Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 19
December 8, 2019
Quesadillas
So it's what we've always called a "top ramen weekend"-- money's thin, and doing anything expensive, including buying a Christmas tree, is off the table.
But one of the adult children came over to do laundry, and play with the new kitten (who was actually her kitten, but was splendidly needy so she gave him to Squish as an early Christmas present) and I had a houseful of people.
I pulled out some whomp-biscuit croissants and some marzipan (left over from Thanksgiving because who has this shit around in general, right?) and made almond croissants and yay! I'm a hero! And dinner, of course, is staples.
In this case, pizza-dillas-- cheese quesadillas with a little bit of spaghetti sauce added--and I'm always surprised how excited they get about this. It's not really a "gather around the table" dish. For one thing, the table is now dedicated to ZoomBoy's homework, and he's got an assignment this weekend, but for another, they're really a one-at-a-time deal.
Make one, cut it up, split it between two, do the next. Everybody's patient and grateful, and if one person hasn't gotten theirs, someone else will give them a quarter, until eventually everyone has eaten.
When it's my turn, I sit down and eat my share and someone comes to get my plate so I can stay seated for a little while--which is kind.
There is no, "Hey, why didn't I get any this time?" or "Hey--why did she get more than me?" There's no, "Why didn't we get a Christmas tree again?" Everyone knows money is tight. Everyone knows I'm doing my best. And my children are not really kids anymore. They understand the nature of waiting your turn, and the nature of paychecks and of things beyond our control.
When there's more money, I'll make spaghetti with meat sauce, or chicken and veggies, or we'll even do takeout, and everybody will eat at the same time--but they know this is not that night. Their willingness to pitch in makes it a good night. That and the fact that when we had money, I bought ice cream, and dessert is always a plus.
We have lived through thin times before. When I was pulled from the high school and the writing hadn't yet caught on, I would get home from dropping kids off to school and be in tears from nothing but worry.
My husband would hold my hand and tell me it was okay. We probably wouldn't lose the house. My publisher held my hand and told me it was okay--I wasn't a one trick pony-- there was more to me than teaching.
I learned to have faith.
I've needed faith in the last few months--and it's never easy, especially during the thin times, to believe more is coming. Just like the kids who trust I'm doing my best, I've learned trust too.
Being a grownup means sharing in adversity as well as plenty. It means not making things harder on people who are doing their best. It means waiting your turn when the plenty comes around, because there's not always enough of the good stuff--but if everyone pulls together, there will be.
And it means accepting there are always other decisions you could have made, and hoping doing things with a clear conscience and a good heart gets you as far as you've always believed.
If we lose the house this time, we have Mate's mother's house to move into. We would rather have Mate's mother around and move into an apartment because we've learned what's important. It's part of that grownup thing.
Patience, faith, recognizing that everyone has limits and respecting them. Helping when you can, even if it's a small act of kindness. Not making matters worse by being obnoxious or intrusive or whining. My kids are amazing at it. I am proud of them every day.
They'll never know what a rare and awesome gift it is, to make the thin times feel like plenty, just by giving joy.
But one of the adult children came over to do laundry, and play with the new kitten (who was actually her kitten, but was splendidly needy so she gave him to Squish as an early Christmas present) and I had a houseful of people.
I pulled out some whomp-biscuit croissants and some marzipan (left over from Thanksgiving because who has this shit around in general, right?) and made almond croissants and yay! I'm a hero! And dinner, of course, is staples.
In this case, pizza-dillas-- cheese quesadillas with a little bit of spaghetti sauce added--and I'm always surprised how excited they get about this. It's not really a "gather around the table" dish. For one thing, the table is now dedicated to ZoomBoy's homework, and he's got an assignment this weekend, but for another, they're really a one-at-a-time deal.
Make one, cut it up, split it between two, do the next. Everybody's patient and grateful, and if one person hasn't gotten theirs, someone else will give them a quarter, until eventually everyone has eaten.
When it's my turn, I sit down and eat my share and someone comes to get my plate so I can stay seated for a little while--which is kind.
There is no, "Hey, why didn't I get any this time?" or "Hey--why did she get more than me?" There's no, "Why didn't we get a Christmas tree again?" Everyone knows money is tight. Everyone knows I'm doing my best. And my children are not really kids anymore. They understand the nature of waiting your turn, and the nature of paychecks and of things beyond our control.
When there's more money, I'll make spaghetti with meat sauce, or chicken and veggies, or we'll even do takeout, and everybody will eat at the same time--but they know this is not that night. Their willingness to pitch in makes it a good night. That and the fact that when we had money, I bought ice cream, and dessert is always a plus.
We have lived through thin times before. When I was pulled from the high school and the writing hadn't yet caught on, I would get home from dropping kids off to school and be in tears from nothing but worry.
My husband would hold my hand and tell me it was okay. We probably wouldn't lose the house. My publisher held my hand and told me it was okay--I wasn't a one trick pony-- there was more to me than teaching.
I learned to have faith.
I've needed faith in the last few months--and it's never easy, especially during the thin times, to believe more is coming. Just like the kids who trust I'm doing my best, I've learned trust too.
Being a grownup means sharing in adversity as well as plenty. It means not making things harder on people who are doing their best. It means waiting your turn when the plenty comes around, because there's not always enough of the good stuff--but if everyone pulls together, there will be.
And it means accepting there are always other decisions you could have made, and hoping doing things with a clear conscience and a good heart gets you as far as you've always believed.
If we lose the house this time, we have Mate's mother's house to move into. We would rather have Mate's mother around and move into an apartment because we've learned what's important. It's part of that grownup thing.
Patience, faith, recognizing that everyone has limits and respecting them. Helping when you can, even if it's a small act of kindness. Not making matters worse by being obnoxious or intrusive or whining. My kids are amazing at it. I am proud of them every day.
They'll never know what a rare and awesome gift it is, to make the thin times feel like plenty, just by giving joy.
