Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 164

Jace and Quent

Jason Spade is around 5'9" tall, with short, brown-blond hair and iced-vodka blue eyes.

Right now?  He's pissed off at me.

"What?" I ask.  I'm sitting at my computer in my completely awful kitchen, and he's glaring at me over my shoulder."

"I'm not entirely convinced," he says, looking at something on his phone.

"What?"  I ask.  "What did I get wrong?"

"I just don't think the guys in the vodka ad are us," he scowls.  He looks at his partner--in business and in life--who smiles and shrugs back.






"She got my goatee right!"  Quent Jackson says, and I grin at him.  He winks.  He's not nearly as scary as Jace.

"And your brown hair and eyes," I say, trying to be conciliatory.  It's not nice to pick a fight with your characters.  Those things usually come back to bite you in the ass in the way of disturbed dreams and unexpected sex scenes.

"That guy's eyes are green," Jace sulks.

I look at the commercial, which is in black and white.  "I, uhm, can't tell," I say, feeling panicked, and Quinn does some mojo magic and comes up with a picture of the actor on his phone.



"And I'm not nearly that expansive," Quentin concedes.  "But you're looking good in that one," he says to Jace, and he smiles so sunnily that even Jason Spade thaws.

"I look sheepish," he grumbles, and I think I'm home free.  HA!  I should be so lucky.

"I'm glad you let your hair grow out," Quent says softly, running his hand over Jace's head so intimately, it seems to suck all the air out of the room.

"Me too," Jace says, and the intensity of his gaze into Quentin's eyes changes, and you can see Quent's neck grow blotchy with flush.  I grin at them together, a little gooey eyed, I admit, because they're my first first contemporary m/m match, and now that I've added nearly 60K to their original short story installments, I love them that much deeper, that much more.  Watching them make out in my kitchen is just as hot now as it was when I first hit the link to the video, and they appeared, fully developed, and started frotting in my head immediately.

But Jace catches me mooning at them and goes immediately goes on the offense.

"If you're going to keep watching, you'd better pay us a percentage," he bargains sharply, and I blush.

"You, uhm, don't pay characters for providing your entertainment," I tell him, trying to be gentle.  "You guys, uhm, pretty much just go about your lives and we take it down."

Those vodka blue eyes narrow.  "Bullshit," he says flatly.

I smile winningly, and Quentin gives me an encouraging grin for standing up to Jace.  "Bullshit?"

"Those guys in the ads-- they're not us!  You've already admitted that Quentin doesn't really look like that, and neither do I!"

Oh dear.  How to explain the creative process to two pissed off men who are always a hair's breadth from banging each other over the kitchen table?

"Well, yeah!" I say.  "But that's how you started!  I saw the ad, and then I wrote the short story, and then I wrote the other short stories, and then I went back and added your point of view and made the entire, complete novel--

But that's still not... not us!" he snaps.  "What on earth made you think about us when you saw those ads?"

I thought about it, then looked at the ad again and melted a little inside.



"Well," I said, thinking hard, "I saw that grin on that guy who plays Quentin, and I thought, 'Gee, he looks happy!  What possibly could have made that guy so happy?'  And then I saw the guy who plays you, and I thought 'That guy looks like he could definitely keep the other guy happy!'   But I do admit, as soon as I wrote that first scene in the locker room, you guys definitely became someone else."

"And now?" Jace demanded.

I smile at him-- I just can't stop mooning at him-- he's so decisive, and handsome, and amazing, and hot.  "Now," I say, dreaming a little, "now that I've written more than a short story, or even two?  Now, that you've got an entire novel written about the two of you?"

"Yeah!  What now?"

"Now you're definitely someone else.  But still-- there's that spark, that moment in his smile, that moment when you think, 'Geez, these guys would look really good boning each other stupid.  How would that work?"

Quentin made a purring sound, and Jace looked at him quickly, before shifting his stance like something was suddenly really uncomfortable.  "What?"  Jason asked, but he knew.

"Jace?"

"Yeah?"

"Guess what I'm thinking about?"

Jace's flush was just as dramatic as Quentin's.  "Food?" he said hopefully.

Quent's grin was wide and expansive, and the kitchen suddenly got much hotter.

"French fries," he said smugly, and Jace made a noise then, a "gununughhhhhhh..."  sort of sound, and now I was sweating.

"Uhm, guys?" I ask, a little desperately, "you, uhm, wouldn't want to go find a private place to eat those fries, would you?"

"Like the back of your brain?" Jace asked smugly, and I bang my head against my keyboard as a "Yes!"

"Good," Jace says, sounding very pleased with himself.  "We'll just go... eat french fries... in your head, and you keep writing.  Really.  You enjoy that.  You write all you want about it.  We'll just be here... on the table... in the bathroom... in the copy closet..."

His voice fades away, and I'm left looking at the two vodka ads that let those particular genies out of the bottle.  I pour myself a shot of Jace and Quent and down it, feeling the burn of excitement travel up from my stomach.  The best thing about having characters this strong, this real, this inspired, is the chance to share.

Oh-- by the way?  Gambling Men is out on amazon.com, ARe,  and Dreamspinner Press--if you're interested in seeing how much more of their story is in the novel (and it's a LOT) and exactly what's so awesome about french fries for lunch?  You can find my guys doing their thing (and doing it well, and a lot!) right there:-)

Mate and the Relay

So, Mate had a relay race this weekend.  A bunch of guys ran different legs of a hundred mile race--Mate ran three legs of around five miles a piece-and generally, they hung out in a van, bonded, and then got out of the van and ran.

Sounds sort of cool.  (It also sounds sort of why I did things like join band and drama and why other kids joined sports in high school, honestly.  Human bonding and some sort of goal.  The cavemen went out on hunts and to gather food to get the same experience--we just shove guys in a van, kick them out on the curb and shout, "Run you bastards, run!" for the equivalent.  Eh, progress.)

So, Mate thought he'd make the most out of having to be out of town, and hauling the rest of us with him. First, he planned (along with all his running-for-charity peeps) to attend a baseball game, and thus we dragged the spawn with us--but there were some hiccups.

