Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 184

Not too much to report

It is very possibly the perfect balance of Christmas vacation--there's not really TOO much to do, so everyone is enjoying the peace. Chicken stayed at a friends last night, and Big T got to watch an 'art movie. (The Serious Man-- uhm, it was an incredibly darkly comic bit, about a man with the most incredibly shitacular life, who kept asking his rabbis what he should do. To a one, they all said, "These bad things happening to you are probably your fault" and NOBODY told him to stand up for himself. It was funny, and the ending made you want to slap someone, hard and with prejudice. Only recommended if you're good at sitting on your hands and waiting for tornadoes.) Mom got to watch a lot of episodes of a show that only she likes (Bluebloods) and, of course, when I was done with all ten episodes, Mate was right there with me, going, "Donny Wahlberg IS going to tell his wife about hot club babe hitting on him, isn't he?" (The answer? Yes. And then the hot club babe asked him, "What does your wife got that I ain't got?" and Wahlberg said, "Me!" and I thought, "Yanno... we totally underestimate the appeal of middle aged balding men with potato shaped heads... he's looking sexier by the nanosecond.")

And, of course, the diet has gone to shit. I was doing good too! I need everyone to clear out of the house so I can clean it regularly and I don't think about eating. As recent weeks have proven, I'm pretty good at forgetting to shove every damned thing in my mouth if there is A. No crap in the house, and B. No one to tell me that food is good and just sitting at my computer is bad. That's when I'm REALLY good about not eating crap. (Hell, that's when I'm good about forgetting to eat, period.) Either way, I notice my consumption goes down when I've had enough sleep to make an informed decision. (Go figure!) I know that for certain I'll miss THAT if my situation changes!

Anyway-- if you're a member of the goodreads.com m/m forum,- you can go here and vote for moi- it's a list of the best m/m novels of the year, and a couple of my titles are on it. I know it's not an official thing but I have to say, I'm sort of honored. I was also surprised and honored to find myself on this list, although I have to roll my eyes slightly at the category. Why is it that m/m romance is automatically in the 'erotic' category? It's sort of irritating, because the sex scenes in Truth in the Dark are fairly restrained for het--you can find a Harlequin Temptation Blaze in a grocery store or a Wal-Mart with more brazen sexuality than Naef or Aerie-Smith, but you make it two pepper shakers instead of one of each? Suddenly, you're Lora Leigh without all the rather blunt terminology for the female anatomy. (Well, no cooters in sight, no cooters to have to describe, explain, and make function, right?) But that's okay, because another list you can find in goodreads.com is this one, this one, or this one, and again, the honor is there.

Today is boys day/girls day. The boys are going to go get haircuts--Mate's beard has grown in, and I know he's thinking of shaving it for the New Year, but he's afraid of what the kids will do. When Chicken was five (almost what Squish is now) he shaved his beard completely off. Chicken rounded the corner, looked up into daddy's beloved face, saw that the beard (then it was just a goatee, too) was gone, and hauled ass in the other direction, screaming and crying hysterically.

Chicken has forgotten the incident. Mate is scarred for life. He wants the beard gone--even just so he can remember the shape of his face without it (he's got the cutest little cleft in his chin--it's really pronounced, looks like a baby's ass. I'm a fan, and I do sort of miss it, yanno?) but he doesn't want to make Squish cry. I think, honestly, the Squish is made of more doughty stuff than Chicken was at this age. Squish is sort of unshakable, and Chicken was, for quite some time, a walking open nerve. I think Squish will be all right. I think Zoomboy will be oblivious to what the big deal was about, until suddenly he'll stop the entire world to say, "Wait! We saw Tangled BEFORE Dad shaved his beard, and we'll see some other movie AFTER he shaved his beard!" or, even better, "Shaved and shaved! Multiple meanings! You can shave ice, and you can shave a beard! Like Dad!" (He probably won't say that, because it's inaccurate, and he's really good with that whole 'multiple meanings' concept--but you guys get the picture.) Either way, I think the little people will be fine, the big people will be scarred for life, and I'll get to fondle that little baby's bottom of a chin cleft...

And then he'll grow it all back. *sigh*

I also want Big T's hair out of his eyes, and Zoomboy? Well, Zoomboy is almost frighteningly beautiful for a little boy--I want his hair cut so the world can see that.

So the boys are getting their hair cut, and the girls are going to the yarn store and to buy a Christmas present for Squish's friend--because so far, she's been planning to give the little girl a pipe-cleaner wrapped in a circle, and calling it a bracelet. Charming? Yes. But the little girl is eight years old, and I think we can do better.

