Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 149

Left on St. Truth-be-Well

-- or how a terrible experience makes for a fun story.

Okay-- so a couple of months ago, I wrote THIS POST.  In this post I talk about being sent to stay in a nameless hotel in a sleepy seaside town that we shall from here on out call St. Aubrey's.  Shannon, DSP's girl-Friday-genius was my escort, and we were following a GPS voice who kept saying, "Turn left on St. Truth-be-Well."

Uhm, St. Truth-be-Well?  We could see no such street.

Eventually we found this nameless hotel (which we shall NOT call it the actual name of the place, because, well, I WROTE about this hotel with another name, and I should like to not be sued) and in the meantime, we were tired and punch drunk and giggly about St. Truth-be-Well-- because, honestly, it sounded like a damned funny name for a book.

Anyway, when I wrote that post, I was down in, uhm, St. Aubrey's, for a con (which I thoroughly enjoyed, btw) and while we were there, we ate across the street at the FA Cafe.  (Stands for Fucking Awesome.  You can see something about it here and here.)  Our waiter there was really pretty.  So pretty that Elisabeth Staab, Damon Suede and I were all, well, writing him as we ate breakfast.  Who was he?  What kind of romantic life did he have?  Which guy would we pair him up with.

And then, in the course of one of our panels, our moderator dropped half of a cockamamie plot in my lap and said, "Okay, you need to include this hotel, the ocean, and a guy with a bloody bump on his head-- write!"

And since the guy we'd just been talking about over breakfast was fresh in my head, I spun a yarn about our waiter at the FA Cafe.  I called him Dale.  

Now, let's flash forward a couple of months.

We're in a hotel room in Chicago and Lynn West is there and so is Elizabeth North and so is Shannon, and we're talking about what my next project should be.  I was this close to finishing Christmas Kitsch, and I needed something for Elizabeth fast.  I remember this because Shannon was cuddled up against me, and she said, "What about St. Truth-be-Well!"

And there I was, in front of a new audience, and suddenly our tale of that weekend spilled out-- the terrifying hotel room, the cute waiter, the GPS that kept trying to tell us to go to a street that never appeared on the road when State Road 312 (say it out loud-- you'll see what happened) was right there.  It made for a great story, and I thought, "Yes!  This shall be my next story!  It practically writes itself."

But who was going to be my other hero?

Well, the next day we all went to a pub about a block away from the hotel, and we were greeted by the most adorable little leprechaun of a man.  We started talking about how he would be perfect for Dale, and we told him who we were and asked him if he wanted to be in my next story.  He said, "Yeah!  Absolutely!"  We said, "It's gay romance, is that okay?" and he said, "What's my name?  Can I be Carson?"

I said, "That's an awesome name!"

He said, "I used to love Johnny Carson when I was a kid!"

And I thought, "Aha!  Carson shall be a comedian in his spare time!"

And he said, "What's my last name going to be?"

And I said, "O'Shaughnessey!"

And he got very sober and said, "Really?  My father-- well, he passed away five years ago--but before that, he was dating a really awesome woman named O'Shaughnessey."

He was perfect.  And I was stunned.  This story-- it's almost the anti-Amy.  It's fun, it's quirky, and it was a joy to both live and write.


And it's proof that hello, sometimes the gods actually write your stories for you.  

I"m sort of excited, because this story has been reviewed and recced already--

Here at the USA Today blog

Here at The Tipsy Bibliophile (and the boys have their own cupcakes!!!!)

M/M Good Books

Here at The Armchair Reviewer (July 24th)

And tomorrow, it will be at the PRG.  

It is already available here at Dreamspinner, and tomorrow it will be available at Amazon.com, All Romance e-books, Barnes & Nobles, and all of the usual places.

So if you're interested, take a road trip with Carson and meet Dale-- after taking a Left at St. Truth-be-Well!

Blurb and excerpt:

Carson O’Shaughnessy has one task: track down his boss’s flighty nephew, Stassy, and return the kid to Chicago. Then Carson can go back to waiting tables and being productively bitter about his life. He didn’t count on finding a dead body in Stassy’s bed, and he certainly didn’t count on the guy in the flip-flops and cutoffs at the local café helping him get to the bottom of the crime. 

But Dale Arden is no ordinary surfing burnout—he’s actually a pretty sharp guy with a seductive voice and a bossy streak wider than the Florida panhandle. When he decides to boss Carson right into his bed, Carson realizes Stassy's not the only one who's been lost. Carson likes to think he’s got his life all figured out, that sex with guys is your basic broom-closet transaction; he may just have to revise his priorities, because nobody plans on taking a left at St. Truth-be-Well and finding love at the Bates Parrot Hotel.


The Bird Bates Hotel







WHO would do this? Who would drive from Chicago to Florida? What in the hell was wrong with him?

Carson Andrew O’Shaughnessy could not, for the life of him, figure that out.

He wasn’t even making this drive for love. Or for money. No. He was making this drive because his boss’s pip-weasel little fucktard of a nephew had completely dropped off the map. Please, Carson? I’ll give you two weeks’ pay! If you drive, I’ll give you three weeks’, so I don’t have to spring for the ticket! Carson waited tables, for sweet fuck’s sake! His salary was bupkes, but the fact that Carson being out of the picture would give the pretty blonde with the advantageous ta-tas all of Carson’s shifts?

For Ivan, that, apparently, was priceless.

Oh my God! He was such a doormat sometimes!

But the fact was, he sort of liked Stassy. Anastacio Malinowski, Ivan’s nephew, was blond with adorable dimples and a smile that could pretty much set the stars in their spheres. Unfortunately, Stassy tended to flash those dimples more at guys than girls. Seriously unfortunately, Stassy was, at present, not aware of this. Carson had never met a gay man more unaware of his own closet. Of course, Carson’s rather bold attempt to kiss Stassy might have been the reason he’d bolted in the first place.