The first hiccup was that we didn't leave town in time.  Mate takes sole responsibility for this, and I don't know how right that is, but arriving in San Francisco during rush hour on Friday while trying to attend a game on time was such a debacle that I'm willing to let him take the fall.  Seriously.  We spent AN HOUR about four blocks from our hotel.  Mommy had to do her mommy thing then, and calm Mate down and assure him that getting there in the third inning was still seeing a game, as long as we bought the kids their damned hot dogs and I got my garlic fries, the situation was salvageable.  (Seriously.  The garlic fries at a Giant's game puts paid to a lot of traffic angst, I'm telling ya.)

So, you can see by the pictures that yes--this was true.  The situation was salvaged, and at the end of it all, we had a lovely time.  Mate left early Saturday morning to go running, and I was to bring the kids into Santa Cruz where the race ended, and that brings us to hiccup number two.

The second hiccup was that Chicken had to go home on Saturday.

Yeah-- you heard that right.  Chicken, who had been THE most excited about hanging out in Santa Cruz, had needed to go home--she is rehearsing for her senior dance for recital, the rehearsals are on Sunday, and she COULD NOT POSSIBLY MISS THIS.  Period.  The end.

Anyway, so we put Chicken AND Big T on a train.  You heard that.  I'm such a good mother I abandoned my babies at a train station in the middle of San Jose, that I couldn't find again in traffic if you put a gun to my head.  They texted and assured me that yes, they did eventually make it to Roseville where their auntie Wendy picked them up and then took them to see the Avengers, AGAIN! (They saw it Thursday night with Mate and color me green!) but still.  Was not thrilled to seem them go.

But we DID make it to Santa Cruz, and we DID (remember, I was navigating alone!) make it to the hotel, and we did manage to hook up with Julianne, who gave us directions to a nice place to eat, and took us to the beach. (After demonstrating that yes, I CAN get lost multiple times at the same intersection, even when there's someone waving me down on the side of the road thinking, "I could swear you passed me twice!") But still-- it was awesome fun.  The kids played in the water, played in the sand, and even (and this never happens) pulled out the kites.  (This never happens because I always forget the kites.  They got some for Easter, and this time I remembered.  It was very cool.)

So it was good--even though we got back to the hotel and I had a major mommy meltdown on the little kids for ditching me when I was bringing the last of their stuff to the hotel (including their books and stuffed animals) and playing elevator tag.  Why yes, those WERE my children--why do you ask?  And YES, they DID get a thorough arse-reaming and a tearful timeout when we got to the hotel room.  HONESTLY, I was JUST waiting until there were no witnesses.  Doesn't every mother do that before she becomes completely unglued?

Today, Mate comes in (he's just texted me that the guys are done, and the first van is going to be at the hotel in a couple of hours.  I'm not sure what that does to mine and Julianne's plans to go shopping at the yarn store-- *sigh* -- but I'm glad he's back, and it all went well, and he's only a little stiff and sore and not limping, like the last time he did a run with friends.)  And in the meantime?

I'm glad he's back.  I'm glad we came.  We've had a very good time, and I'm really proud of him.




 Oh-- the crawfish?  The crawfish was sort of a class project for my son's classroom.  I got a picture of this guy, throwing his claws around, being pissed off, and I adored him so much, I just wanted to caption that picture with "Vive la Cranky!" and make the world's first LOL Crawfish.  I love him.  He's the epitome of doomed chutzpah, and he'll be delicious with butter and garlic. (No, they're not going to eat them, alas-- just going to stress them out until they curl up in a ball and start to smell bad.  Poor crawfish.  You can just tell this guy thinks butter and Garlic would be more dignified.)


And also, here's a reminder that in writing news, Gambling Men is out tomorrow!  Yay!  And to celebrate, I'm going to post the first chapter--and it's not the chapter you think it's gonna be.  Yup.  You all thought it was going to start with Quentin--and Quentin's first chapter, the one in the Curious anthology really is next.  But the thing you gotta realize is that it all starts, ALL starts, with Jace:


… How to Deal …
Jace

“MCDONALD’S? Really, Jace?”
Jason Spade looked up at his business partner, old frat buddy, and best friend, trying to keep his face impassive. “I like McDonald’s.” 
Quent Jackson was looking good today—dark hair cut to part on the side, neatly trimmed goatee framing almost ridiculously full lips. Of course, Quent looked good every day. Quent had even looked good when they were both college freshmen, rooming together, before the goatee or the expensively cut hair or the natty suits, and even before the acne had cleared up. Something about Quentin’s brown eyes and open smile had always looked good to Jace. It was why he’d maneuvered their room assignments in college and asked Quent to partner with him in their day trading company. It wasn’t because Quentin was a shark—he was good enough at his job, and he certainly held his own—but because Quentin was a mammal. A warm-blooded, friendly, sweet-tempered fox who could get his own dinner but who knew how to curl up in a nest. 
When they’d roomed together in college, he’d always made their dorm room home. 
“We usually eat sushi,” Quent was saying now with a lift of his naturally skeptical eyebrow. Quent didn’t seem to believe the obvious things—or the things Jace thought should be obvious—and that bothered Jace. 
Right now, it was bothering him a lot.
“Sometimes,” Jace grunted, not wanting to put it into words, “sometimes, french fries are better than sushi.”
“So I got McDonald’s for the french fries?” Again, that skeptical eyebrow. 
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
Jace swallowed. Damn Quentin. Damn him for needing words. 
“French fries are like blow jobs,” he said shortly, and he had to give it to Quent. He didn’t blush or anything. His eyes got big, and he paused with a ketchup-smothered fry on the way to his mouth, but he didn’t blush.
But his swallow was audible. “Elaborate.”
Jace scowled. “Sometimes, the meal is the burger and the french fries are a prelude, right?”
“Gotcha.”
“Sometimes, you eat the fries, and they’re good, but what you really want is the meat, right?”
“Gotcha.”
“But sometimes….” Jace took a deep breath and then brought a crackling, crisp, salty, slick, tangy little stick of heaven to his mouth and chewed, closing his eyes and letting the fry slide down his gullet, almost shuddering in ecstasy. “Sometimes, the fry alone is all you need. It’s the whole meal, first course, last course, beginning to end. Sometimes, the french fry is all you need and all you ever fucking want.”
Quent grinned at him, looking pleased by the analogy. “Well, Jace, I’ll think about that the next time I’m getting a blow job!”
Jace tried not to sigh. 
Quentin grinned. He liked the idea. But he didn’t blush. 
“Well, it’s not going happen tonight,” Jace said, the thought almost consoling him. “Tonight, we’ve got racquetball.” 
Quent rolled his eyes. “Another chance for you to kick my ass in something. Fabulous.”
“I do my best.”
Yup. Jace was going to have to wait for the blush.  