Oh-- and the Christmas picture? We call that 'our little Christmas miracle'. We were in line to get the short people a picture. The big kids were going Christmas shopping with the short people in tow afterwards, and Big T took off to find something. He caught back up with us when we were in line and said, "Hey--Chicken and I are going to be in the picture too?" It hadn't been the plan, but there he was in the hat and the scarf and I look at Chicken in maniacal glee and Chicken looks back in horror and screams, "NO!" at the exact same time I scream "YES!" and guess who won?

Chicken even smiled.

Human Vegetation Day

Was officially yesterday.

It's sort of a tradition with us. The day after Christmas is Human Vegetation Day-- and I sort of loves it. The photo above, while not a true depiction of Human Vegetation Day (because once we clean the house this morning all evidence will have been removed, and we like to keep it that way) is more of a symbolic gesture to the whole thing (that, and Mate is having a hell of a time importing Christmas photos from his iPhone.)

Yesterday, we did nothing.

Well, I read. I got (*squeeeee*) a wholly unexpected gift. I was not asking for gifts this year, I had no list of things I wanted, no secret longings--my big priority was getting the kids stuff that they REALLY wanted, and doing it within budget. (Well, sort of on that last part, but since Mate and I worked together a lot on it, I think we did okay.) If I could only give my kids a good Christmas, after all the other crap going on, then THAT would be my Christmas gift.

Mate, uhm, gave me a blouse he saw me admiring when we were shopping for Chicken (it's very pretty and very feminine, and I have no idea where I'll wear it. I don't care. I loves it.) and he gave me a Kindle.

Yup. An e-reader. I'm about delirious with electronic joy. Seriously-- the first thing I did was fill it with all of the books that were on my computer but that I didn't want to read because, well, sitting at my computer and reading them felt too much like work, and loading them onto my phone to read was killing my eyes, and I READ ONE! But even before that, I downloaded a friend's book (one she wrote) that I'd been promising to order, but I hadn't yet, because I wanted it in a form I could take with me and re-read (because she's really good) and I didn't want to make any purchases before we'd bought for the kids and I READ THAT! (Trusted Bond by Mary Calmes-- she's very good;-) And then I bought my friend Kat's book. And then I downloaded as many free classics as I could find.

And I loves it. I loves it in a way I didn't think I could love any electronic device besides my laptop... it's... it's like... TRUE love. Like "every time is like the first time" love. LIke... just LOOKING at it gives me the little post-coital shivers of ecstasy kind of love. THAT kind of love. Did I mention it sits nicely on my lap while I'm knitting, so I can knit and read easily without worrying about the book falling off my lap? *nods head* That could have something to do with it, oh yes it could.

Anyway-- let's just say this handy little device made human vegetation day that much sweeter. I was the happiest of eggplant, the most contented of broccoli, and the cats curled up at my feet. (Cat. The cat curled up at my feet. We don't know why she does that, because it's actually really annoying. Besides stepping on her accidentally, it also means that every now and then she decides our wiggling pink toes are fair game. That'll fuck up your knitting right fast, let me tell you!)

And Christmas? Let's just say the children were content. They got the toys they asked for, (mostly-- there are few corporate CEO's as greedy as small children at Christmastime) and forgot about the ones they didn't get. The older kids were happy (eventually... Big T does this thing where he sleeps for about an hour on Christmas Eve, and then, by the time he opens his gifts, he would LITERALLY have to get the complete electronic and movie department of the nearest Best Buy to not be a tearful mess from sheer sleeplessness and stress. Once he took a nap and realized that his i-Pod was actually an orgasmically awesome Christmas gift, he forgave Santa for not bringing the movie he really wanted. Then, he started to count his gift money from his birthday and Christmas, and realized he could AFFORD the movie he really wanted, whereas, he could not have afforded the iPod touch, and, let's just say, he had a merry Christmas.)

And I got to see family (both sets) and that's both exhausting and wonderful. Let's just say that after everyone fell fast asleep on the night of the 25th, Human Vegetation Day was inevitable.

Which is why we treasure it:-)

And now, I'm going to run away and clean house--because Human Vegetation Day is over, and it's time to get back to the happy business of being animal matter once again! (This includes crocheting two more coat hangars together with kitchen cotten, as a gift that I'll be giving in a couple of hours. If anyone has ever tried this, it sucks huge quantities of industrial strength gravel, but it's the only thing my MIL wanted, and, well, she has sublime moments of awesome, so she's worth it.)

I Don't Know Why...

