatoes.  I'll post the buy link here, and the blurb and the excerpt, because, well, it's adorable.  It's designed to make you happy-- not Christmas centric, perhaps, but Christmassy in spirit.  Let's just say the holiday comes up often enough to put you in the mood.  And of course, there's the GORGEOUS color, which makes me so proud.

Also-- if you scroll WAY down, you'll see the cover reveal and pre-buy link for Behind the Curtain.  It's going to be out a little earlier than I'd thought, and I thought I'd show it to you now :-)





GOING UP!  

Available at Dreamspinner Press

Available at All Romance e-Book

Every dreary day, Zach Driscoll takes the elevator from the penthouse apartment of his father's building to his coldly charmed life where being a union lawyer instead of a corporate lawyer is an act of rebellion. Every day, that is, until the day the elevator breaks and Sean Mallory practically runs into his arms. 

Substitute teacher Sean Mallory is everything Zach is not—poor, happy, and goofily charming. With a disarming smile and a penchant for drama, Sean laughs his way into Zach's heart one elevator ride at a time. Zach would love to get to know Sean better, but first he needs the courage to leave his ivory tower and face a relationship that doesn't end at the "Ding!"

EXCERPT

Ground Floor


ONCE UPON a time, there was a prince who lived in a tower. He had been born to a king and a queen in the kingdom of San Francisco, and he was raised by nannies and boarding schools. He was a good child. He did everything he was told. He never questioned his world, and his rebellions, on the whole, were very, very small.
He worked hard, earned his law degree, and made a life defending the weak and downtrodden, while he enjoyed a privileged life atop the tallest tower of the kingdom.
But although there was no snow in his kingdom, there were chilly bay breezes, and they left his heart cold, oh, so very cold….

ZACH DRISCOLL sipped his champagne and looked around him. His parents’ annual Christmas party seemed to be in full swing: the chandelier was dusted, the galleria ballroom glittered with tasteful silver decorations, and his secretary, Leah, was flirting with the up-and-coming young president of the local chamber of commerce.
Fortunately for Leah’s fun, she didn’t know he was gay.
Zach knew Angelo Fitzsimmons was gay—but Angelo didn’t know Zach knew. It was a sad fact that Zach owed pretty much every decent sexual encounter he’d ever had to a flier on “escort services” that Angelo had left in a bathroom stall when Zach was still in college.
Zach figured that if the firm was discreet enough for Angelo with his budding political career, it was discreet enough for a union lawyer who only showed up to these things for his parents.
Oh, and speaking of….
“She’s charming, Zach. It’s about time you settled down and brought a date to one of our parties.”
“Hi, Mother,” he said, pursing his lips in a really horrible approximation of a smile. “We’re not dating. She’s my secretary—she does a really good job. I figured she deserved a perk.”
“So you brought your secretary to a fundraiser?” His mother…. God. She looked forty, was closer to sixty-five, and could ooze disdain with a few choice words. Right now, she needed a little sponging off at the edges.
Zach looked over at Leah, who was wearing a red crushed-velveteen dress that left one shoulder bare and sported gold spangles up the split sides. Her dusky skin and sturdy, wide-hipped body looked lush and sensual under that textured fabric, and he only wished he could appreciate that. She’d dyed her hair Christmas red to match, worn gold bangles in her updo, and was currently trying to teach Angelo the Harlem shuffle.
“Yes,” he said, smiling a little. He didn’t joke with Leah, or get too personal with her, but he sure did admire the hell out of her. She’d started off the job wearing black suits and black shoes, and had kept her normally straight black hair cut short and practical. In the past three years since he’d started the firm and hired five more lawyers and three more paralegals, she had, one tiny bit at a time, let little bits of the real Leah shine through.
First it was fuchsia or lime-colored shirts under her business suit. Then it was fantastic shoes to match the shirts.
Then it was suits to match the shoes.
Then it was hair to match the whole shebang.
And while her wardrobe expanded, her sarcasm also began to expand in depth, breadth, and sheer breathtaking scope. “What, you didn’t finish that file before it’s due, Mr. Driscoll? I’m suspecting you stopped to take a crap sometime this weekend—shame on you!”
Zach hadn’t known how to respond at first. He’d never been proficient in sarcasm, or in any of the more salient social skills such as conversation, eye contact, or generally wanting to get to know his fellow human beings. He’d simply grunted and walked into his office, wondering what to say.
But over the last six months, that sarcasm had started to feel like overtures of friendship. When he’d gotten the invitation to the party stressing the need for a plus-one, he told Leah he’d spring for the dress, and, well, there they were.
“Do you think that’s appropriate?” his mother asked, not smiling at all, and Zach watched Angelo actually grace Leah with a real smile, one that didn’t seem as constipated and as cramped as Zach felt most of the time.
“I think something needed to happen,” he said quietly. “And she’s having a lovely time.”
Some flashes went off, and Zach figured that moment exhausted his family time for the rest of the year as his mother stood up and left. Zach watched Leah dance like she was Cinderfuckingella (her word, when he’d given her the credit card) and then he looked up into the windows that surrounded the high ceiling of the ballroom. It was raining, and in the cutting silver light from the galleria, the rain looked like slivers of crystal. Like wishing stars.
I wish a prince would rescue me, he thought, half in whimsy and half in despair. Silly wish, right? His parents were rich, and he was a lawyer. Wasn’t he the prince? Okay, then. I wish a knight would rescue the prince in the tower.
In the distance he heard Leah laugh like a kid in a playground, and he went to tell her that he’d leave her the town car and take a cab home. He knew enough about fairy tales to know that the knight in shining armor never really did show up at the ball.