More Dragon Writing!

 Now first off, I have to tell you all that I'm going out of town for a couple of days.  I'll try to post on Sunday, before Gambling Men: The Novel comes out, just to give that some lead in, and I hope to have all sorts of pictures from the Giant's game on Friday night and Santa Cruz on Saturday and Mate's triumphant finish with his relay team on Sunday-- in fact, I hope to totally inundate you guys with pictures, because those are fun!  But in the meantime, my life has been consumed with two things: getting new pairs of glasses (which is a story so long and convoluted as to have bored me shitless even when I was running around town spending fucktons of cash to live it) and finishing Dex in Blue.

Okay-- so I admit it--I've been riding the dragon hard these days!  Dex and Kane are my guys at the moment, and they are... they're... oh God they're fun!

Now I love my guys--I love all of my guys--and I never write a story without trying to put something new into it.  I figure I know and love (or not so much) a lot of people--they can all show up in my brain, right? But Dex and Kane...

They could be my most human, imperfect pair.  Ever.  I mean, I know I write about flawed people, some comically so and some not so much with the comedy, I am aware.  Dex and Kane are both comically and tragically flawed.  They have equal parts great and lowly, and they start off as fuckbuddies and are as surprised as anyone else when that thing turns into something really magnificent, and achingly perfect.  These two guys were side characters in Chase in Shadow and like a lot of my side characters, they had to have their own story.  So, this is Kane's story, before he was Kane (his porn name.)  I warn you, the language is a little raw, but there's no onscreen sex, and hopefully, he'll make you laugh just a little. (The model who inspired Kane is on the left, and Dex is on the right, btw;-)





He knew it hadn’t been forever.  Hell, it was never forever.  But the next day at school, the same girl who’d drooled all over his cock the night before was holding hands with her boyfriend and making limpid eyes, and when Carlos walked by, she turned up her nose.  Carlos stopped, right where he’d been walking on his way to science, the one class he didn’t fucking hate, and turned around.“You’re gonna look at me like that?” he asked, and he knew he had a reputation for being a player, but the girls who were begging him to fuck them usually were at least a little grateful, right?“I’m not lookin’ at you,” she said, her tiny little nose turned up, her plump brown mouth pulled up over her two dainty white teeth.  “I don’t look at trash.”Carlos pulled up his own sneer, and he knew it wasn’t pretty.  “That’s not what you said last night when I was cleanin’ your chute,” he said, and he knew he had it coming, but he still didn’t see it coming when her boyfriend, Tomas, who was actually a decent guy and didn’t deserve to be two-timed like that, cold-cocked him from the side. His science teacher, Ms. Darcy, saw the whole thing, so Tomas got suspended while Carlos got to sit in the nurse’s office with an icepack on his cheek, watching Ms. Darcy look at him skeptically.“So, I know he’s the one who swung first,” she said dryly, giving him a gimlet eye.  She was in her late fifties, graying and hatchet faced, but she was also hella fuckin’ funny when she was pretty sure nobody like the weasley little vice principal who everybody hated and who curled her hair in her office while she was getting drunk wasn’t listening in.“Yeah,” Carlos said, his eyes wide.  “He just up and hit me outta nowhere, I swear, Ms. Darcy—““Cut the shit, Carlos.  What’d you say to him?”Carlos kept his eyes (which were normally a little narrow and devilish-looking, if he said so himself) as wide as possible.  “I didn’t say shit to him, Ms. Darcy,” but he must have put too much emphasis on “him” and not enough on “didn’t say shit”, because she raised both eyebrows.“What’d you say to her?”Carlos blushed.  He’d actually been raised better than to talk trash to a girl, but she’d made him so mad.  Geez, this girl had chased him.  He’d been checking out the lizards under the F-wing when she’d followed him between the fence and the portable building, and then taken him between the two portables, dropped his pants and sucked his dick.  She hadn’t even said anything.  And hell, it’s not like you just turned down that sort of shit, right?  Carlos had been working out since the seventh grade, and he wasn’t stupid.  He’d been carrying condoms in his pocket since the eighth grade because girls just fuckin’ gave that shit away sometimes, and what kind of fool turned that down?“I…” Some of his innocence slipped and his halo crashed to his feet.  Ms. Darcy was cool.  He hoped.  “It just made me so mad, you know?  There she was goin’…”  He cut his eyes sideways and pulled up his teacher speak.  “She’s, uhm, goin’ all… personal on me yesterday, right?  And today?  She just turns away like I’m trash, you know?  And I didn’t expect hearts and flowers, but fuck, it would just be nice if she said hello, you feel me?”Ms. Darcy did that thing with her lips that old people did when they felt sorry for you but knew they couldn’t explain why.  “Well, Carlos,” she said after some consideration.  He noticed he didn’t even make her blush.“Well what?”She sighed and took the ice pack off his cheek, checked the bruise forming there and then put the ice pack back.  “You know in the old days, when it used to be the boys chasing the girls, right?”Carlos grimaced.  “That was like, sixth grade, right?  That wasn’t so long ago.”She smiled then, and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Yeah, well, they used to tell girls stupid things like ‘Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free’ and ‘Only trashy girls give it away’—you’ve heard that?”Carlos nodded glumly.  “Yeah, well, everyone does that, won’t nobody get some.”Ms. Darcy laughed then and looked around furtively before going to the little cooler that only the nurse was supposed to get into.  She opened a big bottle of Motrin and pulled out two tabs and brought it over to him with a bottle of water that had been in the fridge too.  “Here, Carlos.  Don’t tell anyone I gave them to you, okay?  The nurse is supposed to call your parents and all sorts of bullshit, but she’s at the other high school today, all right?”Carlos took the medicine glumly, and when he was done swallowing Ms. Darcy started talking again.  “Look, my dear, all I’m trying to say is that other people won’t value you if you don’t value you.  You’re a good looking kid, and you know it, and you’ve got girls chasing you all over the planet, and that’s fun, right?”He nodded vigorously, and she laughed.  “Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’re going to get.  But if you want it to mean more, it’s got to be something that doesn’t just happen.  You’ve got to make it important, you understand?  Give it value—just don’t give it away for free.”Carlos grinned, thinking of something funny.  “Yeah, well it’s not like people are gonna pay me to do that, right?”Ms. Darcy rolled her eyes.  “That’s not a career we want you to aspire to, no.  What I’m saying is, you don’t have to marry everybody you bang, but they’re going to think you’re trashy if you let them treat you that way.”Carlos kept the ice on his jaw and shook his head.  “Ms. Darcy, I know you’re trying to tell me something important, but all I can think of is that if I got paid to have sex, I’d be hella rich right now.”Ms. Darcy covered her eyes with her hands and let out a long sigh, the kind that told Carlos he was being stupid even when he wasn’t trying to be.  “Or,” she said with another sigh, “you could do that.  Either way, baby, you’d probably better not talk trash to the girls you sleep with, or your pretty face is gonna get way broken, okay?”Carlos had been born with a cleft palate.  He’d needed operations—several of them—before his palate had been completely closed and his upper lip was repaired with only marginal scarring.  He’d been lucky—all that had happened when his family still lived in Mexico, because some charity doctor had taken care of all of that and his parents hadn’t had to pay a dime.  If he’d been born here in the states, odds were, he probably would have had that big, disfiguring gap all the way up to his nose like he’d had when he’d been three or four, before the operations.  He had pictures.  So even though he knew his face was pleasing—he had high cheekbones and those almond shaped eyes and Spanish pale skin and a nice square jaw—he didn’t take it for granted that someone thought he was pretty.  Even if it was an old teacher lady, she was cool and he liked her, so he took the compliment seriously. “I’ll be more careful with my face,” he said, nodding to show he meant it.  “It’s all I got, right?”Ms. Darcy closed her eyes.  “You got so much more, Carlos.  You know that, right?”Carlos held the ice pack tight to his cheekbone and risked a look in the mirror.  “Yeah,” he said without irony.  “Like now I know I got a black eye.”  