Goodreads hasn't updated my blog settings, but for those of you who read me here, I SWEAR I've actually posted twice since that damned Santa picture appeared. If you don't believe me, please check me out at www.writerslane.blogspot.com, and hopefully it will sync up too!

gwf-gwf

Chris from www.stumblingoverchaos.com gave me this term-- it stands for generic winter festival gifts with food (or something close) and she pronounces it gwif-gwif. I like the term (even though she snagged it from someone else, she's the one who gave it to me, so, well, that's what I'm remembering.

Anyway--Happy gwif-gwif.

This week I have been the recipient of many, many gifts--people I adore, whose friendship has come to mean the world to me, have sent me gifts--everything from rumballs, to yarn, to nuts, to gift cards, to knitting doo-dads, to music--it has arrived on my doorstep and I have been amazed. I am not a gracious 'receiver' when I have not given in return. I'm not. I'm too full of that deeply ingrained guilt of gift-giving obligation, but the last few months have been... difficult. Difficult and painful, and I have discovered who my friends are and where my priorities belong, and so I am going to bow to karma. I am going to simply say thank you, and bow deeply, and accept that people love me, and they know my heart and they know I love them back. And this gwf-gwf, I am going to be truly, amazingly, gloriously thankful. My children ARE nestled all snug in their beds. My husband DOES love me through thick and through thin. And my friends ARE here in my heart, and I mean as much to them as they do to me.

OUr toilet sprung a leak tonight, and the mortgage isn't getting any smaller, and we're going to be living on leftovers and top ramen for the next week, but all that is incidental in the grand scheme of things. It's something I've always known, something I've always written about, and tonight, something I'm feeling to the depths of my toenails. (Of course, this might change if the toilet falls through the rotted floor, but even then, you can bet the subsequent blog wouldn't be boring, right?)

From the depths of my heart, a hopeful Christmas and a brave New Year...

Shhhh... we're all sleeping...

Actually, gonna be baking some more, but not yet. Chicken baked yesterday, and, true to form, we ate most of the cookies. We're gonna need some more cookies to give away on Saturday--just no two ways about it.

I was doing really well with the Christmas excesses until yesterday, when I made up for it all with, well, Chicken's snickerdoodles. Uhm... I think I'll just go with absolute denial today. That and some food shopping.

And really, that's all I've got. The whole world has gone deliciously calm. I sat down and knit and watched a movie last night...not exciting, I know, but my family watched it with me, and I was, well, happy. It was all Merry AND Bright, and I liked it.

Anyway, I'm sure it won't last, and I'll have some more to chat about--I'm currently working on Marcus and Phillip, and liking them. Worried about how it will sell because it incorporates so very much backstory, but mostly, just, liking them. They're sort of raw, and Phillip is so deliciously submissive in bed, when he's such an asshole out of it... me likey. But... poor Marcus. You'll love him, I hope.

And I will leave you (yes--this post IS that short!) with the following snippet of holiday weirdness:

Squish (fondling a square, squishy package): Zoomboy! Did you get me a pillow pet?

Zoomboy: How did you guess!!

Squish: It's the same thing we got you!!!

And then there was:

Me: Zoomboy, why aren't you decorating the gingerbread house? For the last week, that's all you talked about was making the gingerbread house, shouldn't you be helping your brother with it?

Zoomboy: My arms were tired.

Me: Uhm...

Zoomboy: And I like this show.

Me: Uhm...

Zoomboy: I'll have some cookies when they're done.

Me: Okay then!

And there was also:

Zoomboy: Is today the twenty-second?

Me: Yep.

Zoomboy: Then it's the second day of winter!

Me: Yep!

Zoomboy: And tomorrow will be the twenty-third!

Me: Yep!

Zoomboy: That's good. Twenty-three is a good number.

Me: Uhm...okay. (Apparently the twenty-fourth and the twenty-fifth are not as good as the twenty-third. Given that it's December, I'm a little nonplused.)

And, well, there is cuteness. And, right now? Supernatural reruns for me... and sleeping.

Not Dead, just Christmasing!

Okay--it's not a word. It should be. "Christmasing" should encompass everything from baking to visiting people you usually call and calling people you usually e-mail, and shopping and wrapping and getting all dewey-eyed with your spouse, and having the folks take the kids so you can shop AND wrap AND get all dewey-eyed AND plan all at the same time.

Cause that's what I've been doing. I've been Christmassing. (One 's' or two? If you're going to make up a word, that's a consideration, isn't it? I guess if we're talking about inevitable weight gain, we'll make it ChristMASSing from now on, right?)