Okay. So maybe Carson wasn’t just chasing Stassy down because Carson was a doormat. Maybe Carson was also chasing Stassy down because Carson felt maybe the teeniest bit guilty for taking Stassy’s flirting seriously. Carson had been with enough guys—and girls—to know whether someone’s signals were intentional. Stassy’s signals had seemed very, very straightforward. The innuendos, the raised eyebrows, the come-fuck-me eye-humping.

Then one night, after a rush in the restaurant, Stassy walked into a broom closet and Carson followed. Carson kissed the kid—adorable dimples and all—until Stassy ground up against his thigh, and for a whole forty-five seconds, Carson was pretty sure his long dry streak was over, and hey! He was gonna get laid!

And then Stassy put his hand over his mouth, and even in the dim light of the broom closet, Carson saw the glimmer of tears o’ angst. Stassy stammered, “I’m sorry. I’m so not ready for this!” and then ran out of the closet and off his shift and apparently?

To Bumfuck, Florida, population snowbirds and surfers, gayness optional.

Ivan had just said Stassy was on vacation, but as the weeks passed and Carson tried fruitlessly to get ahold of Stassy and apologize or claim complete ignorance or say something that would let Stassy off the hook of his sexual confusion, Carson came to believe the vacation thing was a total lie. He was pretty sure Stassy had just run the hell away.

When Ivan told Carson he’d been getting regular credit card bills from the Bates Parrot Hotel, Carson was a little relieved. That meant Stassy was okay, right? This place was in St. Aubrey’s, Florida—it was known for its surfing. How bad could the place be?

But Stassy had refused to come home, and when he went a day without returning Ivan’s calls, Carson allowed himself to be (easily) bullied to haul ass down in Ivan’s electric-blue Honda Element to retrieve Ivan’s wayward nephew.

Jesus. It had just been a kiss. And honestly, Stassy was pretty, but Carson usually liked his men a little more… well, a little more. Stassy was young and callow and not great with the conversation. All of those innuendos had been made with eyebrows alone.

But… well. Here he was. Wobbling through a bizarre mix of strip malls, suburbs, and backwoods neighborhood in the middle of the night, led on by his not-so-trusty GPS.

“Right on Saint Owbrays,” the GPS sang in clipped, soothing tones. “Left on Saint Truth Be Well.”

“Left on Saint What-the-Fuck?” Because he could figure out that Saint Owbrays meant St. Aubrey’s Street, but he could not see St. Truth-be-Well. He hit Refresh.

“Left on Saint Truth Be Well.”

“Oh fuck. I must have missed it.” He could see State Road 312 right there, but that other one—he seriously must have gone right on by.

It was okay. There was a McDonald’s and a Chevron, and he needed gas and coffee anyway. Time to stop and trade in his man card for some directions that came from a human being and a map.

He felt a slight chill in the air and a constant breeze as he walked from the car to the minimart, but compared to April in Chicago, it was damned near balmy. The Chevron was almost empty, and the bored girl behind the counter perked up when he walked in. He used the restroom first (and seriously? She couldn’t have used some of that sudoku time cleaning a little? Just for him?). When he came out to rent some more coffee, he asked for directions. “So, uhm,” he said, trying to remember he actually flirted for a living. “The Bates Parrot Hotel, where would it be?”

The girl wrinkled her nose, and Carson fought the impulse to go after the beauty of a whitehead on the tip of it. Unfortunate place for a blemish, really. “You’re going to stay there?”

Uh-oh. No one should ignore a warning from a local. “Not me in particular,” he hedged. “I’m looking for a friend.”

“Good,” she said with a nod. “Because the Super 8 across the street is really a much better bet. Not so close to the surf, right, but crossing the street ain’t no big deal. Anyway, you take this road, and go down ’til it dead-ends. Turn right. Ocean’s on your left. You’ll see the Bates Parrot place by the ocean. Sign’s sortova mess. But you’ll see the parrot. It’s all in green. And blue. And—”

“I hear you,” Carson interrupted with a hint of desperation. “I’ll see it. Blue and green parrot right next to the ocean. Don’t sleep there. Gotcha.”

The girl nodded, not bothered in the least by Carson’s internal and external twitching. “Good. You wanna refill on that coffee seeing as you finished it already? They’re free.”

Carson looked down at the thirty-two-ounce plastic travel mug in his shaking hands. God. Three days on the road. His stomach lining was probably translucent by now, and his eyeballs were starting to throb in time with his heartbeat.

“Sure,” he heard himself saying and jittered off to do just that.







STATE ROAD 312 was really dark, but she’d said turn right where it dead-ended, and that was no worries. In fact, for once the GPS and the local intel seemed to be jibing, which was a good thing. Streetlights? Apparently Florida didn’t need no stinking streetlights! In fact, the moon was down below the horizon, and Carson’s only hint of ocean was a certain matte blackness that was more foreboding than liberating. The ocean as devourer—didn’t that make the coffee shivers better!

And holy shit. There she was. The Bates Parrot Hotel. Carson suppressed another shudder. God, the locals had it right, didn’t they? This place did not look healthy. The lights, which were supposed to be strung around the fanciful fresco façade, were broken in a lot of places, and the parrot looked like a cross between a flower and a sailing ship. The hotel sat on the dunes themselves, and the damned sand had pretty much taken over the parking lot to the left.

That was okay. No one was trying to park there anyway.

Carson parked by the street, where, in better days, a fountain might have flourished. Now it was a car bay with oil stains on the pavement, and he eyed the hotel sourly as he killed the engine.

It was eleven thirty here. Didn’t that make it ten thirty back in Chi-town? Ivan would be up, wouldn’t he? Yeah.

“Ivan?”