Well DUH!

Okay, so I'll tell you why the protest felt like something of a failure.  It's because the cause--and it's a huge assed important cause, don't get me wrong-- it just feels so obvious.  I mean, it feels like one of those unspoken societal rules.  If I suddenly started running down the street screaming "For sweechrissakesyafuckin'morons DON'T WIPE YOUR ASS IN PUBLIC!" People would think I was not only overreacting, but being sort of silly.  Who does that?  Who wipes their ass in public?  Why would I even SAY such a thing?  Right?

Seriously--when I was a kid, and my step-mom was telling me about the women's rights movement and ERA, all I could think of was, "Well Duh!  Nothing to get excited about-- of COURSE women should get equal pay!  Of COURSE we should have a say on what goes on with our own body!  Men can buy rubbers in the grocery store-- of COURSE we should have easy access to birth control.  OF COURSE!"

When The Handmaid's Tale came out in college, and all the girls were reading it and FREAKING OUT! because omg, how sick was it that a woman would be subjugated to the role of incubator, I (and remember, I devoured sci-fi and fantasy like it was outlawed.  Ironic, actually...) *I* refused to read it.  I mean, it was just too implausible.  Unicorns shooting rainbows out their asses were literally more believable to me than a world in which a man would stand next to a woman, look at her, and think, "My dog is more valuable AND more intelligent.  I must make decisions for this creature and smack her when she's bad."

And see, you'd think I'd know better.  When I worked at McDonalds in college, I was SHOCKED to learn that my fellow male inmates made more money than I did.  Because they were what?  Penis endowed?  I mean, I was DOING THEIR JOBS, some of them, and they MADE MORE MONEY then I did?  Of course it was unfair!  Well DUH!

When I worked at Friday's, it was the same deal--not only that, but the guys got bigger tips!  (Of course THAT probably had to do with me being a totally shitty waitress.  I'll admit it now.)  But the pretty, competent girls had to knock themselves out--the guys just got bigger tips.  It sucked.  WELL DUH!

My first job out of college?  I lost it--I was incubating when I was hired and they didn't realize it, and I actually HEARD the secretaries talking about how I was first on the chopping block and the district office was pissed.  Was it fair?  No.  Especially because I'd TOLD the woman hiring me that I was pregnant during the interview.  Big T had problems during my second job--I went through childcare like my cat sheds fur.  My vice principal said I was an amazing teacher--but a crappy employee because of my kid.  Was it fair that being a good mom was the thing that made me a crappy employee?  I didn't think so.  WELL DUH!

When working at my last job (oh yes, we remember that last job!) I gave birth twice in the course of my employment, and both times, the principal (two different major prickweenies) fucked with my schedule.  My department heads (the good guys at that time) both went in and fought for me and came back puzzled.  "We don't know why he wouldn't change it--he couldn't give us a real good answer."  Was it because my uterus was trying to dictate their moves that they became major dicks?  WELL DUH!


And let's talk about that last job, shall we?  Should we talk about the staff meetings where a half-an-hour went by and no woman talked, ever, because every time we opened our mouths we got shot down?  Should we talk about how, when I mentioned this on the blog I got slapped on the wrist, but the guys who made the women feel like shit got nothing?  Should we talk about how before my whole bullshit thing went down, if a woman even LASTED in my department, she ran for the other school as quickly as she could?  Let's talk about getting yelled at in the quad for leaving blood on the seat after a male colleague pounded on the door to get me to hurry up in the bathroom or having my department head do an impression of my vibrator, shall we?

Well duh.

But somehow, standing there with my protest sign didn't feel like enough.  It didn't.  I mean, none of that idiotic, socially retarded (and I mean that in the dictionary sense), dumb-as-fucking-tits-on-a-cthulhu legislation has been passed in my state, and I can talk about prevailing political climate and how that translates to the attitude of those of us here on the sidewalks all I want, but it by no means gives voice to the idea that standing on a lawn and waving a sign did not feel productive enough.  Hell--I would have settled for chucking copies of The Handmaid's Tale at the heads of congresspeople, and if anyone ever makes that a carnival event, believe me, I'll be the first in line.