Anyway, my parents took the kids for 24 hours. Mate and I went shopping, came home and wrapped, went shopping, came home and wrapped, and then cleaned up and looked innocent when the kids arrived. I thought we'd pulled it off pretty well, until we were watching television last night. There we were, second taped episode of Leverage, and there's *gasp* Goran Visjnic, who, bad guy or not is one of those people I'll drool over for free. And then, in Chicken's words, "You fell asleep like someone hit you on the head with a hammer."

*sigh* I begged them not to erase the episode. I REALLY like Goran Visjnic.



Anyway, good news? We've got most of our shopping done. Bad news? We're going to the mall today. Early. First of all, the little kids have to see Santa. It's tradition. (A nerve-wracking, exhausting tradition I wish I'd never started, but hell, we've got the two year picture of Zoomboy screaming on Santa's lap like it's an alien abduction, who's to argue with great moments in history?) Then there's the "give them money and hope they don't fuck up" tradition. This year, girls are buying for boys and boys are buying for girls. So, Zoomboy and Big T are going to buy for their sisters and me, and their sisters will buy for the boys and their dad. If you think it's not nerve wracking to give a teenager their younger sibling, a fistful of dollars, and send them into a crowd with a "Don't let go if that hand, and don't get mugged!" well, you've never watched the news.

And of course, we have to mail the Christmas cards. (This year, it's before Christmas. We're on a ROLL this year!) Mate was impressed--between me, Chicken, T and Zoomboy, we had those babies bagged, tagged, labeled in no time at all. And Squish even helped with the stamps! (Note to self--check stamps while Zoomboy is putting the envelopes in the slots. Zoomboy REALLY wants to send those cards--he was SO excited about it last night!)

And some Christmas knitting. I've got 1/2 a fingerless mitt to go, and I think I'm going to try for another pair before the big day itself (all the better to keep a pair for myself, cause I keep loosing mine!) and I'll be good to go! (I'm using a very simple pattern I sort of unvented (as EZ would say) but I like it. Sometimes simple knitting really is the best!

And as for writing? Okay... I'm gonna need sanctuary folks... Littlewitch is after me with a torch, a pitchfork, and a cattle prod (I think she shot a pointed tail out the top of her ass, all the better to hold the goddamned cattle prod!) because the Marcus/Phillip thing is longer than I thought it would be, and she wants me to get back to Living Promises, so I can finish that and start my one-day-a-week work on Quickening. So, uhm, if I come knocking on your door looking a little pale and carrying my laptop under my arm, could you maybe hide me in your garage for a week so I can finish Marcus and Phillip while she goes into Deacon withdrawals with weapons and an attitude? She's already a little cranky, dammit, and it's hard to type while you're running away!

And that's about it, folks. Wish us luck--because even if we survive the mall mauling, we'll have to come home and wrap, and trust me, with the damned cat running around, thinking everything is a big Steve playground, that's not as easy as it sounds either. *fume* Fucking cat. After yesterday's frantic wrapping, and a lot of beating the cat away with the much abused wrapping tubes, I was having visions of a damned fine fur hat. (Apparently, my big Christmas present to the cat is that she gets to live!)

Anyway--*whew* May your Christmassing be bright. And quick. And followed by good television and some hot chocolate and a good foot massage, eh?

Other People's Efforts.

Okay, a couple of long posts, and, well, I'm gonna coast-- but in a good way.

First thing-- the cover. Yeah-- let's talk about that.

This is the cover of an anthology written for fellow writer, Patric Michael. Patric had cancer, and although he seems to be in recovery, for a while there, it was looking pretty goddamned dire, and, well, he's a pretty special person. Everyone who knows him--and many of us are online friends and not 'IRL' friends-- wrote him something. I sent Patric my story, written just for him and his situation, and he told me it was awesome--and that I should submit it, and so I did, but I wasn't the only one. Voila, this anthology was born. It is the product of two publishing houses--MLR and Dreamspinner, which is why Kris Jacen (the editor in chief of MLR) is the name on the cover, but I'm pretty sure it's a DSP production. (I could be wrong--I need to get a better look at the cover, but I know that Elizabeth, eic of DSP did a lot of work on this one too. Bless them both--they're both busy women and I worship at their feet.)

Anyway, I've been reading my galley copy, and I have to say, it is AMAZING. The collection of talent, of warmth, of bittersweet kindness--it will rip you up and lift you up, both at the same time, no two ways about it. And, interspersed with the stories, essays, and poems of his friends are Patric's own essays about his rather epic battle with the big C (and some rather naughty bits about sex that I never would have thought to ask. Very, erm, educational.) Like I said, it's sort of frickin' amazing--and damned laden with serendipity if you ask me.