“Did you make it there, you freaky little leprechaun?” Ivan had a broad Slavic face put together like square slabs of Spam. He did not appreciate Carson’s slight frame or his long oval of a pretty face, and he certainly did not appreciate Carson’s bright brown eyes and soul patch. In fact, Ivan had mostly made it known that nothing about Carson appealed to him except the regulars who kept coming in for Carson’s outstanding table-waiting schtick, and that’s why Carson still had a job.

“I, uhm. Hey, Ivan. You know, there’s a Super 8 across the street. I’ll bet it’s cheaper. How’s about I stay there tonight, and I can look for Stassy in the morning.”

Ivan grunted. “I made the reservation. I’ll lose my deposit. Don’t be a pussy.”

Carson suppressed a whine. “Ivan, just looking at this place gives me the crabs. C’mon, I’m doing you a solid. Don’t give me your solid waste.”

“Funny. You think you’re funny. Customers think you’re funny, you think you’re funny. You know who doesn’t think you’re funny? I’ll give you three guesses. You’ll only need one.”

Augh! Guilt. Son of a fucking bitch. Goddammit, Stassy, you couldn’t have had your crisis of sexuality at a Sheraton? “Fine. I’ll take my bag. I’ll go up. I’ll check in. If I see one bug, or a shred of wallpaper, or a vapor or a cold spot or zombie or—”

“What? What are you going to do?”

And here it was! The ace up Carson’s sleeve. “I’ll call Stassy’s parents and tell them you don’t know where he is. Yeah. I know the number. Stassy was staying there last month, and he called me from their phone. So there you go. If this place is half as bad as it looks from out here, you’re springing for the Super 8, and I can never know what the fuck a bedbug looks like.”

It wasn’t a grunt this time, it was a growl. “Okay. Fine. But you gotta give it a try first. I hate to lose that deposit. Especially since Stassy is staying there. It might be… what’s the word?Advantageous to have you be there in case he comes back. So you work on making things advantageous for me, you hear?”

“And if there’s bedbugs, zombies, or weird shit?”

Ivan’s sigh did not seem to indicate a disbelief in “weird shit,” so Carson thanked his lucky stars. Maybe there would be a raving full torso apparition in his room and he could go stay at the Super 8! It would be worth the years of therapy.

“Yeah. Weird shit and you can stay in the Super 8. Just find my freakin’ nephew before my sister finds out I lost him, okay?”

“Amen,” Carson said. He really did want to find Stassy.







THE inside of the hotel did not inspire confidence.

“Man, they weren’t kidding about Bates Parrot, were they?” He said it mostly to himself as he threaded his way through the gigantic birdcages and the loud squawking that filled the hotel lobby.

Well, that and the stench. Each brightly colored bird had his own pyramid-o-crap under his ass. Besides the big black beaks that could probably snap the fingers off a regular adult, that was another reason not to touch the cages. God knew what would happen if the pyramid-o-crap decided to crumble. Carson shuddered just thinking about it.

He got to the front counter and tried a bright smile at the colorless woman behind it. She had graying mouse-brown hair piled on top of her head, a round fleshy face, and shoulders that sloped inward to breasts that sloped down to her middle. Behind her blue eyes, though, there was sort of a sweet smile, and he played to that. Anyone who could smile in this zoo, that was someone he could charm, right?

“Heya there. I’m Carson O’Shaughnessy. My boss made my reservation?” He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans and started to pull out his driver’s license to prove he was who he said he was.

She blinked those faded eyes slowly, and behind him, one of the birds made a squawk that sounded like a car accident and a dying Cthulhu. Carson jumped, his wallet went flying, and he spent the next interminable ten seconds picking up scattered Jamba Juice club cards while a cacophony of twisted metal/tortured Cthulhu sounds erupted behind him. When he’d straightened, the woman—no nametag, which offended him greatly—was still looking at him mildly.

It was starting to give him the creeps.

“Uhm. Here.” He gave her his driver’s license. “Carson O’Shaughnessy. My boss is Ivan O’Leary. Uhm. Chicago.” Nada. “Reservations.”

With that she turned slowly to her computer and started pressing random buttons in an unhurried way. Behind him, the Cthulhu car wreck was bending metal at regular intervals, and he felt his palms break out in a sweat with every shriek. Goddammit, Stassy! It was a kiss in a broom closet! Nothing was worth this!

“Room 212,” she said between bird shrieks. “Round the corner, up the elevator, down the corridor, to the right. Overlooks the ocean.”

She handed him a computerized key card, and he took it numbly and tried to remember why he was there.

“Uhm, hey. Is that anywhere near room 113? Because my friend’s nephew was there for a while, and I was trying to find—”

“Right above it,” she said, and he looked at the numbers and felt like a dumbass. The hotel was in the shape of a big two-story L. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.

“Gotcha. Okay. Well. Uhm. Thank you. I’ll move my car to the parking lot—”

“Any available space,” she said, her voice uninflected.

“Good to know. Thank you. See you—” squawk “—around,” he finished weakly.

She reached under the counter and pulled out a little bowl of brown crumbly shit. Or something that looked like shit. “Do you want to feed the birds?” she asked, and he blinked.

“Not even if I knew they were gonna save my life someday,” he said truthfully and then turned around and fled toward his car.

I'm alive I'm alive!

RWA was-- well, it was a really big pond and I was a little tiny fish struggling desperately to grow, mostly.  It was lovely--and a little terrifying, and I'd even say it was humbling, except I went expecting to be humbled, and then was a little surprised to see how much I actually knew and had actually accomplished.

Mary and I both agree that I failed "Southern Dressing 101" in spite of a decent showing on the final.  On Thursday I wore jeans and a DSP T-shirt.  When I stood up to speak, people looked angry and pissed off, and it took me a while to figure out that it was because I didn't look the part of the serious writer.

The next day, I wore a very nice tank top and a pair of khaki capris.  Now in California, this would have been business casual-- hell, in California, this would have been overdressed business casual.