ZACH LIVED in the penthouse because his dad owned the building. It was that easy.
Of course, law school at Stanford hadn’t been that easy, establishing his own practice hadn’t been easy, and keeping his relationships to the guys from the escort service wasn’t particularly easy on him either.
But Zach had always been good at putting a slick face on things.
He got up in the morning and put on his wool suit—and in San Francisco, it was always a wool suit—with his bright patent leather shoes and his crispy starched collars and hundred-dollar ties. He shaved and slicked back his dark hair, made sure his eyebrows were tweezed and his face was moisturized, and generally ensured he looked and smelled like a man who could protect your future.
He’d been the same way as a kid, except he hadn’t had to tweeze his eyebrows.
When he was a kid, his father and mother had insisted on hygiene, and so had his nannies, but the resulting behaviors were neat, orderly habits of mind and he wasn’t going to discard them just because there was a sort of echoing, vaultlike quality to all of his childhood memories.
And he figured, after that childhood, living in the nice penthouse of Driscoll Towers in the middle of downtown was a perk. He’d take what he could get. Hiding his sex life from his parents wasn’t such a big price to pay, and really? They lived in a mansion down on the peninsula, so about an hour of commute time separated them from him and the guy he’d paid to leave before midnight. Not that there were that many of those, but a guy had to be touched, right? That wasn’t so bad, to be touched?
But certainly not in an express elevator in the middle of a soulless January.
Which was currently breaking down. The cab lurched to a halt between the nineteenth and twentieth floor, and then, just as Zach was hitting the button for maintenance, it dropped half a floor and the doors opened.
Zach got out of the elevator on the nineteenth floor, absolutely bemused. He didn’t even know the express elevator could open in this part of the complex. He got out and turned around, seeing there was a bank of elevator doors instead of just the one like he was used to. He thought, Hunh? but hit the button to the hopefully working elevator, and got in when the doors opened.
The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor, to let in a teenage girl in bright-pink spandex with a matching iPod who ignored him, and then at the fourteenth floor, where the doors opened and then started to shut again.
“Wait! Wait! I didn’t think it was going to open so soon!” The guy was running, and Zach was in the back corner behind the teenager, so he couldn’t stop the doors either. The kid—he looked like a kid—who stopped the doors and opened them again, wore cowboy boots and leather chaps and a pink-striped oxford shirt and a really revoltingly large fake-Stetson hat. He had kind of a long neck, a really prominent jaw, a smattering of freckles still on his cheeks, and teeth that barely escaped being bucked.
And curly yellow-brown hair.
And really blue eyes.
And not an ounce of embarrassment for skating in through the door at the last minute, stumbling past the girl and pitching into Zach’s arms.
“Sorry ’bout that!” he burbled, straightening himself and then straightening his hat. He arranged a scuffed leather satchel over his hip, and got a tighter hold on the peacoat he’d obviously brought to ward against the cold San Francisco morning. The doors were still open, because sometimes they did that, and the staff complained about it going slow and the tenants said things about it being haunted by the ghost of the bachelor who had died on the twenty-second floor and who had been so lonely his cat had eaten his face.
Zach pretended none of that was actually happening because even though he didn’t own a cat, he didn’t want to think of his face being eaten. So he didn’t think about his face being eaten. He just scooted around the teenaged girl, leaned forward and pressed the “close” key, and mumbled, “No problem” so the boy didn’t think it was totally okay to go rocketing into a stranger’s arms.
“Yeah, well, I’m still sorry,” the kid said, tilting his hat up. Zach had no choice. He looked up from the control board into those plasma-blue eyes, and the kid grinned. He had the slightest space between his teeth, which made Zach think that maybe his parents hadn’t had good health insurance, and that made him feel bad.
All his own teeth were capped, because six years of braces hadn’t been enough and his smile had been… well, it was perfect now, and that’s what mattered.
“That’s okay,” he said, a little more clearly, and he quirked his lips up for good measure. “Uhm, going on a round-up?”
The guy’s face split into a grin. “Substitute teaching in seventh grade. They didn’t give me a cattle prod so I figured this would have to do.”
“That’s… you do that voluntarily?” The thought of facing a battalion of sugar-crazed grunion made Zach’s well-worked abdomen muscles roll tightly. “You don’t look old enough to be in college!”
He laughed. Not a polite “you just insulted me so I’m brushing this off” laugh, but a full-stomached laugh, like what Zach had just said was really fucking funny.
“I’m twenty-six!”
Ding!
The elevator opened into the lobby then, and Zach watched the boy—guy, man, crap—stride off into the shiny, fogless day, struggling into his battered peacoat as he went.