See, the way I see it--have always seen it, I guess--is that the way we perceive ourselves is reflected in the stories we tell.  I try to tell stories of tolerance and acceptance, of growth and equality--yes, even women's equality, because once we can no longer deny that gay men are equal, I figure women have a shot too!  I know that people have written me and told me that the stories I've told have made them realize that homophobia is a bad thing, and that women have the right to be strong.  (Thank you, Lady Cory--you WILL have those babies, I swear!) So I did that.  I told stories that changed people's minds.  I'm going to have to be happy with that--I am.  Because my friend Julianne and I went and stood in the mall at the protest and waved our signs and said, "Uhm, is this all we're doing?"  Then, Julianne laid down an ultimatum.  "All right," she said.  "One more person gets up there with a guitar and I'm bailing."(Apparently years of living in Santa Cruz has given her a low tolerance for folk performances--who knew that was a side-effect?)  And then one more person got up on the steps of the capital mall with a guitar, and we were gone by the first chords.

We went to the yarn store.  Julianne bought something shiny and green that made her want to take it home (and as you can see from the picture?  She was really possessive.  It wasn't going home with anyone but her!)  I bought everything else.  Maybe I'll knit a uterus.  Maybe I'll write another story about people treating people with respect.  Protests probably do their part to raise public awareness, but I think I'm probably the last person to bring to one.  Every time one of the well-meaning and very hard-working people got up at the podium and started stating obvious things that we're STILL fighting for, not just in the country but in the world--things like real domestic abuse laws and the right to breast feed in public and the right to get paid equally and the right to health care and the right not to have politicians shoving hammy fists up our whazoos, I really wanted to lead the rallying cry with, "WELL DUH!!!!!"

But I WANT to go to the protest!

I don't know if I do or not, actually-- but I'm gonna make a good go of it!  Anyway-- I'm going to see if I can write me a quick post and then go back to bed.  Exciting, I know, but if I want to go fly my freaky flag in downtown Sac this morning and be all political and shit, I'm gonna need the teensiest bit more sleep, I just KNOW it!  But Steve he cat was being all insecure and shit, so, here I am, up WAY to early on a Saturday morning and I might as well do something, right?

Anyways...

First news--there is a contest for Gambling Men: The Novel over at Stumbling Over Chaos-- make sure you stop by and enter for a chance to win!  Now, for anyone who has read the first short stories, the ones in the Curious anthology, and want to know how I decided to turn that little bit of prose into a full length novel, go check out the excerpt at the first link-- the very first chapter is from Jace's point of view, and you all might be surprised!  The book is out on May 7th, and I'm excited!


Also out that SAME WEEK in paperback for the first time is The Talker Anthology.  Now these are the same three Talker stories that have previously been released, but they're coming out in paperback on May 11th, and I'm seriously excited like I didn't think I would be.  For one thing, I go to conventions and SIGN books, right?  Well now I can sign this one--and people LOVE this one, and THAT makes me happy!

And for another?  I'm wondering what it will be like for someone who has never read my boys before to read them straight through, all at one go.  I'm hoping it's special--everyone seems to love Tate Walker and Brian Cooper (their audio book sales still surprise the hell out of me!) and this is just something for my guys that I can hold in my hand.

I'm thinking about holding a contest for the paperback here, so stay tuned for details!  (No--I swear that's not a cop out, but the idea of actually remembering how to post a contest right now is making my head all swimmy....)

And in other news, people really seem to love Country Mouse.  I used to post the links to all my good reviews, and then I stopped because, quite frankly, it started to make me uncomfortable, and I'm not really good at celebrating "me!"  But since this is Aleksandr's work too I thought I'd at least give him a shout out and thank all the folks reading it and loving it--we're SO glad people are enjoying this one!  And we ARE making plans for a sequel!  (BTW, if you do read it?  I LOVE the little cat and mouse graphics that are consistent throughout the book.  ADORABLE!)

I shall probably be back a little sooner than usual, and post people news... for one thing, I wrote out the shawl pattern for a friend, and I was going to post it for you, and I'm sure there's interesting things about my kids... and I know I had a story or something in my brain... but yeah.  Right now?  I'm going back to bed so I can meet my friend a little later and not feel like a total spazz.  (I love how autocorrect keeps trying to spell that different.)

*waves*  Night!  *yawn*  Be back up in an hour.

Recovery Drinks

Thanks, Rhys, for my kitty of ennuiOh, I only wish it was something fun like vodka or... I dunno.  Anything.  But, believe it or not, my husband's fitness buff friends all seem to believe that the perfect recovery drink is chocolate milk.  And now you know.

Anyway, for those of you who have been checking out that blog tour (and thank you thank you thank you!) you've probably figured I'm doing a little rest lap this week, because that was some serious touring! So I'm within sight of the Dex in Blue finish line, and really happy about that, because I love it!  Seriously-- LOVE writing this one.  It's got some angst--but it's NOWHERE near Chase in Shadow, or Mourning Heaven or even Sidecar.  It's two guys, falling in love, and sorting out some shit.  I adore it far more than I should.

And other than that?  It's sort of been a bullet point kind of week.  For example...

Zoomboy told me yesterday that he was going to learn Vietnamese so he could go to South East Asia and study primates.  I said, "Holy God, when I was eight years old I didn't even know that was a country."  He patted my shoulder and said, "Yes, mom, it is, and I want to learn it's language."

He's going to conquer the world.

ALSO,

Squish seems to have lost a tooth.  And her soul.  (Look at those eyes, people.  Yeah, some people say it's a camera reaction.  I beg to differ!)

And, other than that?

Country Mouse is doing well-- folks seem to like it (for reviews and reactions, check the last post--  there are plenty, and I'm grateful for ALL of them!) and Aleks is SO excited to begin the next one.  So am I for that matter--but you all know how I like my writing, at least, to be neat and tidy sometimes:-)



And finally?  Remember how I told you about Steve? Barking at the birds? Well, I seem to have gotten it on video--and strangely enough, it seems as though I can pass that on to you.  Shall we see?