At RWA, I was slumming, and once again, when I spoke, yup, it was the cold shoulder.  (Of course, I was pretty tired by this time-- it could have been the cold shoulder because I sounded like an idiot--but I'm not necessarily sure that was it, because as far as I know, I always sound like an idiot, and this has been one of the few venues which has ever actually responded to me as though I were an idiot, so I'm going to keep thinking it was the clothes.)

On Friday night, the lovely Sarah Frantz told me that I had an interview the next day, on camera, for RT magazine, and, well...

DUDES!


 I was thrilled.  And a little worried.  And nervous and...

Well, I went out to dinner with Ariel and Nessa that night (do you see the pretty drink we had?  It was nummy too!) and apparently, I had finally managed to take dressing notes, because they told me the thing I wore for dinner would make a nice outfit for the interview, and hopefully I managed to make a not complete ass out of myself.

The interview was fun, actually-- Morgan Doremus from RT book reviews was lovely, funny, dynamic, and she put me right at ease.  I'm not sure how long the actual interview lasted, but I do know that between the pre-interview chat and the
 actual interview, I was on the hot seat for over an hour.

I got to talk about some nitty-gritty stuff-- my old job, my writing, why it's not erotica and what the difference between erotica and m/m romance really is.  I enjoyed myself immensely, and the opportunity was amazing-- seriously.  It will be out closer to December, because I also talk about my upcoming release, Christmas Kitsch which, of course, comes out in December.  I'm excited for it to come out--although I'm pretty sure I don't make great camera fodder, I'll get feedback from you all on whether or not my voice REALLY sounds like Minnie Mouse!

After that, we went out to dinner with T.A. Webb, J.p. Barnaby, Shae Connor, Nessa Warin, and Mary my Mary and no one else shall have her.  We went to Mary Macs, which was soul food and awesome, and we laughed and talked and went back to the hotel room and laughed and talked (and, uhm, J.p. took some incriminating video of me and llamas that I'm afraid to see on the internet someday) and in general (until Nessa strained her back :-/) we had a very good time.

This morning, Mary and I left for Kentucky-- and I probably bored her to tears but I loved every minute of the drive.  Including the moment between the first two landscape photos-- the ones of unrelenting green?  Where she said, "See?  You can tell the topography changed from Georgia to Tennessee."  At which point I said, "Uhm..."  Because to a girl from the unrelenting brown of Sacramento, it was all green to me.

Of course there was a scary moment when the heaven's opened up and the roadway became the gods' toilet, and we were just under it with our wipers on hoping to eventually see through the pissing rain, but when we were pretty sure we would live, it all got better after that.

We arrived in Kentucky, went out to dinner with the family (and dropped off Mary's rental car) and in general?  It was so worth the drive to spend more time with people I love dearly.

I can't wait to go home-- I can't.  I miss Mate and the kids, and I so want to be in my comfort zone again.  But it was an interesting trip--and I think an important one.  I'm not sure if I should go again-- if unlike RT where I felt like I had something to give--I'll have anything to offer RWA.  But for this year, it was definitely time well spent. 

Everything's Peachy Here!

Hi all--

RWA is sort of amazing.  I sat in on a panel with Kristan Higgins, Jill Shalvis, and Robyn Carr today, and thought, "Uh-huh.  Yeah.  I asked them that question, oh yes I did!"

And then someone recognized me from standing up and asking that question, and she fangirled me.

I wanted to hug her, but I was just so gobsmacked-- like, DUDE!

Anyway--

It's humid here, there's thunderstorms, and this city seems older and more complex than I can fathom.  I don't want to move quickly in Atlanta-- I'm not sure why.

And I'm sort of networking like mad-- if you would have asked me a year ago, I would have told you I suck at networking.  Apparently I'm not as bad as I thought-- go figure.

And the Riptide people, led by the lovely Sarah Frantz and Stephanie Grober, along with L.B. Gregg, her friend Rosie, Lorelei James, and Lime Cello-- all had dinner at a place called White Oak, that was all about farm-to-table dining.  I think this is funny mostly because as a kid I was told to go out and pick squash for dinner and that didn't seem nearly as glamorous as eating at a place that serves things like fried pimento cheese and grouper.

Anyway-- so, busy.  But the people here have been nice.  I've got this thing-- I'm buying bags.  Like, you know.  The tacky bags you find in airport with the place's name splashed in graffiti letters across? That (and scarves) are going to be what I collect, so I know where I've been.

 The bags are black, market style, sturdy canvas-- in short, everything you need from a bag--and I have one from the Sacramento Kings, one from Chicago, and now one from Atlanta.  I figure that'll be my thing.

This makes me absurdly happy.

Anyway-- so, writing and it's late at night, and I've got to be up early-- but I thought I'd check in.  And btw?  Pandora.  I'm a fan.  It lets me not be alone in the hotel room.

So, mostly?  The only drawback is missing these guys (seen here with the latest shipment from their sister in a shameless attempt to buy their affection.  It's working.)

And, of course, the plane ride.

By the way?  Did you know that at high altitudes they don't load planes to capacity when it's hot?  Because the plane won't stay up in the air.  So, when I was in Salt Lake City, imagine my joy when A. A bunch of Mormon missionaries got on the plane (because although not a plus when there are dragons, twenty virgins do seem like they'd be lucky on an airplane) and B. there was a seat vacant between me and my row-mate.  We were BOTH excited, because that meant the plane wasn't filled to capacity, and that WE WERE GOING TO LIVE!

Just sayin'.  Every plane ride is an adventure.

I also sat next to a guy on the first leg of the flight who picked up a rattlesnake with his bare hands.  He stood 6'5" and had the sweetest smile.  He was fun to talk to-- which, you know.  The whole reason I come!

 (Oh yeah-- and we're in another habit trail-- although it looks like there's enough places here at the hotel that don't suck that I won't feel like I live in this one.)