An example of this? The title. It's called "Wishing on a Blue Star" because of a dream Patric had about his twin brother--who died in the womb with Patric. I didn't know this story, and stars figure rather big in my own story, called "Dreams of a Terrible Brightness". It felt like the story itself was meant to be, even if Patric's end (or at least the one we all dreaded) is not to be. And if you look at that cover?

Yeah... well, we actually all own the rights to our stories--they're not exclusive to the anthology, so if you'd like to read "Dreams of Terrible Brightness" and know why that cover sort of sent chills down my spine, all you need to do is take a look at the story, which is on my website. Now, it's on in its submitted form--which basically means that all my dumbass typos are intact. I swear, if you buy the anthology, it's better edited than that-- Kris and Elizabeth both know what they're doing, and they don't let you get away with that shit nohow.

So, I present to you, Dreams of Terrible Brightness, now at www.greenshill.com, under Amy's Writings, in place of The Jack & Teague stories. And if you ever want a good cry and a little bit of inspiration? Buy the anthology when it comes out (January 24th, I think)--the collection of talent and genuine kindness present in that little volume is truly spectacular.

Oh-- and this was a happy! I'd sort of thought people forgot about that little story-- it was good to see it reviewed, and reviewed well!

And for those of you who think I've given up knitting altogether?

Totally not true. Yeah, I'm sticking with hats and socks and some scarves--little stuff, mostly, but I knit a little every day. Not as much as the people responsible for the next link, though. Trust me.
This is Very Cool.

You will like it. Click it now and marvel at human imagination and ingenuity.

And I found two new Christmas favorites that I thought I'd share:





And these have been getting me in the spirit that I thought was beyond me this year. And, of course, when they fail, there's always Bruce:-)



May your hearts be in it. I know mine's had some stutters and starts, some pity parties and some internal rages against the fates--but when it all comes down to it, there's no other place for my heart to be. Zoomboy has been pulling out his paper projects for the last three days. Tonight, I pulled on my good mommy pants and put them up on the wall, and made a bag full of candy bags and helped Chicken bake and, in general?

My heart is now officially in it.

Let's hold hands and brave the yuletide, my friends. It's usually a hell of a ride.

Big T

OKay. Let's go back a while.

The last time Mate and I were organized--TRULY organized--was on December 10th, 1992.

We sat down on the couch and without computer or fanfare, we filled out and addressed two sets of cards, by hand. One was our Christmas card, and the other was a birth announcement. We knew the sex of the baby but not the weight, we had a name all picked out, but the only thing we knew about the birth date was that he was due in December, and if we went much past the eleventh, I was gonna fuckin' kill somethin'. The plan (faithfully executed) was for Mate to come home and fill out those last details after the Grand Event.

Big T was born at 1:10 a.m., December 12th, 1992.

He did not breathe when he was born.

Now I've probably said this before--the part about the not breathing--but I cannot communicate fully, eighteen years later, the enormity of that fact at the time. There was the baby, and he was the shade of a ripe eggplant, and he wasn't making a sound or making a twitch or a gurgle or a coo. He just was--and for a moment, the fear that he was NOT was about the worst, most terrifying silence in our heads.

And then there was some baby massage and the nurse saying "Breathe, baby, breathe!" and Mate and I saying, "Uhm, yeah, baby, FUCKING BREATHE YOU LITTLE SHIT!" and then there was...


Big T.

Now in the picture above, he is shown holding his much younger sister, but I think it's appropriate to show him with her, because of all the things noted of Big T--his good humor, his persistence, his unflagging willingness to do EVERYTHING the way it should be done, in spite of the Communication Handicap (spawned, we're fairly convinced, by those first purple minutes outside of the womb, and all the minutes before inside of it)-- the thing that most all of us marvel at, is his gentleness.

You can see it in that picture there, can't you?

I have a crystal clear memory of this summer, when I'd brought poor ol' Dennis Quaid home after that final trip to the vet's. T was the one who took the cat's body out of the box and laid it in the ground, and instead of holding him like "dead kitty", he held him like "gently sleeping kitty"--it was the final straw for me, the final thing that allowed me to mourn my faithful friend, and it was all in the way my son saw him.



But, of course, he's always had a sense of humor.

He's always TRIED to have a sense of humor, and sometimes, that's hard. The jokes his little brother have been coming home with every week from school were beyond him when he was age appropriate. Most humor is word play, and when your whole brain is hardwired for words to be meaningless and emotions to be fragile, that makes humor a tough goddamned concept. I have a clear memory of him wanting to make a "comedy tape"--and then making me listen to it.