(And if it doesn't work, it's no big loss-- mostly an experiment, right?)

Also?  I THINK that me and the teenagers are going to a protest rally for women's rights on Saturday.  If I end up pepper sprayed and locked in jail, do me a favor and POUND THE HOLY MOTHERFUCKING HELL out of the internet communications system until they release me, okay?  K'thx, bye!  (Seriously-- twenty years ago?  I wouldn't have worried.  These days?  The authority peoples are becoming faceless, brainless tyrants again.  Love my country?  Maybe.  LIVE IN PANT'S WETTING FEAR of the right wing of my government?  You frickin' betcha!)  So, uhm, wish us luck, right?

Ciao!

And on Mondays I'm Amy

Okay-- this is a purely business post with a weird little anecdote at the end.

Riptide has a policy of scheduling blog tours for their authors, and since it tends to sell books, I'm not going to argue.  On top of that, Chase in Shadow had a pretty good weekend over at Amara's Place, and I thought you all would want to check that out!  So, basically, uhm, yeah.  Let the book pimpage begin!  (And btw?  Auto-Correct keeps turning "pimpage" to "pimple".  Since the word "pimple" sort of grosses my out, I really wish it wouldn't do it.)

So, release the hounds of authorial whoredom, and let the frenzy begin!


Saturday, April 21st:  Chase in Shadow at Amara's Place , both a review and an
article from me!


And following is the blog tour event schedule for Country Mouse-- Aleks and I will both post articles, interview our characters and be interviewed by our blog hosts, and generally, we will participate in general hilarity.  Anyway, I thought I'd give you guys an overview of where I'm going to be this week.  And, of course, I will post a couple of times here anyway, because this started out as a family blog/knitting blog/what-the-hell-ever blog, and that hasn't changed.  Anyway, I give you... the blog tour!April 23 - Joyfully JayApril 23 - Top 2 BottomApril 24 - Amara's Place April 25 - Pants Off ReviewsApril 26 - All I Want and MoreApril 27 - Book WenchesOh yes-- and I promised you an anecdote.  My Monday Aqua teacher knows my pseudonym-- she has, in fact, read my books.  The instructor for the other classes knows me by my other name.  There are a number of women there who know me as both, and who attend both instructors like I do.  So the Monday instructor was offering praise (which I strive for, because I'm an annoying teacher's pet that way, forgive me) and she said, "Good job, Amy!  Nice form!"And Daisy, a leather-tanned peanut of a sixty-something year old who has devoted her retirement to being as fit and healthy as any twenty-year-old man, with zero body-fat to boot, paddles by me (cause she's amazing) and says, "It must be Monday, because you're Amy."And so there you go.  Tomorrow's Monday, the blog tour is beginning, and I am Amy:-)

I SWEAR I'm really blogging!

Swear! I tried to update the feed, and it didn't do anything, so I'm going to remind folks that the newest blog CAN be found at THIS LINK: http://writerslane.blogspot.com/2012/...

And there's even pictures! Please stop by, I swear there's no biting in this post. Okay, I lied. A bird DID bite the dust-- but it's a funny story. Really. *sigh*

Augh! And to make matters worse, it's not even putting the "Read more on Amy's blog" bar! At least the link works! *funk*

You Know It's Spring When the Birds Won't Shut the Fuck Up

 For this blogpost ONLY, I'm gonna go work first, family second, because, hey, that's TALKER up there, the anthology, with all three of the stories in it, and it's going to be out in PAPERBACK in May, and... on Gods.  They're beautiful.  That's Tate and Brian, and the skimpy Sacrament Skyline, and pain and redemption and a Happy Ever After that is so hard-earned it makes me cry.

It seems to have made a lot of you cry too.

I'm so happy.  I just really am.  Something about having that book, in your hand, in paper.  I believe in e-books, but yeah.  Paper.  Makes a difference!







And Country Mouse!  Now, if you've pre-ordered from Riptide, it should be on your e-readers sometime this weekend (WOOT!) and if you're waiting for amazon.com or ARe, it should be out Monday--and yeah.  I'm a little psyched--and a little anxious, like I am for all my new releases.  But this one, my first co-write--dudes.  I guess my biggest fear is that everyone's gonna wonder what the elegant and stylish Aleksandr is doing slumming with the frumpy, house-wifey Amy.  My other biggest fear is that Aleks will ask himself the same question, because I WANNA WRITE THE SEQUEL!

*bounces*  Shall we do the prayer?  Shall we?  Because I think I need it.  I do.  Okay, everyone-- repeat after me:

Holy Goddess, Merciful God, LET IT NOT SUCK!  Canyagimmehallelujia?  Iknewyoucouldamen!
 And this one is coming!  I'm going to say this again--this has the original very short stories incorporated into a WHOLE DANG NOVEL. Like, if you subtracted the short story contact, it would still be novel length!  Thought I should make that clear-- some people seem to think they've already read Jace and Quent-- but if they haven't read this, they've only read Quent--and only a little bit of him, because he's got more to share:-)  Gambling Men-- preorder when you can:-)

And one more thing-- the Dreamspinner Daily Dose is available for pre-sale.  Now, I've got a story in this one-- Do-over, and I'm sort of proud of it, even though it's really short.  For one thing, I'd just finished Chase and Sidecar and Mourning Heaven, and when I contemplated this story, I had this grim, dark vision of a man pissing away his life on drugs and one night stands and getting a chance for a do-over with the man he should have hooked up with way back when.  And then my angst-dragon whimpered from abuse and overwork, and my snarky-smart-assed dragon bit my head and said, "Hey, bitch!  I wanna fuckin' turn!"  And Do-over became snarky and adorable, and, well, basically what I've been calling Code Blue.  So, think of it this way.  I've got stories like Bewitched by Bella's Brother and If I Must and Winter Courtship and Country Mouse and Gambling Men which are essentially low-angst (I won't say NO angst) and lots of sweetness and hotness and romance.  Those are my Code Blue stories.  Then I have Chase in Shadow and The Locker Room and Talker, which are Code Red stories.  So when you think about the little gem of Do-over, think of it as more like Code TURQUOISE, and then set yourself up to enjoy:-)

And that's business for the moment-- and yeah, business is good.  But the home front has some stories to tell as well.