December 4, 2019
Yes, Mistress...
First of all, I'd like to thank everybody who's taken the time to review Clay and Dane's story in all the usual outlets--remember, creating buzz and reviewing a book are great ways of supporting your favorite authors. Second of all, I'd like to have a word about Steve.
You may see her, pictured here, lounging among the yarn boxes.
See how content she looks?
Do not be fooled.
That blanket she's on used to belong to Squish. I reorganized my yarn and ZoomBoy put it on top of the boxes as a decorative thing and Steve... made it hers.
Completely.
As in, last night, it had slid to the floor, and instead of sleeping on that big glorious patch of open box, she slept ON THE YARN I WAS KNITTING FROM until we fixed her spot back.
Steve is very big on psychological warfare.
If the bathroom door is locked while I'm using it, she scratches at it until I open it. If I leave it partially closed, she bursts through it like the Kool-Aid man--like, rears up on her back paws, gets some momentum with her upper body, and CRASHES the door.
She's been known to take a running jump onto the bed to face bump me into petting her.
She's been known to head-bump my boobs repeatedly at three in the morning, because, you know, attention.
If she's sleeping on the cat bed (notice, there ARE cat beds in the house that do not involve yarn, projects we are working on, other people's blankets, or the back of the couch) that sits in front of the pet door, the dogs will look at her and whine until somebody gets her out of the way. They just don't trust her to let them out unmolested.
She is unbullyable when still--however, she does not run that fast, so the dogs CAN bully her if the catch her moving. To counteract this, she stays still as often as possible.
When I catch her sleeping on my office chair, it is usually in full protester position-- she is spread out, all four sets of claws dug in, and as I'm airlifting her out, she's meowing, "You'll never take me alive, coppers, you'll never take me alive!"
I usually turn and dump her on top of the couch, and she's started settling down immediately, as though this were her plan all along, but she needed the airlift to make it happen.
If we run low on food, she will reach out a casual paw and delicately claw your leg until you get your lazy ass up and get her some.
When she's on an affection high, she stretches her paws out in front of her while I scratch her ruff. I think she really believes she can fly.
When I used to take walks at night (when I moved faster and with more confidence and was not quite as terrified of my neighborhood) she would follow me for a two block radius, keeping to the shadows by the houses while I used the sidewalk. I don't think she quite trusted the dogs.
She bets for attention no less than twice a day. I think she feels under appreciated.
I have had some memorable cats in my time, but Steve is perhaps the smartest I've ever loved.
I think she feels as though I am her favorite human. We got her in 2010 I think?
Steve and the dogs are three of the favorite things I've done this decade.
December 3, 2019
Happy Release Day to Me--Fall through Spring
Fall Through Spring
by Amy Lane
A Winter Ball NovelAs far as Clay Carpenter is concerned, his abusive relationship with food is the best thing he’s got going. When a good friend starts kicking his ass into gear, Clay is forced to reexamine everything he learned about food and love—and that’s right when he meets troubled graduate student, Dane Hayes.
Dane Hayes doesn’t do the whole monogamy thing, but the minute he meets Clay Carpenter, he’s doing the friend thing in spades. The snarky, scruffy bastard not only gets Dane's wacky sense of humor, he also accepts the things Dane can’t control—like the bipolar disorder Dane has been trying to manage for the past six years.
Dane is hoping for more than friendship, and Clay is looking at him with longing that isn't platonic. They’re both positive they’re bad at relationships, but with the help of forbidden desserts and new medication regimens, they prove outstanding at being with each other. But can they turn their friendship into the love neither of them has dared to hope for?
Buy Here
Talking about weight and mental health are two things nobody likes to do. My husband hasn't known how much I've weighed for years, and there are things I may never tell my kids about growing up surrounded by mental illness.
These things are raw and personal and hard--and as much as I think they need to be spoken about, writing about them is difficult.
Which is why fiction is such a glorious way to deal.
Clay has both the successful relationship and the victory over his weight. Dane has a support system, and by the end of the book, he's got some hope of independence--and he has Clay.
The conflicts in this book aren't external--not a whole lot of family drama, no bad guys, no, "Are they going to break up." Part of that was that the timeline of this book was established in Summer Lessons, and unless I was going to drop a squid on their heads in October, there was really not much I could do.
But that made it absolutely necessary that all of the conflict be internal--and that made me really explore these guys.
Clay's weight problems are something I'm intimately acquainted with, like an old enemy, and I've seen the fallout of mental health difficulties like Dane's and it's not pretty. We don't need squids from the sky, bad bosses, dead horses or porn to make their struggles to overcome their inner demons poignantly real.
In an era where representation is so important, and the media is working hard to improve the view of our narrative, giving everybody a chance to see a hero and say, "It me!" the overweight and the mentally ill are still underserved. I wanted to write a story where people who aren't toned and beautiful could say, "Oh, look--it's me." I wanted to write a story in which someone with a wicked sense of humor and a treacherous brain chemistry could say, "Look--I can be happy."
I figured those struggles didn't need a bad guy or squids or dead horses or porn. They just needed two guys, working shit out, doing the best they can.
That's sort of been the focus of the entire Rec League Soccer series, actually. Skip and Richie are only mini-gods on the soccer field--but them, working shit out captured our attention. Mason and Terry were two very different guys--and the only person who didn't see Mason's flaws was Terry and vice versa. They were uniquely suited for each other, no falling squids necessary.
And Clay and Dane are hopefully--and painfully--real to us. These are guys we could know. They are not perfect--not inside, not out. (Dane, for instance, is a terrible snob. Clay has troubles standing up for himself in the worst way.) But for all their flaws, they still--like all of us--deserve a chance at happy.
Fall Through Spring is about falling through a hole in life we didn't mean to dig for ourselves--and coming out to the beauty on the other side.
I hope you love it.
December 2, 2019
And a Happy Kermit Flail to You!!!!
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!