I did.

Most of it was him, reading jokes from a fifth grade joke book, into the microphone Then, halfway through, he started cracking up, and I realized what had happened.

He actually got the joke.

Much of his life, he's been struggling to get the joke--and just the fact that he keeps trying, keeps working on processing the world around him in a positive way--God, that inspires me.

But sometimes--the best times--it's not a struggle at all. Most of the funniest things he's done or said, he did or said while not trying. That's not to mean he was unintentionally funny--not that way, not the mean way. But when he was coming in with a load of laundry the other day, Steve the cat tried to get out, and T just scooped her up into his laundry basket and came in carrying her, looking puzzled and surprised.

I laughed all morning.



Big T has been on the honor roll for every semester he's been in high school. He did this on a double block system, which is often difficult for students in special education to deal with, and he did this without once having me intervene on his behalf to argue for his rights or his disability. He would have died of mortification had I ever once tried.

One of the upshots of this attitude is that in eight grade, when he was accidentally put in regular PE instead of Adaptive PE, we talked it over, and he decided to stay there, and be challenged, and maybe take the C from regular instead of the A from Adaptive-- and we were so proud of that!

He earned his black belt in karate--it took him twice as long as the other kids, but dammit... he just kept going. My God--tenacity, perseverance? He's got it. Sometimes, that's not such a fun thing. The one-hundredth time he's asking for me to clarify a literary concept like satire, well, I curse tenacity and perseverance. Trying to explain that he's wrong about something but we're not angry about it? Once again--tenacity and perseverance? Damn it to purgatory, every last ounce.

But that's from my end--from his end, he's making that shit work for him.



The proof is in the tall, svelte young man you see before you.

T used to be a champion eater. Once, when I was pregnant with Zoomboy, I got home from work and fell asleep in my chair. I struggled awake to make myself cook dinner, and found Big T, sitting down with a plate of food. You know those frozen chicken patties? There were four sandwiches on his plate, each one had three pieces of bread and two patties, with two slices of kraft cheese. The kid looked up at me and said, "I'm just eating a little snack."

A little snack my ass--my big fat squishy white ass, actually. But not his. Not his anymore.

It's taken him a couple of years of working hard on his diet and of taking the toughest PE classes, but look at him.

A kid without any of the eating problems I managed to graduate high school with. All those years of teaching good choices and telling him why it was a good thing to make those choices (even if I couldn't) and he's proof that it works.



Have I mentioned I'm proud of him? Have I mentioned I love him?

On that day, eighteen years and two days ago, when he was breathing and pinkening up nicely, and screaming with some serious intent into the world, I looked at him and said, "Oh God. It's going to be a quick eighteen years."

Truer words were never spoken.

Holly Ridge

On Tuesday, I shall do a post for Big T, because he is eighteen today, and, well... I'm overwhelmed, and don't have my thoughts in order, so I'm going to do something a little less maudlin (cause you know where that's going) and a little less sappy, and I"m going to entertain you with...

Going looking for a Christmas tree.

Now T's idea of what he wanted to do for today was very modest. Yesterday, we cleaned the house within an inch of its life and this morning, we left to go up to Forresthill (you know, Green's Hill country) to go find a Christmas tree.

We had the perfect place in mind. It's in the Tahoe National Forrest and is called Snowy Ridge Christmas Tree Farm. You go, you cut your tree down, you hike all over creation-- it's fun!

Well, as we were driving up there (it takes about 45 minutes from my folks' house) we couldn't help but notice that the snow was a little thicker than we were used to.

Usually, it's about a foot of slush, this time in December. In January or February, it can become impassible, but not before Christmas. This year, it was apparently deep enough to close down the farm!

We arrived, looked at the closed sign on the gate, and discussed the trees, peeping out of the big blanket of snow in the face of the sun like a bunch of herbivorous Whack-a-moles, and my mom said, "Hey-- I know I saw some signs for some smaller places as we came up. Let's go try one of those."

Which is how we ended up at Holly Ridge.

Holly Ridge was precipitated by a big, hand-Sharpied sign in the pine foliage that said, 8ft and under, $30, and then other, similar signs pointing us down a one-lane private road. Then, a couple of other big pieces of poster paper that pretty much said the following:

4 Wheel Drive Only.

Owner appears every hour (or so) to ferry you down the driveway. (And back.)

I am not kidding about the (and back) part on the sign.

Well, we took one look at it, and thought, "Uhm, the family crapmobile is NOT up to this road!" and my parents said, "Our big diesel thing is NOT up to this road!" and then the owner appeared.