Let's start with T.

Big T is my angel of mercy when I go grocery shopping during the week, because he's usually home when I get home with a car full of grocery, and he's good at refrigerator Tetris, so we can fit it all in the refrigerator.  So the other day, he was helping me with, well, a fuckton of groceries, and he eyed the pile on the kitchen floor grimly.

"I thought you were just supposed to get milk?" He said, looking at me with narrow eyes.

"Well yeah," I replied.  "But I was just..."

He shook his head (a lot like his father, if he knew it) and said, "You walk into the store, say, 'Oh, it's milk!', and turn around and go home!'"

I was giggling too much to defend my honor.  It was really masterfully done in a house that thrives on sarcasm, and mama was proud!

And move on to Zoomboy.

The other day, Zoomboy got out of the bathtub and I went down the hall to put his sister in.  I came back, and Zoomboy was standing up in the living room.  He was naked.

"Zoomboy, put some clothes on!"

He looked up from his Top Ramen and grinned, then put it down in a rush and ran away.  Mate, Chicken, and T all watched his bare ass disappearing down the hall with faintly guilty eyes.

"He was naked?"  Mate asked, like he didn't notice, and I nodded.

"Yeah.  Naked."

Chicken started giggling.  "We didn't even notice!"

Big T said, "I didn't wander around naked--"

"When you were thirteen," I snapped.  "You stopped when you were twelve!"

Zoomboy came back with his clothes on and picked up his Ramen and Mate and I didn't stop giggling for half an hour.

And Squish--

Squish's big accomplishment is reading books on Monet, DaVinci, Michelangelo, Matisse, Renoir, and other masters of the art world and deciding who she wants to be like.

Mary Cassatt.

She's going to be magnificent.




And Chicken and Mate?

Well,  see, the thing is, her cat Gordy has allergies.  Every year, he spends a month being allergic to his own skin and trying to gnaw a hole through it.  We get him prednezone, a steroid, and he gets over his neurotic cat self, and gets better.

Now we've all seen those, "How to give a cat a pill," spams-- and they're still funny because they're hella true.  Giving a cat a pill is an exercise in futility.  Giving a cat a syringe full of steroids, orally?  Don't get me started.  But we get better as we give the steroids--more practiced, firmer with Chicken's neurotic cat, whatever.  Anyway.

The birds have been out and about-- they wake us in the morning, make us wish we were gun-toting folks, that sort of thing.  So the other night, Mate was giving Gordy his big syringe of steroids, and he hit the target.  Literally, full dosage, right down the gullet.  About an hour later, cat is freaking the fuck out.  SOMETHING under the blanket has his attention.

"Oh, Gordy!  Did we find a toy!"  I coo, thinking it's cute as hell.  Mate, who doesn't need corrective lenses, starts calling Chicken.

"Chicken!  Get out here and deal with your cat!"

"What?  He's playing with a blanket!"

"Now pick up the blanket," he says patiently.

"Oh look," she says, not freaked out, "it's a bird!"

"Oh FUCK!" I say, obviously freaked out, "IT'S A FUCKING BIRD!"

So the cat grabs the bird, runs out of the house (because the back door's open because it's getting warmer at night, and THEN, runs back in, dead bird still in mouth as he zooms around the house.

"Close the fucking door!" Chicken hollers as he goes outside again, and we do, and don't even admonish her for her profanity, because really, who can blame her?

Anyway, Gordie's 'roid rage rampage was not over that night, because he came back in later with a moth the size of his head, body tucked in his mouth proudly, wings literally WHIRRING as the poor bug tried to get the holy fuck out of there.  We have no idea if the bug survived or not, but Gordie went outside and continued to terrorize wildlife before coming in to sleep off the hangover.

This morning, Steve came running into the room and stood up, paws on headboard, to look out the window and let out that wistful chatter-bark that is a signal of wistful bloodlust in your average lazy-as-hall feline.  Poor Steve--she's got the heart of a house cat with no roid rage to fuel her inner jaguar.

Thank the Goddess, cause who needs another fucking zombie bird!

Big, Round Numbers, Redux

Goodreads is having trouble with it's feed right now, so I thought this would be a good time for this post.

See, the thing is, about two years (give or take about four months) ago, I did a post called "Big, Round Numbers"-- and I was sort of excited.  I was going to have 1,000 ratings on GoodReads--and that meant, if nothing else, 1000 people had read my books.  I was hoping this meant that finally, I could have some perspective on reviews, and finally, I could grow into my lizard skin and feel some confidence that, no, I didn't really suck.

Since then, I've hit a couple of numbers that I don't think I ever expected, and had some good and some bad things come of it.

Now, blog people tend to celebrate their numbers-- they celebrate how many posts they've done, how many years they've been blogging.  Numbers are good-- they remind us of how much of our life has been dedicated to a project, and, sometimes, how successful that project is.  We all know that sometimes numbers lie, and that statistics only tell us exactly what the statistic is GEARED to tell us, and that most other speculation and extrapolation can be both useless and misleading-- but still.  Here are a couple of my stats thus far:

Blog posts (new blog only): 1021

Years blogging (as of July): 6

Number of actual books/novellas/short stories out: 42

Number of ratings (as of this morning) on GR: 14,480 (Alas, I can't separate those that are just for me and those that are for all of the anthologies.  Or maybe I could, but who has that kind of time?)

Number of reviews: 2, 350

Now, before anyone gets too excited, remember what these numbers mean.  They mostly mean that I'm getting to a place (I HOPE) where I can be confident enough in what I'm doing to be able to be grateful for the good, and to live with the bad.  It's a hard place to arrive in this business, because in case you haven't noticed, they are KILLING each other out there.

There is a moment in Seminar, the play I saw in New York, in which Alan Rickman delivers a line so powerful, so full of pathos, that I literally teared up.

"I have no skin for writing anymore.  I have no skin for this business.  I would rather write the words and let the pages blow away on the sidewalk--no, not blow.  There's got to be another word for that."