Zach followed him, feeling bemused. He didn’t see which way the guy turned, and so he went his usual right, because it was twelve blocks to his office building and he walked it every day, wielding his briefcase like a weapon against the hordes on the crowded sidewalk. The bay wind scalpeled its way through his wool trench coat, but he didn’t let that stop him, and he didn’t resort to huddling and blowing on his hands, either. He just kept up that same relentless pace that allowed him to push his law firm into success, that allowed him to gut school districts and corporations that tried to treat their employees like crap, and that allowed him to subvert every desire he’d ever had for a warm and comfortable life in favor of the thing his parents had decided he should have instead.
He strode into his office with an expressionless face, because that’s how he always walked through his office.
Leah smiled brightly at him like she did every day.
“Hello, Mr. Driscoll, are we having a good day, Mr. Driscoll, I have your coffee waiting for you, Mr. Driscoll, all of your appointments are on your computer, Mr. Driscoll—”
Her perky sarcasm usually washed over him like acid rain. After those first conservative months, Zach had come to treasure the punk rock diva who couldn’t sing, who wore matching lime-green Converses with her lime-green-and-black suit, and who harangued Zach about his lack of personal life like she had a right.
Her job performance was spectacular.
And she thought she was funny.
Usually Zach tolerated her, but today, as he was walking through the lobby, he had a thought of her in her Christmas dress, flirting with a man just to see him smile, and then a vision of a sort of geeky-looking teacher, dressing up to impress middle schoolers he might never see again.
It was an awful lot of effort to go to, this effort to make people respond to you, wasn’t it?
He turned to her and spared her a brief smile. “Thank you, Leah—I definitely appreciate the coffee.”
Leah’s mouth dropped and her stunned silence actually made him a little sad. Jesus, Zach—way to fail Humanity 101.
Maybe tomorrow, he’d bring her dessert coffee and nut bread. She really did try hard, didn’t she?
HE LEFT a little early the next day to get the coffee and the nut bread, and even though the elevator was still broken down and he had to sidestep at the nineteenth floor again, he was disappointed not to see his substitute teacher/cowboy on the way down.
But Leah brightened up so much with the coffee that he thought maybe it was worth it. After all, he workedwith Leah every day. This other guy he didn’t know from a monkey in the subway.
Anyway, he kept getting off on the nineteenth floor, whether or not the haunted elevator of the guy on twenty-two with the cat-eaten face worked or not, but it didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t see Mr. Cowboy Substitute Teacher the next day, or the next, but on Friday, when he decided that he could be five minutes late and still bring Leah her coffee, that’s when Mr. Cowboy Substitute Teacher slid in at the bell.
But he wasn’t wearing his cowboy outfit anymore.
He was wearing a three-piece suit instead, and for a moment Zach felt absurdly disappointed. He saw suits every day.
Then he noticed that Mr. Cowboy’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously above the collar of his suit, and that his arms were too long for the obviously off-the-rack ensemble, and that his shirt was a little rumpled and that his tie was off-kilter.
This wasn’t his normal attire, now was it?
“Your tie is crooked,” he said softly, after getting a nervous, flop-sweat smile from the man next to him.
“Oh fuck!”
Zack snapped his head back, because the obscenity was violent, and, well, unexpected. Mr. Cowboy dropped his satchel and his coat at his feet and started fiddling with his tie. “Crap crap crap crap… dammit. I need this freaking job!”
Zach didn’t even know he was doing it until he did it. “Here, hold this.”
Mr. Cowboy grabbed his briefcase from his outstretched hand, and Zach moved in, squaring the knot and adjusting the whole works until it rested neatly at his throat. Cowboy looked up at him—he was about four inches shorter than Zach—with implicit trust, and Zach kept his breathing even and focused exclusively on the tie and not on the little bits of stubble that Cowboy had missed when he’d been shaving, or at the rainy smell of body wash, or the fact that his breath was freshly scrubbed with mint toothpaste. When he was done, he stepped back, still not making contact with those limpid blue eyes, and smoothed his palms against Cowboy’s bony shoulders, then turned him around and did it again.
The door dinged, and Zach took his briefcase back, and then walked away while Cowboy scrambled for all of the stuff left in the bottom of the elevator car.
“Thanks!” he squeaked, and Zach turned around in time to watch him narrowly slide out of the elevator before the doors closed.
“Good luck,” Zach said. He felt something unfamiliar stretch his cheeks, but it wasn’t until the wind hit his teeth that he remembered what it was.
When he gave Leah her coffee, he felt it again. When he was telling his latest client—a gay man who had been fired from his office temp job on some bullshit excuse—that they had the company over a barrel and he could have the settlement and new job of his choosing, he felt it again.
He was smiling. 
ZACH DIDN’T see Mr. Cowboy (or was it Mr. Teacher?) that evening, but since he worked very long hours, he assumed he wouldn’t anyway. Instead, he went to the gym to work out, stopped at a take-out place for dinner, and sat in front of his television, mindlessly wondering if he should call the escort service he sometimes used just so he could have a man pretend to like him.
He couldn’t make himself do it. He kept imagining that Adam’s apple bobbing, and the total vulnerability of that slender neck. Poor guy. Looking for a job in this city must suck. Putting himself out there like that.
He was so brave.
Hiring a rent boy just seemed like the height of cowardice after that.