Meet Burke. Burke is an incredibly sweet man, who peers through life with a wonderful, brandy-fumed equanimity, and the thickest glasses I have ever seen. Burke and his wife own Holly Ridge, they took it over about seven years ago, learned the ins and outs of the business, and is right spiffy piloting a 4x4 truck down a road with the consistency of jello in a blender.

*shudder* I got the front seat view, both ways. (No seat belt.) My family--mom, dad, their dog, Max, my husband, three of the four kids (Chicken chose to sleep in the back of the crapmobile--we picked her up from a slumber party to go get the tree) were in the back. Yup, there they were... getting jounced up and down like popcorn in a hot iron skillet. We got to our destination--a mile of the sloppiest dirt road I have *ever* seen, and my parents popped out, smiling, the kids jumped out going "Whee!" and my mom asked, "Did we have to pay extra for the E-ticket ride?"

I was not so cheerful. I actually SAW the gushy hills and gulleys that the truck had to pull through, and I actually FELT the damned thing fishtailing all over the place, and I actually KNEW that he was speeding up in order to get through some transportational horror that you couldn't take a horse through, and you SHOULDN'T take a motor vehicle through. My eyes were big, and my face was a little pale, and I thought, "We have to go back on that road!"

Not right away though. First we hunted down a Christmas tree (we let Big T pick--it's a little short, but still a very pretty tree!) and then we sat at the bonfire, made some powdered cider and some cocoa, and roasted some marshmallows. Then Burke took another shot of brandy, threw my folks and my oldest son in the back of the truck with the trees, and disappeared for half-an-hour.

When he got back, he had some more intrepid customers (does EVERYONE ON THE PLANET have four wheel drive?) and he needed to deal (pleasantly and sweetly--always) with them. Some of them were friends from work, everybody was family, and even though my small people were going compulsively ape-shit with the boredom of waiting without anything shiny to occupy them, I could not help but admire his unfailing generosity. No lie--the guy even had treats for the folks who brought their dogs. (He seemed a little hurt that Max eschewed his dog treat, but apparently Max is that rarity among golden labs--the dog that doesn't like treats and is content with his aesthetically healthy mix of kibble and canned.)

This guy seemed to be everyone's friend, and he looked forward to Christmas tree season because people came from all over the state to get their trees from this place and visit him (and apparently his wife) like long lost family. Damn--seriously--what a cool job!

Anyway, he got some coffee, another shot of brandy (and for those of you freaking out over the guy driving, all I can tell you is that if I had to drive that road eight, ten, twelve times a day, I'd need a snort of brandy too--the cajones you need to look a red-mud-Jello-hill in the eye and gas the goddamned truck just do not always come naturally, you know?) Anyway, away we jounced. On the ride home with Mate, he said the most surreal thing of the entire ride was that sometimes, right before it got REALLY hairy, he could swear he heard someone calling, "Hang on!"

"Oh yeah," I told Mate. "That was him. He did it about three times each way. You don't want to know what the road looked like before he did that."

Mate shuddered. Then I told him that we were lucky we escaped Deborah's curve--apparently, Burke's wife grew up in North Dakota, but even she needed to be dug out once in a while. My mind boggles. Just simply boggles. But as Burke pulled away (after my mom paid him the right amount of money because he didn't charge them enough, and he did a very charming "exact change" dance in the driveway) I thought that this guy wouldn't be doing anything else with his time.

Good--that much general niceness should be rewarded by a gently happy life.

We stopped at "The Ore Cart" on the way home for hamburgers. Uhm...

Dayum. For those of you who don't know, Forresthill, California is "gold country"--one of the places that was built up as scads of idiots unhappy with their 1849 dayjobs came herding into country with dangers they were TOTALLY unprepared for in order to maybe make a little bit of gold dust with backbreaking labor--you know, sort of like 19th century day-trading with more chance of death and a much slimmer chance at hygiene.

Anyway, "The Ore Cart" is so named, because the barbecue is made out of AN HONEST TO CHRIST ORE CART from 1852. No shit nor shinola. There was a little "History" of the building on the menu (a very basic menu--most of us ordered the hamburger the size of our heads, the little kids got grilled cheese, and Chicken got pastrami. Wise Chicken--the hamburger may have been the size of my head, but it was twice as big as my stomach. Even though T ate a quarter of it, half of it was still too much!) Part of the history told us that the building--triple layered brick with a layer of sod on the roof-- was the only structure to survive the gold rush, after the entire town burnt down THREE TIMES. The booth backs and seats used to be the shelves--which were made so well, they didn't need a nail. And there were three tunnels to the building.