Well, the holiday season is officially upon us-- a little quickly, actually, because Thanksgiving was a wee bit late, right? Anyway-- we have now entered the season of madness, and what better way to hide away from it all than with a some new stories--some for the holidays, and some, just because!
For Christmas stories, E.J. Russell, Tara Lain and R.L. Merrill-- writers of the sweetest, most adorable stories during the rest of the year who will make your heart happy during the holiday season. For regular stories, you have the inimitable Kaje Harper, who writes splendid angst--and this time, it's a throuple, and an angsty one with a murder mystery-- how delicious in so many ways! And from me, on December 3rd, you have the conclusion to the Rec League Soccer series that started with Winter Ball. Fall Through Spring-- Clay and Dane's story--is coming, and it's a doozy.
So no matter what your passion, we've got your flavor-- come join us for a Christmas Flail!
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!
A Swants Soiree
By E.J. Russell
Introverted software engineer Brent Levine struggles with the life part of work-life balance, but to hold on to his new job, he’ll have to embrace his employer’s dreaded “staff enrichment” events. This year’s annual ugly holiday sweater party will strain his ambition to remain inconspicuous: everyone has to wear sweaters converted into pants—aka “swants.”
Brent’s an ace at coding, but when it comes to handcrafts, he’s definitely at the far left end of the bell curve. Luckily he encounters seriously cute theater costumer Jonathan at the Goodwill Outlet. Jonathan offers Brent both an acceptably ugly sweater and his expertise in swants conversion. Attraction sparks on Brent’s side, but can Jonathan be interested in a guy like him?
Buy Here
Changes Coming Down - Changes Book 1
by Kaje Harper
For three gay men in love, opening the closet door could be a risky move.
Sheriff Casey Barlow has a slick, media-savvy challenger out to beat him in the upcoming election. Casey's damned good at his job, but he hasn't kissed the right asses, and early polls suggest voters like his opponent's style. Coming out now, let alone revealing his relationship with two men, could sink any hope of keeping his badge.
Scott Edison has a real shot at the NHL. He's playing the best hockey of his life. Whenever he can, he travels home to his gruff sheriff and their laid-back cowboy, but there are no out gay players in the NHL. As a rookie working his ass off to be called up, he can't afford to make waves.
Will Rice always figured he'd live alone, managing Graham and Annmarie Slater's cattle ranch, but a hot, young hockey player and a compact, muscled lawman rearranged his plans. Even though he's older and lanky and ordinary, he's been sharing their lives and their beds. He doesn't need to be out— isn't sure he ever wants the Slaters to know about him. Life's good the way things are.
Then Graham and Annmarie are killed in a hit and run that may not be an accident. As Will grieves, and Casey investigates, the coming changes will shake all their lives.
** this is a re-edit and expansion of the story in the "Hunting Under Covers" anthology
Buy Here
The Fairy Shop
by Tara Lane
When Nate Hawthorne meets Asher Dane, the huge, tattooed hunk is the personification of Nate’s dreams. But Nate knows there’s no future, because Asher is also the personification of his beloved five-year-old daughter Delly’s nightmares. She’s frightened of big men. Things turn around for both of them, however, when Delly goes Christmas shopping at the Fairy Shop and begins her quest for a wand that will make her brave. Neither of them guesses that the Fairy Shop will be the source of far more than Delly’s courage. On Christmas Eve, under the influence of a very unusual fairy, Nate’s life will change forever.
Buy Here
Peace Offering
by R.L. Merrill
Dover Billings has sold his handcrafted wares at the Dickens Fair in San Francisco for over twenty years. He's not as outgoing as the other artisans at this yearly Victorian celebration and prefers to observe the festivities from the shadows. That is until a new corset maker moves into the booth next door and unsettles his carefully constructed life. Landry Malcolm is handsome, well dressed, and the life of the party… one Dover wants no part of. Too bad he's attracted to his confident younger rival. Landry desperately wishes to get through to the beautiful artist next door, but every move he makes seems to be the wrong one, until a drunken kiss breaks through Dover's serious demeanor. Miscommunications plague any attempts to find common ground, though, leaving Landry wondering what—if anything—he can do to make things right. Will a custom-made peace offering open the door to friendship, cooperation… and maybe more? A story from the Dreamspinner Press 2019 Advent Calendar "Homemade for the Holidays."
Buy Now
Fall Through Spring
by Amy Lane
A Winter Ball Novel
As far as Clay Carpenter is concerned, his abusive relationship with food is the best thing he’s got going. When a good friend starts kicking his ass into gear, Clay is forced to reexamine everything he learned about food and love—and that’s right when he meets troubled graduate student, Dane Hayes.
Dane Hayes doesn’t do the whole monogamy thing, but the minute he meets Clay Carpenter, he’s doing the friend thing in spades. The snarky, scruffy bastard not only gets Dane's wacky sense of humor, he also accepts the things Dane can’t control—like the bipolar disorder Dane has been trying to manage for the past six years.
Dane is hoping for more than friendship, and Clay is looking at him with longing that isn't platonic. They’re both positive they’re bad at relationships, but with the help of forbidden desserts and new medication regimens, they prove outstanding at being with each other. But can they turn their friendship into the love neither of them has dared to hope for?
Well, the holiday season is officially upon us-- a little quickly, actually, because Thanksgiving was a wee bit late, right? Anyway-- we have now entered the season of madness, and what better way to hide away from it all than with a some new stories--some for the holidays, and some, just because!
For Christmas stories, E.J. Russell, Tara Lain and R.L. Merrill-- writers of the sweetest, most adorable stories during the rest of the year who will make your heart happy during the holiday season. For regular stories, you have the inimitable Kaje Harper, who writes splendid angst--and this time, it's a throuple, and an angsty one with a murder mystery-- how delicious in so many ways! And from me, on December 3rd, you have the conclusion to the Rec League Soccer series that started with Winter Ball. Fall Through Spring-- Clay and Dane's story--is coming, and it's a doozy.