HE STARTED setting his alarm and crossing his fingers. When he left exactly at that moment, his odds of seeing Teacher-baby (which sounded so much better than Mister anything, because the boy’s limpid blue eyes were just too… yum) increased dramatically.
He left at that moment as often as possible.
On Wednesday he was rewarded. Teacher-baby slid into the elevator, followed by a voice screaming across the hallway.
“Sean! Wait!”
“Dammit, Wendy, I’m late!” He held out an arm though, and kept the elevator from closing. Today he was dressed in jeans and a nice button-down shirt with a sweater over it. If he had to hazard a guess, Zach would guess he was subbing again today—those weren’t the clothes you wore to a new job.
“Todd wants you to get coffee when you come back!”
The girl running down the hallway in her T-shirt and underwear was incredibly pretty. Elfin, delicate, around five seven, with a short cap of dyed-ruby hair, an oval face with a pert little chin and matching nose, and obviously green contacts.
“Does he have money? It’s his turn, and I’m just as broke as he is!”
“Yeah, we all are.” She sighed and held out a hand with a crumpled five in it. “Here—you and me will get it today—again—and Toby and Chris can get it next week. Todd and Katie are up for it after that.” She batted her eyelashes appealingly. “Please, Sean? I know you got it last time, but we all need the stuff, okay?”
Sean sighed and took the money, shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, okay. Go back inside before some pervert ogles your ass.”
She turned to him before she left and grinned. “That would be awesome!” And then disappeared down the hall.
Zach blinked. “That is a lot of people.” He had a penthouse apartment—it took up a quarter of the floor, and it was just him. The other apartments were an eighth of that size, with—
“Six,” Sean (his name was Sean!) confirmed. “Yeah, but prices here—man, they’re steep, you know?”
Zach had sort of known, but now it was more personal. “Yeah,” he said. He didn’t ask why someone would want to live in the city when it was so expensive—who wouldn’t? “How do you all fit?”
“Toby and Chris in their own bedroom, since they’re a couple, the girls and me in a king size in the other bedroom, and Todd the straight guy on the hide-a-bed in the living room. Don’t tell Mr. Driscoll, right?” Sean smiled and winked.
Zach found himself smiling back, because… well, because. “Will the new job help?” he asked, and Sean’s face fell.
“Didn’t get it,” he murmured. “It was a Catholic school—they have morality clauses. I sort of violate them just by my very existence.”
Zach wanted to roar in outrage, or, at the very least, go sue the crap out of someone, but he knew it was legal. Church-run schools had the right.
“Good luck on the next one,” he said gently, and Sean looked up and smiled.
“That’s really sweet,” he said.
Zach found it suddenly hard to breathe, and his mouth went dry, and he was caught up in the idea that the only thing sweet in the world was that oh-dayum smile but the smile faded and—
Ding!
The elevator door opened and it was time to go. This time Sean left first, but before he walked out the glass doors from the lobby to the street, he turned and offered a tentative smile and a wave.
Zach waved back. That whole stretchy-face/cold-cheek thing lasted until he got to work and everything!