Sorry! Got too busy writing to write!

Things to do today:

*  Go get my eyes examined by Lenscrafters because they offer free eye exams with a pair of glasses and I can never remember to call Kaiser.

*  Put the iPod in the car because I ordered a fuckton of music (THANK you Pandora!) and I needed to upload it all before I got on the plane.

*  Look up a special hell for people like this guy, who took my friend's book, changed the name, and published it verbatim.

*  Go work out, because I MUST.

*  Get Squish out of the house.  She's forgetting how to speak and is becoming feral.

*  Take dog on at least three walks today.  He too is becoming feral.

*  Continue writing on short, sweet, and fluffy novella about college theatre people and the lovely solo dancer who loves the geeky guy at the light board.  (I'm not usually so trite, but I just really liked the idea of a subtle push/pull and the whole unseen class distinction and someone so beautiful he makes my teeth ache.)

*  Write down pattern for this hat, because this is the second one I've managed to successfully create, and that's pattern time is what it is.  I love this hat-- it's a one-skein wonder, and it involves this yummy yummy scrumptious yarn and BUTTONS.  You heard me.  BUTTONS.  *happy sigh*  Seriously.  What's not to like?

*  Do laundry because I'm leaving for Atlanta in 48 hours.  Oh my God.  Seriously-- for those of you who've been around for OMG, EIGHT YEARS, can you even believe this is my life now?  *sigh*  Me neither.  I hate leaving my family but I love going on adventures-- and it shouldn't surprise me that the feeling of leaving my kids to go teach was roughly the same.  (Of course, the going on adventures comes without the soul-crushing misogyny, conformity, and despair of the teaching, so I guess that's a definite plus.)

*  Cuddle some more with the kids.  I took sort of a day off yesterday, and yes, I wrote, but I also sat down and watched television for the family.  I don't do that as much as I used to and I missed it.  I plan to do more of it-- and knit too!

*  Appreciate husband.  He's been extremely sweet lately.

*  Un-enroll from this weird dating service I accidentally enrolled in via FB when I was checking to see if Vulnerable was REALLY on a list of classic fantasy.  It was.  I'm not sure how.  I was still tickled as hell.  But now I've got guys calling themselves "Tonguemaster 2000" showing up on my FB feed, and that shit has got to STOP.

*  Buy make-up and hair dye because I'm going to be pretending to be professional and I understand that's sort of a requirement.  (And seriously?  My old make-up is making my eyes goop-- some bullshit about changing it out more than once a year.  I don't know.  I think it's a scam.)

*  Okay, maybe I'll ask Mate to help me unenroll from the dating service because it's harder than I thought.  Seriously!

*  Plan the post where I explain to all of you about St. Truth-be-Well.

*  Lose, heinously, in four different games of Words With Friends, because Rhys Ford KICKS MY ASS in that game and I haven't learned yet.

*  Stay up until one talking to Mary about my new WIP cause she's nice about doing that with me.

*  Watch Teen Wolf, Major Crimes, Maxwell and King, and... oh hell.  Is Warehouse 13 on hiatus?  Jebus!  And next season's the last too.  *sighs*

* Maybe, somewhere in there, read Garfield with Squish and nap.

General Tips Through Life

*  I woke up early with Mate the day he went back to work.  We watched part of a movie, he kissed me goodbye, I fell asleep on my new chair again.  When I woke up again, Zoomboy was standing over me-- he was wearing his underwear and his bright green squid hat.

He said, "Protect me from the mayonnaise!  Beware the mayonnaise!"

I have no idea what it means, but he seemed really impassioned, and he felt enough about it that he wore his squid hat around the neighborhood, so I thought I'd pass that tip on to all of you.  Beware of the mayo.  Apparently squids are our last defense!

*  We get this trail mix through Safeway called "Good Apple Morning".  My tip from me to you is to only open this trail mix when you are around five or more other people.  If you are alone, you will eat the entire bag by yourself.  I am not shitting around or playing here.  This bag-o-satan contains things like candied pecans and yoghurt raisins and it's insidious I tell you, insidious.  

*  Squish broke my heart today by asking why I wasn't the mom who chased them around and played freeze tag with them.  I remembered that I used to, before my feet sort of went bad, and then, by the time I'd figured out all the tricks that would let me walk better, they'd gotten to the point where they could outrun me.

That was depressing.  I think I'll go eat lots of veggies and lose twenty pounds to get over the pain!

*  Just as an observation?  Having an animal that is so happy to see you that he spontaneously wets himself is both richly rewarding and a constant pain in the water bill.  Sayin'.  The next time I buy a comforter set, I swear it won't be dog piss yellow.

*  My kids have discovered (wait for it!) Garfield.  Now, some of you may scoff, but remember 30 years ago when all the intellectuals were just over and done with that animal?  Well, sayin'-- that fuzzy orange nightmare still cracks me the hell up.

*  Have I mentioned Colour-Lovers?  It's this sort of amazing website where you get to go in and design palettes and color in designs or even create your own designs!  Anyway, when I get bored with my Twitter background, I go to Colour-Lovers  and fix up my background.  This time, I took Squish with me and had HER design the background-- she did a damned good job of it, too.  Seriously.  Kid has a good eye!

*  I finished Ethan Gold on Monday and signed my contract today-- WOOT!  DSP being the rock-awesome group of people that they are will try to help me have the story out by GRL so I'll have paperbacks to sign.  I love that!

*  I started Dance Moves which is sort of a random, cute and fluffy.  Ethan Gold was dragon ridden, don't doubt it, but cute and fluffy?  God, no.  Every conversation was a delicate choice to see how each character would react.  I wanted nothing trite--I pray that's how it looks on the outside too.  Anyway, Dance Moves is a trope-tastic delight, and I'm writing it to make the people I love smile.  Of course I'll submit it (I'm sort of a pro, right?) but seriously-- if someone picks it up after Ethan Gold, they'll be wondering who swapped out my brain.