So no matter what your passion, we've got your flavor-- come join us for a Christmas Flail!
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!
A Swants SoireeBy E.J. Russell
Introverted software engineer Brent Levine struggles with the life part of work-life balance, but to hold on to his new job, he’ll have to embrace his employer’s dreaded “staff enrichment” events. This year’s annual ugly holiday sweater party will strain his ambition to remain inconspicuous: everyone has to wear sweaters converted into pants—aka “swants.”
Brent’s an ace at coding, but when it comes to handcrafts, he’s definitely at the far left end of the bell curve. Luckily he encounters seriously cute theater costumer Jonathan at the Goodwill Outlet. Jonathan offers Brent both an acceptably ugly sweater and his expertise in swants conversion. Attraction sparks on Brent’s side, but can Jonathan be interested in a guy like him?
Buy Here
Changes Coming Down - Changes Book 1by Kaje Harper
For three gay men in love, opening the closet door could be a risky move.
Sheriff Casey Barlow has a slick, media-savvy challenger out to beat him in the upcoming election. Casey's damned good at his job, but he hasn't kissed the right asses, and early polls suggest voters like his opponent's style. Coming out now, let alone revealing his relationship with two men, could sink any hope of keeping his badge.
Scott Edison has a real shot at the NHL. He's playing the best hockey of his life. Whenever he can, he travels home to his gruff sheriff and their laid-back cowboy, but there are no out gay players in the NHL. As a rookie working his ass off to be called up, he can't afford to make waves.
Will Rice always figured he'd live alone, managing Graham and Annmarie Slater's cattle ranch, but a hot, young hockey player and a compact, muscled lawman rearranged his plans. Even though he's older and lanky and ordinary, he's been sharing their lives and their beds. He doesn't need to be out— isn't sure he ever wants the Slaters to know about him. Life's good the way things are.
Then Graham and Annmarie are killed in a hit and run that may not be an accident. As Will grieves, and Casey investigates, the coming changes will shake all their lives.
** this is a re-edit and expansion of the story in the "Hunting Under Covers" anthology
Buy Here
The Fairy Shop
by Tara Lane
When Nate Hawthorne meets Asher Dane, the huge, tattooed hunk is the personification of Nate’s dreams. But Nate knows there’s no future, because Asher is also the personification of his beloved five-year-old daughter Delly’s nightmares. She’s frightened of big men. Things turn around for both of them, however, when Delly goes Christmas shopping at the Fairy Shop and begins her quest for a wand that will make her brave. Neither of them guesses that the Fairy Shop will be the source of far more than Delly’s courage. On Christmas Eve, under the influence of a very unusual fairy, Nate’s life will change forever.
Buy Here
Peace Offering
by R.L. Merrill
Dover Billings has sold his handcrafted wares at the Dickens Fair in San Francisco for over twenty years. He's not as outgoing as the other artisans at this yearly Victorian celebration and prefers to observe the festivities from the shadows. That is until a new corset maker moves into the booth next door and unsettles his carefully constructed life. Landry Malcolm is handsome, well dressed, and the life of the party… one Dover wants no part of. Too bad he's attracted to his confident younger rival. Landry desperately wishes to get through to the beautiful artist next door, but every move he makes seems to be the wrong one, until a drunken kiss breaks through Dover's serious demeanor. Miscommunications plague any attempts to find common ground, though, leaving Landry wondering what—if anything—he can do to make things right. Will a custom-made peace offering open the door to friendship, cooperation… and maybe more? A story from the Dreamspinner Press 2019 Advent Calendar "Homemade for the Holidays."
Buy Now
Fall Through Spring
by Amy Lane
A Winter Ball Novel
As far as Clay Carpenter is concerned, his abusive relationship with food is the best thing he’s got going. When a good friend starts kicking his ass into gear, Clay is forced to reexamine everything he learned about food and love—and that’s right when he meets troubled graduate student, Dane Hayes.
Dane Hayes doesn’t do the whole monogamy thing, but the minute he meets Clay Carpenter, he’s doing the friend thing in spades. The snarky, scruffy bastard not only gets Dane's wacky sense of humor, he also accepts the things Dane can’t control—like the bipolar disorder Dane has been trying to manage for the past six years.
Dane is hoping for more than friendship, and Clay is looking at him with longing that isn't platonic. They’re both positive they’re bad at relationships, but with the help of forbidden desserts and new medication regimens, they prove outstanding at being with each other. But can they turn their friendship into the love neither of them has dared to hope for?
Bunnies-- a Story of Granby
So, a number of people begged so sweetly, I had to do this one. For those of you who haven't read the Granby stories, they're also known as my "knitting books", and the stories revolve around a small alpaca/sheep farm and fiber mill, based off a real one in Granby, Colorado.Jeremy and Aiden from How to Raise an Honest Rabbit and Blackbird Knitting in a Bunny's Lair were possibly everybody's favorite couple from that series--and people want to check in on Jeremy every now and then, just to make sure he's okay.
He is. Really really. Come see.
* * *
"And here's her pull-ups, and here's her little potty, and here's her best blanket. Her clothes are in the bag with the pull-ups and--"
"Ari, honey," Rory said gently, "it's time to go."
Ariadne's eyes filled with tears. "But we're going to be gone for five days," she said, lower lip wobbly. "I hate to leave her--"
"We'll take care of her, Miss Ariadne," Jeremy reassured. He tried to keep his voice even and happy and upbeat, even though his heart was beating super fast like a terrified bird.
"We'll be fine," Aiden said, sounding much more confident. "Ari, go. Rory's going to crap his pants, and you have to get over the mountain and through Denver traffic. We'll be fine. See you in five days. Remember, we've got Craw and Ben, and Ben seems mostly civilized. If all else fails, we've got my mom, and she hasn't lost a kid yet."