See, it used to be a stop on the Wells Fargo route, and the guy who ran it was very aware of the total lawlessness of the area. One of the tunnels led from his house to the the building, to stay safe from thieves. One of the tunnels ran from the front of the building to the mine belonging to the guy who built it. And one of the tunnels ran from the front of the building to the brothel across the street. *smirk* No shit, no shinola. I LOVE stories like this!

Anyway--at last, at last, we got home with our tree, everyone took a food-coma, and then we woke up and decorated. Tomorrow, I'll show you some pictures of that, although, given Steve's proclivities, it's bound to all look JUST LIKE THIS



And now? Off to write some more Marcus/Phillip fic... but I gotta tell you, it really is shaping up to novella length!

Stuff in the Floating Pool Cleaning Net

Okay, first things first.

Anybody remember those Sunday morning paper activities, where you had to look at two different pictures and find the seven things different? Well, I'm not gonna make you do that, but it's sort of what I had to do when I helped pick the cover we went with.

The basic image was the same (in this case, Talker coming completely unglued), but the background details, the ones that foreshadowed plot points, were different. Also, since this is the FINISHED picture (everybody give a hearty thanks to Reese Dante, the artist, who not only did an awesome, kick-ass job, but who read my last post and sent me a picture so I didn't have to feel like a total stupidhead) you'll see that the tattoo details are more finished, especially on his arm and wrist, and that he's wearing the half-glove. The half-glove is important, trust me--and not the easiest thing to do, (apparently airbrushing clothes is a real bitch-kitty of a job--yikes!) so everyone give it up to Reese for being buckets of awesome! (If nothing else, seeing the mock-up and the final together should give you an idea of how much work goes into a 'simple' photo cover, right?)

Anyway--Woot! It's purty and I likes it!

Which is good, because I spent the last two days in editing hell. Oi!

Seriously-- two stories on my plate at the same time. First there was Yearning, the Jack & Teague adventure that Torquere is putting out, and my realization that yes, I did write that like, two, three years ago, and omg--I've gotten better since then. My editing, my ability to keep focused on one point of view--all of it! It was nice to see I'd gotten better, but it was sort of embarrassing too. I wanted to call my editor on the phone and say, "Honest to Christ, I'm better than that now!" But he seemed to like the story anyway, so, well, maybe some editing will fix the flaws.

Then there was Talker's Redemption, and can I just say, if poor Talker can survive that story, he can probably survive anything life throws at him? Ouch. I don't know what twisted, angry, perverse little monster in my heart makes me do that shit to perfectly nice characters, but I think he's been fed on good beef and wormwood, because that fucker is STRONG and EVIL.

Anyway, beyond that, I've finished a VERY SHORT (3K) Little Goddess short for a promotional thing I'm doing on Goodreads.com. Goodreads will release it on Dec. 24th, and I'll give you a link then. It's not too long, and it's for the m/m forum and was written to a prompt (in this case a picture) but I managed to frame the main story with some Green and pregnant Cory, and I think LG fans will be pleased. (I just hope the m/m folks are... they get really weird about girl cooties... I mean... rabid weird. But I asked the lady who put out the prompt if it was okay if I set the story in the LG world. She said yes--I hope she likes her little ficlet:-)

And I have one more Christmas fiction promise to keep. You may remember, a couple of months ago I ran a contest, where I asked you guys to pick a couple you wanted me to write about? I don't remember WHO the winner was, (so, uhm, e-mail me if you see this, darling, otherwise I'll go back into the archives and find the post) but I remember that the couple was Marcus and Phillip, and I think their story is going to be a novella that I'll submit, because I've got too much good stuff going into it not to. But that doesn't mean I won't print it out and sign it and send it to the brilliant reader whom I adore but whose name escapes me, when I'm done!

And other than that? Squish went to day care for a day and the world rejoiced! (Or at least *I* rejoiced--I wouldn't have been able to get all that editing done otherwise!) Squish also rejoiced. It's hard being lonely and bored, and she wasn't, and I felt less like a deadbeat mom. And today is the FINAL, CANYAGIMMEHALLELUJIAAMEN last vestige of soccer season. It's Zoomboy's soccer banquet, and he's going to go roller skating and I'm bringing Chicken and Squish to go skating too. And then Squish has a post-season slumber party, and then, well, if we had any alcohol in the house whatsoever, I'd break out the mojitos and toast to next season--a reassuring seven months away.

(oh yes-- Kerre-- if you're out there! THANK YOU for the lovely art cards--I was so very pleased! What a lovely gift!--Amy!)