*  Speaking of light and fluffy-- Left on St.-Truth-be-Well is out for pre-sale, and I'm excited about that. This one was also dragon ridden, but that dragon had plenty of inspiration.  Before this story comes out, I'm going to divulge the whole story of how these characters came to be, and how this story came to be written.  I love the story about the story almost as much as the story itself!  But in the meantime, by all means pre-buy-- it is NOT an angst fest, and Jessie Potts at the U.S.A. Today blog is liking it very much!

*  Oh... and did I mention I'm going to Atlanta on Wednesday?  I don't get in until late Wednesday night, and I'm not attending any signings.  In fact, I'm pretty much hanging out with the DSP and Harmony Ink people (and, for a delirious day or two with Mary my Mary and no one else shall have her!) and trying not to look too dorky-- and, of course, helping to network if I can.  But if you were going to RWA , by all means look me up!  I'll be happy to see a friendly face.

*  Oh yeah-- and this guy-- because sometimes, if you're lucky, you can be Batman!

Some Cinnamon, Some Sugar, Some Butter, Some Meat...

Okay-- random fun stuff from various places today--

*  The dog.  The frickin' dog.  I look at the dog on the couch,  leave the room, head for another room, pause in the hallway, and when I get to where I'm going?  Yeah-- the dog is there.  Waiting for me.  IT'S LIKE I HAVE TWO DOGS! Or a bunch of little dog clones, that are just hanging out in whatever room I'm heading for.  *shudder* Weird.

*  Zoomboy: "Mom!  Guess what?  The lizard that was running around the house is now a corpse in Squish's room because the cat gave her a present!"

o.o

Two hours later:  "You know mom, I think the lizard we lost was smaller. That was a whole other lizard."

(((0.0)))  

Right.

*  The AHT at the vets: "Oh, isn't he sweet?  I just cuddle him and we can give him a shot without a problem."

Dog:  (((0.0)))

Me, at the movie theatre, with the kids who are dressed up for Grease, the singalong version: Oh holy Jebus-- I don't remember John Travolta saying "pussy wagon" and "girls will cream" quite so much when I saw this movie as a kid.

Mate, at the movie theatre, with the kids who are dressed up for Grease, the singalong version: I am the only man here.  Oh wait!  There's one!  He too is here with his wife wearing pegged jeans and a ponytail.  Excellent.  Thanks for this.  No.  I may do the hand-jive but I refuse to sing.

Squish, at the movie theatre, with pigtails and a fluffy skirt:  "Tell me more tell me more tell me more!"

Zoomboy, with the tank top and the jeans: I too will do the hand-jive but I refuse to sing.

Mom: TELL ME MORE, TELL ME MORE, TELL ME MORE, LIKE DOES HE HAVE A CAR--SHINNY BOP BOP, SHINNY BOP BOP, SHINNY BOP BOP YEAH!

*  Fourth of July-- Mom:  It is SO fucking hot, I would actually rather BAKE the ribs at night and eat them cold during the day.  Everybody down with that?

Mate, who ordinarily would have to cook said ribs over the grill in the 111 degree heat:  RIGHTEOUS IDEA!  WOOHOO!

*  Squish, after several days in the heat by the pool, when asked if she wanted to go outside and play: *fainting starfish*

*  Okay-- this is about my friend Becky, also known as Fibrobabe-- and she's trying to raise some knitwear for a good cause.  Her info is posted HERE  and if ANYONE wants some Red-Heart Super Saver to use to knit hats or gloves for homeless youth, send me your address via my website contact (above) and I'll send you a free skein of yarn.  No lie.  I'm never sure if I'll have the time to put up or shut up for donating knitwear-- but if you've got the time, I've got the yarn.

*  And for those of you who have indicated you missed Chicken's tumblr with the Angry Rat cartoons-- two things.

One, I've got a picture of her from a con in L.A., where she's the spitting image of Daria.  I think that's awesome.

Two, her tumblr is right here.  That phone convo she posted Monday night?  That was with me.  I'm so proud.

*  Oh yeah-- one more thing.  Ethan Gold is FINISHED, and that's exciting because it might make it out before GRL-- WOOT!

Writer's Prayer

Holy Goddess, Merciful God,
I've saved to the folder, and Google Docs
I've sent my buddy the last little bit
Please don't let the computer eat my shit.

I've burned incense, eaten chocolate too
And carefully swept my keyboard of goo
I've waved an old pen and a wand and a sword
Don't let technology eat my words.

I've watched the blue line travel across my doc
Don't let bytes attempt to block
That all important saving thing
Oh let it be saved, kazaam, kazing!

They're good words, deities, I swear to you both!
And even if not, I'm really loath
To spend precious time typing them again!
I'd go faster with paper and pen!

And who do I curse, when it goes awry?
What heavens do I rage at, curse and cry?
Whose dog do I kick?  On whose feet do I spit?
What do I beat up to get over it?

"Why!" I wail, "Oh gods, why!
I hit the right buttons, I really did try
Not to incur your technology wrath
And to stay on the straight and backed up path!

Why must you punish me by eating my words!
I typed them late at night-- they're a blur!
I want the same passage, down to the last letter!
(Nevermind that a rewrite might just be better...)"

But the computer ignores me, and continues to eat,
(While suspicious parts inside overheat)
And I'm stuck with a gap between what I wrote
And what the computer still has on my notes.

Oh fuck it-- I give--I acknowledge the worst.
The words are all gone, no matter how much I curse.
In a minute I'll get back to work and rewrite
But first let me whine on the net just for spite.

And now, finally, I"m back to my task.
It's like drinking vinegar-- don't even ask.
And you know the worst thing, that taints every letter?
Oh hell.
Oh gods.
Goddammit.
Don't you just hate it, when the rewrite is better?