Ariadne gave him a flat-eyed stare, and her sharp featured face made that "mom" look a thing of deadly beauty. "You are not funny, Aiden Rhodes," she said.
"I am a goddamned delight," Aiden replied, deadpan. "And you be nice to me, or I'm going to leave your adorable daughter out with the rabbits at night."
"He will not!" Jeremy's voice cracked in panic and he shielded Persephone from the idea even in jest. He was pretty sure it was in jest. Jeremy's boy had a streak of hard in him, but mean and cruel were not in his makeup.
"Oh, I know he won't," Ariadne snapped. "He's just trying to piss me off so I'll leave."
"Is it working?" Ari's giant blond husband asked plaintively. "We don't have so many chances to go on vacation, Ari!"
And that seemed to work. Rory had been making good commissions lately-- tourists were coming to Granby to buy his paintings, and, oddly enough, Craw's yarn. It had been Craw who'd told Ariadne she was bitchy as hell and needed five days with just her husband to chill her out, and he hadn't been far wrong--Ariadne was worried.
Persephone had been born with a cleft palate, and that was a lot of operations between birth and three-and-a-half years old. Her little ears had tubes in them, and the tubes had gotten infected more times than anybody could count. Jeremy and Aiden, Craw and Ben--even Johnny and Stanley in Boulder--all knew the drill. Warm oil, compresses, and only call the doctor when her fever spiked over 100. Hurting ears were rough on a toddler, and hence rough on everybody around the toddler, and Ariadne and Rory were ragged. The little girl had another surgery in a month, and if Ariadne wanted to keep her sanity for another trip to the hospital with her little one, she needed a break now.
But of course Jeremy and Aiden were happy to do it.
Aiden had been raised around children--he was a natural at them-- but Persephone was Jeremy's only experience with a small person who kept growing, and Persy was his world.
The two of them had watched the little girl a lot in the past three-and-a-half years, from days when Ariadne was in the yarn shop doing books and Jeremy took her to feed stock with him, or the occasional evening when Ariadne and Rory had a rare date. She'd stayed in their guest bedroom before in her little porta-crib, and they had a routine with her.
"Okay," Ariadne said finally. "Bye baby--you be good."
"Bye, mama," Persephone said tranquilly from Jeremy's arms. "Thee you wader!"
Her lisp would be worked with after her final surgery--but Jeremy could see how now, the imperfect words were probably ripping Ariadne's heart right out of her chest.
"Bye sweetheart," Rory said, dropping a kiss on his daughter's forehead. "Guys, call us if you need anything." He said the words out loud, but they both saw him shake his head forebodingly, and they got it. If Ariadne didn't have a little bit of space, she was going to crack--this trip was for everybody.
Finally they were gone, their little Hyundai jouncing down the road, and Persephone struggled in Jeremy's arms.
"Bunnies!" she pleaded, and he set her down and let her go. Aiden had put in paving stones in the beginning of spring, leading from the driveway to the entrance of the house, and from the house to the back, where the critter cages were. Jeremy and Aiden kept an increasing number of rabbits and chinchillas bred for their fur, and feeding, watering, and brushing the gentle creatures took Jeremy about an hour a day. On this day, he was going to get some help.
He sang softly as he brushed out his second favorite critter--a chinchilla that Stanley and Johnny had bought him three-and-a-half years ago, when Jeremy had still been in the hospital from saving Stanley's life. Ariadne had been there too, on bedrest, and the hospital had let them room together, because Jeremy had been a mess and they'd both been lonely. Persephone stood on tiptoe and studied one of the older bunnies through his enclosure. This one was sort of a badass bunny, but he regarded her curiously, munching through a carrot Jeremy had given him as a bribe to be nice.
"Jemy?" Persephone turned to him and put her finger delicately on her upper lip. "Wook." She wrinkled her lips and her nose, and Jeremy smiled as he realized she was doing a bunny wiggle.
"Yeah, princess--is that what bunnies do?"
"Am I a bunny?"
Jeremy frowned. "No, you're an angel."
She tapped her scarred upper lip again, and Jeremy had an epiphany. A cleft palate used to be called a "hare lip" for just that reason. Because it split the upper lip like... well, a bunny.
"Yeah, princess. You've got that split in your lip for now. It'll get closed up as you get older."
She looked sad then, and Jeremy put the chinchilla back in its cage before picking her up.
"What's wrong, princess?"
"Wan look like bunny!" she protested, and Jeremy laughed softly.
"Well, you will look like Persephone even after it gets fi... uh, changed," he said. "It will help you talk, and you'll still have a little scar there, so you can remember when you were a bunny."
She brightened, and brushed Jeremy's face gently with her fingertips. "Thcarth?"
It took Jeremy a minute, and then he remembered--he had scars too. "Yeah, but your scars will make you pretty," he said. His scars sort of made him the opposite of that. The beating he'd taken keeping Stanley's whereabouts from a rabid mobster had taken away the con-man's prettiness he'd relied on his entire life. He'd been devastated at first, but Aiden kept looking at him like he was pretty, and he'd just... forgotten, over the last few years. Sometimes he mourned his perfect nose and the dimples in smooth cheeks, but most days, he worked too hard by Aiden's side to think too much on what he'd lost.
He had his boy, he had his family with Ari and Craw and Ben--and even Johnny and Stanley. He had his bunnies and his chinchillas, and the sheep and alpacas at Craw's farm.
He had his work and his dog, Bluebell. And he had Persephone, who made his days brighter with just a smile.
"Your thcarth make oo pretty," she said carefully, and Jeremy grinned at her.
"You think so? I'll have to tell Aiden that."
She gave an exaggerated scowl then. "Aithen wook wike mean!"
Jeremy laughed. "That's just for show. He's got a heart softer than bunny fur. You know that!"