The moment was heartbreaking.  Here was a writer--someone who was actually wonderful at putting words on paper, and the world had used him up, shucked him like corn, leaving only the tender parts exposed to the world and shriveling up at the abrasiveness of oxygen.  He'd been so destroyed by the critical world that he couldn't even say the words without editing himself.  "Blow" was not good enough.  There were better words.  He just wasn't good enough to remember them.  It was horrible.

It was horrible, because I've been there.

Those of you who have been around for a while have watched me struggle with this.  And when I started out, it was just a few of us, and I was so very free, and so very open about putting the things in my heart and in my mind directly onto the blog.  It was fun, but I learned in a right hurry not to do that-- don't put anything out there that would hurt someone's feelings, or outrage the world, unless that was my intent!  Well, it was never my intent.  I learned to reign in my temper, I learned to make my blog entries a little more professional (well, not the proofreading!) and I learned not to say anything on the blog that I wouldn't say to a person's face, because very often, that was exactly what happened.  It's funny how setting myself free on paper taught me how to reign in the worser parts of myself like nothing else in my life.

My opinion of my own self-control is not particularly grand, so it always (and still) surprises me when I see that critics have not learned the same lessons I have.  Three years ago, I was still naive enough to think that they should have--that there should be some accountability to the people who criticized books, in the same way there was accountability for myself when I criticized the people in my life.  For those of you who don't remember, (and I don't see why you would-- this is something only I would obsess about--let's remember who's speaking!) three years ago,  (or close to--it was in August) I got a review on Vulnerable so hideous, and painful, that I felt compelled to respond.

Now three years ago, I was in the midst of trying very hard to live by the credo NEVER RESPOND.  I WAS.  I'd done it once or twice, regretted the hell out of it, and I'd seen that you couldn't win.  But, you all know me by now-- if I did it, it would be so much less problematic than if someone else did it.  Blargh.  Fucking hubris.  It WILL get you every time.

So anyway-- the review came out, it was heinous.  I responded.  I said, in essence, "All writing is personal.  Even snide reviews that are trying to prove that the reviewer is smarter than everyone else.  I don't know if you know how much about yourself that you revealed in this review."  (Okay-- maybe not an exact quote--but for my first response, it's damned close.)  My point was, that the reviewer had called Arturo a hot Latin lover, or something to that effect, and had called Cory "pudgy white trash."  The review was racist and classicist, and really unflattering to the person who wrote it.

Yeah, it was a mistake.  I knew it was a mistake when I wrote the first reply.  And the second.  The third was to say that the reviewer had changed the review in response to my comments, which meant it was not authentic--and to say I was walking away, which I did.

The conversation went on for 21 more responses after that--without me.  It got ugly--ugly enough to lose sleep over.  Ugly enough for me to contact people off-list and ask them to please stop defending me--that whole conversation needed to go away.  I'd made the mistake of responding to a bully--it was my bad--but we needed to end it.

Eventually it ended.  Sort of.

As recently as last month, I was getting the occasional letter on GoodReads from Random Stranger, saying, "Due to your behavior on Amazon.com, I won't read your books."  I was like, "WhatEVER--it was a long time ago.  Do what you think best!"  But I couldn't figure out where Random Stranger had found out about the altercation--it's not like I advertised.  I didn't take my responses down because I'm not excited about people just sweeping their mistakes under the rug, me included, and I talked about it here, because even then, it was a learning experience, but seriously-- how long is that to hold a grudge?

Well, apparently, the grudge had help.

Recently, I saw a "review" on one of my book pages that simply said "see comment".  I went to the review page, and there was a link titled "Authors behaving badly" or something close.  I clicked the link.  There, in full color, recently updated, was the bulk of the exchange I just talked about.  From three years ago.  All in full color, with little candy skulls as a background (which has since been changed) and complete with comments that I made about the incident in the blog-- including the comments about the review being racist and classicist (which it was, before the final revision).  So, someone not only made a picture of this conversation I had in amazon, and prettied it up with graphics, they stalked my blog for my comments about the incident and with the aptitude of a Republican campaign spin doctor, advertised my long-ago fuck-up for the world to see.

And this reviewer pasted this link (in the same sideways manner) on EVERY ONE OF MY BOOK PAGES, including anthologies.  (This last doesn't seem fair, since the other people on the anthology had nothing to do with the incident.)

 Okay-- so for the record, if you're looking at the numbers that I posted above, go ahead and subtract 47 from the number of reviews there-- because this really doesn't count as a review.  And seriously, in the bigger picture?

I'm a little creeped out.

Seriously.  I've been STALKED by someone who wants to make me look bad?  Wow.

It's like being the fat kid, sitting in class, working on a paper, when suddenly some obnoxious kid starts jumping up and down saying, "Ew!  Ew!  EW! Teacher!!!!  Amy Lane just picked her nose and ate it!!!!"

Now, whether or not I did, (and, let's face it, I copped to it, I did the internet equivalent of picking my nose in public.  Sorry,)  let's take a look at this scenario.

Yeah--in the first couple of days/months after the incident, the fat kid (that's me!) is going to get picked on for that.  It's going to be horrible.  It's going to suck.  It's gonna make the kid want to quit on EVERYTHING, because that's what bullying does.

But now, let's fast forward a couple of years and look back on the incident and...

And suddenly, the fat kid is doing all right, and the people in the class are feeling sort of bad for picking on her, and you know who everybody really hates?

Yeah-- that obnoxious kid jumping up and down screaming, "Ew!  Ew!  EW!  TEACHER!!!!"
Seriously-- think about it.  THAT kid is getting NO love from anyone right now.  And that's too bad.  Because it seems like that kid should have had better things to do than trying to make the fat kid doing her homework feel like crap.

But that's the sort of realization it takes some years and some perspective to come to.  That's the sort of thing that maturity brings you.

That's one of the reasons we keep track of big, round numbers-- to see if that maturity is ever going to come creeping round the corner.  I'm thinking it's getting closer by the day.  

* I just checked, mostly to find the link so I could show it to you, and by my request the link has been removed from my book pages.  If anyone is REALLY interested, I can provide you with the link to the original conversation--it's still up on amazon.com on the Vulnerable book page, under the review with "Sophomoric Slop" in the title.  I sort of avoid that page though-- just because I'm willing to fess up to the incident doesn't mean I like to look at it in living color every day!