****This poem of rage is dedicated to the lost 1500 words of Ethan Gold.  RIP, words--we shall always wonder at the potential that was you.

They Didn't Give us Any Dinner!

Okay, so I may have told this story before, but if so, I don't remember if it was here.  I know I was telling it to a friend of mine today, and she put a spin on it I hadn't thought of before, and it was an important spin, so I'm going to tell it again.

Back about eighteen years ago, Sacramento was undergoing a heinous amount of flooding.  My father's mother was alive then, and in a nursing home (a really nice one, actually) and there was actual news footage of the home being surrounded by a moat of water, taking advantage of the low ground and the unfinished parking lot.  
My dad (and we've discussed this before) is not really one of those people to take, "No sir, you can't cross this yellow tape" under consideration.  
He didn't just cross the hazard tape, he drove his ginormous, primer-spotted post apocalyptic Chevy monstrosity through it, and, because the distributor cap was about five feet off the ground--and the flooding was only about four feet--the car didn't stall.
So he arrives at the nursing home, wades through the water in his galoshes, climbs over the patio fence and bangs on the sliding glass door.  Grandma opens it up, he grabs a change of clothes, some extra depends, and her medication, and then picks his mother up into his heroic arms and takes her back to the truck.  He puts her in the truck, tells the people still boating out senior citizens that he's got the resident of room #34, and drives away, where she spent the next week at his house, driving him and my step-mom batshit.  
So anyway, when this little adventure was over, I asked grandma, "Jesus, Grandma-- aren't you proud of your sooper-heroic son?"
To which she replied, "I was hungry.  They didn't give us any food and I was starving.  Nobody would feed me."
Now, granted, she was in the latter stages of senile dementia by then, but still.  What's a guy gotta do to earn a little fucking respect, you know it?  
Anyway-- so I was telling that story to a friend of mine (or, well, my aerobics instructor) and she said, "Can you imagine having to live up to that voice in your head your entire life?"
And when I related that story to Mate, he said, "Well, yeah-- but we all have that voice in our heads, right?  I know I do."
I said, "I hope I'm never that voice in your head!" just to get my smile and my kiss, but it did have me thinking.
You know how you can have a thousand good things said about you, but it's only the shitty ones that stick?  That's when you're hearing that voice:  "I know you think you're all heroic and shit, but seriously, it wasn't no big fucking thing.  Feed me, bitch, then I'll be happy!"
But you know what happens when you feed that voice?  It just gets louder.  And louder.  So you need something to drown that voice out, right?
Well, I was hearing that voice all weekend, and it was bitching pretty completely about Forever Promised and how, in spite of the fact that I've never taken so long to write a book, and how hard I stressed about making it perfect, and how I gave myself a UTI when finishing the damned thing, my best was just not good enough.  
And then, today, this came in the mail:
Isn't it gorgeous?  It came, courtesy of a fan, who didn't just shower me with riches --the card is amazing and handcrafted and there is a little Lantern Moon yarn implement in there-- but who fed my hungry soul with her "here, have a feast form heaven" sort of gift.  
And even better?  The letter inside, that said my story had inspired the giver to start a youth group in her church for the young and the disenfranchised.
And suddenly, that little voice, the one who said, "You didn't do good enough!"  just shut the hell up.
See, I was going to come home and blog about the grandma story, and talk about how I needed to remember that the hero thing is just so much more important than the missing breakfast thing.  But I opened this gift, and it was like a chorus of angels and the goddess herself were saying something even better.  They were drowning out the missing breakfast thing, until it didn't even exist.
Thank you.  For everyone who has said good things--not just to myself but to a friend or a co-worker or about a movie or about a book-- for everyone who has remembered the heroics and forgotten the minutiae, thank you.
And to Giselle?  Thank you personally, for doing good works and reminding me that I was once the kid in the Methodist youth group and not all of that was bad--in fact, a lot of it was really wonderful.  And thank you for the yarn-- it's soft and lovely, and it feeds my soul.  And as for that little suggestion? I'll get right on that, luv, I promise.
Amy

*grumble*

Okay-- I'm not sure if you all have noticed, but the west coast accidentally slid ONTO THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

I HATE heat waves.  I do.  For one thing, they make me feel like a cave dweller.  I huddle in the air conditioner like The Croods, and when I go outside it's always a carefully orchestrated maneuver to not let the sun kill me ded.  (sic)  The one thing that will cause me to snap during these times are children that think the car after it's been turned off is a PERFECT place to lounge around and count their belly-button lint, because, you know, when it's 110 outside and you're in a tin box, you have ALL THE TIME IN THE FUCKING WORLD.

Saying.

For another, they are one more reminder of the things I personally haven't done, the times I haven't recycled, the unnecessary trips I personally have taken, and all of the styrofoam cups I used in the nineties-- I personally have helped destroyed the ozone layer to the point that our planet is killing us dead, and I'm sorry.  Seriously.  I'll never get the mixed recycling in the garbage again if only, please only, we can sink to double digit numbers sometime before next week?  PLease?  If we could?  Because, you know, armageddon by heat wave is a really shitty way to go!

Anyway, so we spent this morning at my parents, playing in their pool, and we're going to spend tomorrow at the health club, playing in THEIR pool, and sometime in the morning I need to go out to the store and come home with food.  It MUST be in the morning, because when it's 90 degrees by ten a.m., if you do it in the afternoon, you get home and your ice cream is liquid and your milk is solid and this is a BAD THING.