That night, Jeremy cooked chicken pot pies for them, a new recipe that Aiden liked and that Persephone could eat easily, because chewing was difficult sometimes. They sang songs and then sat in the quiet while she played with the toys her mother had brought, and finally, she fell asleep on Aiden's lap as he read to her from a magazine about tending stock.
"That about put me to sleep too," Jeremy admitted softly after Aiden laid her down.
"Well, next time we'll try one of those action books of yours," Aiden muttered. "Bluebell, down."
Bluebell, their Volkswagen sized dog, knew exactly what that meant as they entered their room--and so did Jeremy.
"Bluebell down?" Jeremy said, and Bluebell--who was stretched across the felted rug Ariadne had given them for Aiden's birthday two years before--gave him a puzzled look. She was down, right?
"Yes, Jeremy. You heard what I said." Aiden was stripping off his clothes and heading for the shower, and he looked behind him impatiently. "Coming?"
Jeremy stripped off his clothes too, feeling a little naughty. They usually didn't do things like shower together when Persephone was staying with them. "I... I uh... you know."
Aiden caught his hand as he came into the bathroom to put his clothes in the hamper. "I did not agree to go without sex for a week, Jeremy. You need to put that out of your head."
Jeremy felt his smile blossom from somewhere around his toes. In the past three-and-a-half years, his body had gotten stronger. He'd still have frailties--his arm had been badly broken, and his hip would always pain him in the cold. But he'd been active and happy most every day.
He wasn't embarrassed to be naked in front of Aiden anymore. Aiden hadn't let him be.
The shower was short, but Aiden was ruthless about letting Jeremy know what would be expected of him when they got out. By the time Aiden backed him up to the bed and possessed Jeremy's body expertly, with the ease of a lot of practice, Jeremy would have died if he'd been denied any of those expectations.
Their sex was hard and fast--and quiet, because neither of them were in the mood to put clothes on and run into the other room to quiet down their houseguest. Jeremy's climax same so quick, so gracefully, he tilted his head back with a little cry, and was transported to the clouds while his body did all the heavy lifting downstairs.
Aiden's climax was a little harder, and as he thrust in a final time, he took Jeremy's mouth, his groan reverberating down in Jeremy's toes. He collapsed on top of Jeremy, and Jeremy smiled dreamily as the kiss faded. Aiden rolled to the side and covered them both with the blanket because even in the summer, Granby got a little chilly after dark.
"God," Aiden said, rubbing his fingertips along Jeremy's lips. "You are so pretty."
Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Am not."
"Don't be an ass, Jeremy. You are too."
And Jeremy felt the wounding to his heart. "You know very well I haven't been pretty since... since you know. Since my face got busted up."
Aiden sat up in bed and scowled. "I know that's bullshit, and I didn't know you still thought that."
Jeremy swallowed, hard, rolling to his side. "Look, just drop it, okay?"
"No."
Jeremy scowled at him. "What are you going to do? Compliment me to death?"
"No--I just want you to admit you're still a fine looking man, Jeremy No-Last-Name."
Jeremy raised a corner of his mouth, a long buried hurt surfacing. Aiden had brought it up three years ago--but their lives had been so busy then. They'd been good lives--better than Jeremy had ever imagined having--but they'd been busy, and it had been forgotten between them.
"I must not be that good looking," Jeremy retorted, "Or I'd have a last name, wouldn't I?"
Aiden sucked in a breath, and let it out on an "Aha..."
"What?" Jeremy didn't look at him.
"God, I'm dumb."
"You are not." Jeremy hated it when Aiden said things like that. Aiden was perfect--Jeremy knew it in his bones.
"I must be if I haven't married you yet."
Jeremy peeked at him. "You did say something about it once," he mumbled, remembering that night before the benefit they'd thrown to help Ariadne and Rory with Persephone's medical expenses. It had been a beautiful, fairy-tale sunset, and Aiden had put it out there, and Jeremy had hoped.
"Can I help it if I'm so happy I feel married already?" Aiden asked mildly, kissing his shoulder. "Would you let me call you pretty if you wore my ring and had my last name?"
"It would be a lie," Jeremy said sullenly.
"It would not." Aiden tugged gently on his shoulder until Jeremy sighed and turned around and into him. "I would be proud to have such a man with my name."
Jeremy couldn't help it. He smiled into Aiden's chest. "Persephone said my scars were pretty," he said, remembering the stupid pride he'd felt at that.
"That's because she loves you best," Aiden told him, his big hand stroking Jeremy's hair. "But not more than I do, Jeremy. Marry me. Then you'll know I think you're the prettiest one."
Jeremy kissed him. "Sure. And everyone will know I'm your man."
And Aiden's clear-eyed expression lapsed into his habitual scowl. "And you can finally stop calling me boy."
Jeremy grinned. "Nope. Not even when we're a hundred."
Aiden's throaty laughter rang in his ears.
The next morning, when Ariadne called, sounding sleepy and happy and so much more relaxed, Jeremy told her he and Aiden were getting married sometime in the fall.
"It's about fucking time," she murmured. "Now tell me what Craw says after you go to the store."
Craw said exactly the same thing. It was like they were best friends or something. It was Ben who called Stanley and started the planning.
And Aiden who shopped for the rings.
Jeremy was too busy chasing his princess around the store and the stables, keeping her out of trouble. He told her that was the price you paid when you were beautiful--other people just fell over themselves trying to be nice to you.
She giggled like understood the joke, and he giggled because he knew it was one.
He was pretty sure that other people fell over themselves trying to be nice to Jeremy for the same reason Jeremy's entire life stopped so he could take care of his princes angel bunny. Of all the changes in his life since he'd first come to Granby, the biggest, most important one of all was that he knew for a fact that he was very very well loved.
November 30, 2019
Happy Thanksgiving, Happy Nano
So it's the first time in six days I have the house to myself, and I feel compelled to talk about NANOWRIMO. I finished--but it was a hard finish. An "I counted my blog tour posts and the fiction from my personal blog" finish--but at the same time, I'm still really proud of it.