“SHAKESPEARE?” ZACH asked politely.
Sean wore peasant garb today—drawstring pants, a doublet, the floppy hat and everything. He grinned.
“Romeo & Juliet, eighth grade. I get them for a week!”
“That sounds….” Zach couldn’t do it. “Awful,” he apologized. “But I’m glad someone enjoys eighth grade.”
“Well, it’s a lot easier when you practice,” Sean said with a wink. “Besides—I’ve got all this theatre stuff, and I’m teaching them English/History—I mean, it feels like the whole reason I hauled this stuff around with me, you know?”
Zach didn’t know—he’d been on the debate team. But he nodded anyway. “The teaching thing—you really like?”
Sean nodded and Zach was treated to that smile—all teeth and dimples and a ducked head that sort of asked forgiveness for that much joy. “It’s like being the most popular kid in the class. Eighth graders never had it so good!”
Zach hadn’t been particularly popular. He’d kept his head down and his grades good, and had ignored the girls who thought the valedictorian was some sort of trophy.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said quietly, and Sean’s long, mobile face suddenly assumed a look of compassion that Zach was entirely uncomfortable with.
Ding!

Saved by the bell!

****

And as for Behind the Curtain?  
What do you guys think about this cover?  
Cause DAYUM-- it was a Christmas present in my e-mail box, that was for sure!