Chicken only has a couple more days with us-- she's talking about transferring to a two semester college, and I'm actually rooting for her to do this.  I miss my Chicken. I resent time I spend working when she's here, but I cannot possibly not write for three weeks, so that's sort of a drag.  So I'm taking her tomorrow after our time in the pool with the short people (who are getting taller-- EEEEK!) to go get our toes done.  For one thing, I've got a convention in two weeks, and if I get them done now, they'll only be a little shoddy by then.  (I'm going to RWA in Atlanta, but I'm sort of at minimum visibility-- I think mostly I'm going to be the Dreamspinner dogsbody, and this makes me very happy!)  And, you know.  We can get pedicures-- and that just SOUNDS like a mother daughter thing, right?  Although I've read her tarot twice and we've done our nails, and, basically had late night talks.  She's still my little girl, really-- although, apparently, I've trained her to be a wedding guest to the Ancient Mariners of the world.  I'm not sure how I feel about this-- raising compassionate children is something to be proud of, but the wedding guest didn't have an easy time of it.  And while I personally feel a degree of safety among the ancient mariners of the world, because I'm an adult and capable mostly of defending myself, I don't like sending my daughter in among the crazies and telling her to listen to their stories.  Remember, my bio-mom is an ancient mariner-- I grew up with the phenomenon, but I sort of made it a point to keep my children out of that particular nursery rhyme.  But I think it's like the belief in the American Romantic hero-- the belief that every story needs to be heard, and everyone needs validation is something I've passed to my children without even realizing I was doing it.  So, when I send my daughter out into the world, I'm sending a wedding guest out into an ancient mariner's playground, and I worry.  From one wedding guest to another, I guess.

Whew!  Okay-- so, I just spent an hour ranting here and I just eliminated it, and it's probably for the best.  Anyway-- no rant today-- just the chance to go watch Four Weddings and a Funeral, which is one of my favorites.

Ciao!

Forever Promised (and the solution to a dilemma)

So, every time I have a book release I have a dilemma with the blog.  Do I blog on my regular day (which would be today, at every two days) and then make a special blog for the actual story with all the links, or do I blog on the story release day with all the links and then shortchange the regular day's blog.  So, given that I am naturally lazy, and don't want  to do two blogposts, I'm going to put my post up with the links I have, and AS THE LINKS GO LIVE I'm going to put them in this post.  Now this isn't a big deal for people who just sort of visit the post offhand, but for the people who read the post on GoodReads, you may want to check back the blog site, because it won't update automatically.  So, I could be adding links like a madwoman and not a soul would know.

So, anyway, let's talk about Forever Promised!

I have done a lot of interviews about this book--it's the wrap up of a sort of beloved four volume series, and people have wanted to know how I feel about "this is the end".

And a part of me is devastated.  These people lived with me for nearly four years.   They're not going to be in my head anymore?  I'm not going to write about them anymore?  I'm just... just... done?

Except I don't think it works that way.

Mary Calmes and I have this game we play.  Our favorite guys.  My favorite guys of hers are Malik, from the Warders, Rand, from Timing, Jory from A Matter of Time (because I am Jory, and Mary is Sam, and our friends have all verified this to be true,) Jin (who is an insufferable snot) from A Change of Heart, and Web from Frog.  

Her favorite guys of mine are: Mikhail, Dex/Kane (and we both agreed that this couple and this couple only are so completely interlocked that they cannot be separated), Jace, Deacon, and Ace.

Mikhail never wavers for her.  He is the characters that has layers she can fall through and examine with a microscope, and every time she rereads that book I'm afraid she's going to find a hole, a flaw, a something that makes him less than human for her, and she never does.

And I find this incredibly encouraging.  It means Mikhail is real.  Because the thing about writing is that these people are inside your head.  And you can't tell them what to do.  Sometimes they fuck up when you weren't expecting them to.  Sometimes the things they do just totally fucking surprise you.  I've got a porn star right now who waited eighty-five thousand words before having full frontal sex with his love interest.  Now somebody tell me that fucker wasn't just messing with me because he could.  So, as a writer, I'm pretty sure these guys are real.  They may not have a social security number in this universe, but they've definitely got one in some universe, and they've got a blood type and a medical record (aherm, some longer than others) and they've got scars and a past and...

They're real!

And if they're real to Mary (and, from what I gather, they're real to a lot of you folks out there!) that means I'm not crazy.  My people are real, and the best part of that is that they will never be done.  Even if I never put out another Promise book, they'll be there, in my head, meeting new challenges, influencing the new generation, growing up, growing older, but never growing less real.

So how does it feel to be done?

I don't feel done.  I feel done with the series, but I'm pretty sure, Deacon's family is going to be a low mutter in my head during family gatherings, Christmases, weddings, and new family members, for pretty much always.  If someone wants to write a fiction showing those things, that's okay-- that means those people are speaking to them too.

So I'm not done.  The series is done, but I'm not.  They're my guys.  I love them.  They're going to keep going.  I'm unutterably proud of that--and grateful for all the people who have been along for the ride.

So, that being said, here are some links (I'll come back and refresh these as they go live):

Forever Promised on Dreamspinner

Forever Promised on ARe

Forever Promised on Amazon.com

Spoiler Discussion Thread on Facebook (Live)  (You have to be a member of Amy Lane Anonymous to do this, but all you gotsta do is ask, and Nicki or myself will accept your request.)

Interview with The Pulpit Gang and Amy, and Dual Review on the Paranormal Romance Guild (Not live yet)

Interview with Amy Lane at The Novel Approach Blog

Contest and opening review at Mrs. Condit's (Not Live Yet)

Blog Post at ARe Cafe

Deacon and Crick's Wedding Cupcakes and Book Review at Lauraadriana's food blog (the cupcakes look NUMMY!)

And-- this is for Bolt-Hole, but I have to say, it's really cool.  Niki Massey, who runs Amy Lane Anonymous, the FB fan page, is doing a youtube.com podcast about Bolt-Hole, which she really loved.  It's online Saturday at 7:30 PST--and here's the link if you're interested.   I am-- I'm going to be checking it out as soon as I can!