We started out this month on a trip to Disneyland that we planned a year ago--there were days that week I just couldn't write. Not even a little. And to make matters worse--for me anyway--part of my NANO was FINISHING A BOOK. I know I'm not the only writer who cleans up their administrative work in that lull between finishing one book and starting another.
And then there were the three edits.
And the blog tour--may I mention that the only way I could do the blog tour and NANO was to make that do double duty?
Because, yes, this last week, when normally I would have been doubling down on my writing, I was cleaning the damned house and getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner--and then nursing my foot which pretty much gave a big "OH fuck THIS!" at around two p.m. Thursday, leaving Mate to do a lot of the heavy lifting. (He forgave me because I'd been up until 3 a.m. the night before and had gotten up at 8 that morning, just to time the food right. Too much time in the cold without shoes will fuck up your fasciitis and that is the truth.)
So it was a tough NANO, but I made my goal in new writing at least 50K, and I did finish the book I was working on when I started--and I made a healthy start on a new one as well.
It left me wondering why that little badge was so important--why it was absolutely necessary to EARN that damn sweatshirt that I already preordered (because if you wait until you actually finish the damned event, all the specialty sizes are gone.) I mean, I write 50K in a normal month--it's not like I'm a big fraud who screams NANOWRIMO and then pretends to write when I'm watching porn. Why is it so important for me to have won that badge fair and square one more year?
And maybe it comes down to this.
When people ask me what my education is, I say, "I have the equivalent of a Master's degree." And while it's true that I didn't finish the program, the following is also true:
When I was awarded my BA in English, I had--and this is a true thing, although they might have changed the rules now--too many units to get a BA. I was short 3 credits in a humanities class, and if I'd taken that class, I would have just needed to press on through to get a MA without a BA, I shit you not my college evaluator said this with a straight face. They had to take a graduate course I'd taken in English (nobody was sure how I was even let into this course but I got a B+) and give me credit for a humanities course, which just goes to show you that taking a class in sci-fi and fantasy can never steer you wrong
I've taken 18 units in Shakespeare. Well, three of those units was Renaissance Lit, but yes, there was a lot of fucking Shakespeare.
By the time I was done with my teaching credential, I had a BA + 53 units. A MA is usually only a BA + 30.
By the time I dropped out of the MA program, I had a BA + 73 units. (Just 2 units short of a raise, because ain't that always the fuckin' way?)
The final project for my MA would have been to finish a full length work. I've done that somewhere around 80 times. 90 maybe? God, between big books that have been broken up and novellas that have been combined, it's almost impossible to count. But yes, I have completed the final MA requirement many times over.
All of this, and yet, I have no MA degree.
Explaining this in detail during regular conversation, A. Makes me sound pompous as hell, B. Also makes me bitter, and C. Also makes me boring.
So, I say "I have the equivalent of..."
Because it's shorter, and as far as I'm concerned, it's true.
But I can't put MA on a book jacket or a bio. When Crafting Category Romance: Fiction Haiku comes out next year, it's going to look like I'm some rando who declared myself an expert on something that better minds really do have a handle on.
So as far as writing kudos for myself, NANOWRIMO must absolutely, positively, be real. When I say I "won NANO" I absolutely have to write 50K + in the allotted time.
Because so much about my pedigree is... less than. I jumped the wrong hoops at the wrong times and won the consolation prize of degrees. I taught for 18 years... and I didn't retire, the administration dragged me out by the hair and left me on the side of the road. I am in so many ways an "also ran" that I refuse to declare a win unless it's a real goddamned win.
So this NANO was a real goddamned win. It probably would have been a real goddamned win if I'd only just finished the stupid book and then moved on to my admin tasks and blog tour without counting words, but I was going to count the goddamned words. It's a little like being a writer in the first place. I have to do something--something real, something tangible, something that has the power to either generate income or enhance the income I'm generating, every fucking day, or I might as well clean the house and sew all my kids' clothes by hand and join the PTA. (I have never, ever, on either side of the fence, been inclined to join the PTA. One meeting is enough. *shudder*)
Also, I managed to win NANO and my kids still loved me enough to come to Thanksgiving and watch movies and eat fattening food. I even collected an extra, and I made enough German cabbage that T copped a ride from his sister today to come finish it off. (He tried to make some for his friends-giving, but that had a tragic end. I had to hug him just from his disappointment.)
So I hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving--and a Happy Nano. It's weird the things we celebrate, and the bars we set for ourselves. It's just nice sometimes to be able to declare a win.
We started out this month on a trip to Disneyland that we planned a year ago--there were days that week I just couldn't write. Not even a little. And to make matters worse--for me anyway--part of my NANO was FINISHING A BOOK. I know I'm not the only writer who cleans up their administrative work in that lull between finishing one book and starting another.
And then there were the three edits.
And the blog tour--may I mention that the only way I could do the blog tour and NANO was to make that do double duty?
Because, yes, this last week, when normally I would have been doubling down on my writing, I was cleaning the damned house and getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner--and then nursing my foot which pretty much gave a big "OH fuck THIS!" at around two p.m. Thursday, leaving Mate to do a lot of the heavy lifting. (He forgave me because I'd been up until 3 a.m. the night before and had gotten up at 8 that morning, just to time the food right. Too much time in the cold without shoes will fuck up your fasciitis and that is the truth.)
So it was a tough NANO, but I made my goal in new writing at least 50K, and I did finish the book I was working on when I started--and I made a healthy start on a new one as well.
It left me wondering why that little badge was so important--why it was absolutely necessary to EARN that damn sweatshirt that I already preordered (because if you wait until you actually finish the damned event, all the specialty sizes are gone.) I mean, I write 50K in a normal month--it's not like I'm a big fraud who screams NANOWRIMO and then pretends to write when I'm watching porn. Why is it so important for me to have won that badge fair and square one more year?
And maybe it comes down to this.
When people ask me what my education is, I say, "I have the equivalent of a Master's degree." And while it's true that I didn't finish the program, the following is also true:
When I was awarded my BA in English, I had--and this is a true thing, although they might have changed the rules now--too many units to get a BA. I was short 3 credits in a humanities class, and if I'd taken that class, I would have just needed to press on through to get a MA without a BA, I shit you not my college evaluator said this with a straight face. They had to take a graduate course I'd taken in English (nobody was sure how I was even let into this course but I got a B+) and give me credit for a humanities course, which just goes to show you that taking a class in sci-fi and fantasy can never steer you wrong
I've taken 18 units in Shakespeare. Well, three of those units was Renaissance Lit, but yes, there was a lot of fucking Shakespeare.
By the time I was done with my teaching credential, I had a BA + 53 units. A MA is usually only a BA + 30.
By the time I dropped out of the MA program, I had a BA + 73 units. (Just 2 units short of a raise, because ain't that always the fuckin' way?)
The final project for my MA would have been to finish a full length work. I've done that somewhere around 80 times. 90 maybe? God, between big books that have been broken up and novellas that have been combined, it's almost impossible to count. But yes, I have completed the final MA requirement many times over.
All of this, and yet, I have no MA degree.
Explaining this in detail during regular conversation, A. Makes me sound pompous as hell, B. Also makes me bitter, and C. Also makes me boring.
So, I say "I have the equivalent of..."
Because it's shorter, and as far as I'm concerned, it's true.
But I can't put MA on a book jacket or a bio. When Crafting Category Romance: Fiction Haiku comes out next year, it's going to look like I'm some rando who declared myself an expert on something that better minds really do have a handle on.
So as far as writing kudos for myself, NANOWRIMO must absolutely, positively, be real. When I say I "won NANO" I absolutely have to write 50K + in the allotted time.
Because so much about my pedigree is... less than. I jumped the wrong hoops at the wrong times and won the consolation prize of degrees. I taught for 18 years... and I didn't retire, the administration dragged me out by the hair and left me on the side of the road. I am in so many ways an "also ran" that I refuse to declare a win unless it's a real goddamned win.
So this NANO was a real goddamned win. It probably would have been a real goddamned win if I'd only just finished the stupid book and then moved on to my admin tasks and blog tour without counting words, but I was going to count the goddamned words. It's a little like being a writer in the first place. I have to do something--something real, something tangible, something that has the power to either generate income or enhance the income I'm generating, every fucking day, or I might as well clean the house and sew all my kids' clothes by hand and join the PTA. (I have never, ever, on either side of the fence, been inclined to join the PTA. One meeting is enough. *shudder*)
Also, I managed to win NANO and my kids still loved me enough to come to Thanksgiving and watch movies and eat fattening food. I even collected an extra, and I made enough German cabbage that T copped a ride from his sister today to come finish it off. (He tried to make some for his friends-giving, but that had a tragic end. I had to hug him just from his disappointment.)
So I hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving--and a Happy Nano. It's weird the things we celebrate, and the bars we set for ourselves. It's just nice sometimes to be able to declare a win.
November 25, 2019
Soccer Season
Well, for us, it goes from August to July, so I'm not going to say it's over.But this weekend was the last tournament of the regular season--and on the one hand, Squish is sorry to see it go, but on the other, we did notice that we left at the beginning of November and our part of the country noticed fall had arrived.
It seems to show itself in cold feet.
So we spent a couple of glorious--albeit cold--days on the soccer field, watching Squish look yearningly at her peers playing, because in spite of the fact that they didn't have a chance of winning any of their games almost from the get go, her coach didn't put her in.
Which was a shame. Because when he played her as defender, she didn't let anything through. Granted, she was only there for five minutes, but, well, she would have enjoyed the time seeing if she could keep up a streak.
It's frustrating, watching her improve, watching her be ignored. On the one hand I suppose I should be grateful-- Mate stepped down from coach this year so the new coach WOULDN'T split the teams into the "good one" and the "not so good one". And I think the new coach was surprised when the same girls who couldn't get their shit together on a plate for Mate were only a little better at it for new guy.
Well, new guy is young--everybody thinks they can do it better than the old guy at the beginning.
Mate was very classy--he'd talk about all the good things new guy was doing, and how they were hard to get to work--he's not big on trash talk, and I love him for it.
But still--the one thing Mate was usually pretty good at was putting every kid in for equal playing time. After Chicken was cut from her team (a team she later played with for another five years after that asshole quit coaching) he didn't ever want another kid to feel left out.
Watching Squish feel left out is rough.
Which is why I didn't whine (too much) when Mate said he might be club president again next year. Our club is consolidating with three or four other clubs--the reason he was club president in the first year was to keep bad shit from happening to any of our kids as players.
It's a good reason. He's good at that job.
Maybe next year, Squish will get some more playing time.
Because I guess that's the way things work in a civilized society. At least I'd like to think so.
November 23, 2019
The Rulz
Requirements Authors Have for Their Readers
1. Buy any book you want from any place that is convenient or affordable to you.
2. Love any book that moves you, as passionately as you are able.
3. Don't throw your Kindle if you hate a book--they break. (Paperbacks are fine as long as you warn family members to duck.)
The End
1. Buy any book you want from any place that is convenient or affordable to you.
2. Love any book that moves you, as passionately as you are able.
3. Don't throw your Kindle if you hate a book--they break. (Paperbacks are fine as long as you warn family members to duck.)
The End
November 20, 2019
When your grocery store opens a portal to hell...
ZoomBoy and I enter the 9th Circle of hell--aka the grocery store at shift change. We are buying two boxes of chocolate chip cookies to give to his dance class and are running the clock, so seeing the vast assortment of humanity in front of us at the check stand is disconcerting, and frankly, we hate them all. We hate the women who is, inexplicably, buying ten frozen pheasants--I guess they were on sale? We are hating the little Honey Boo Boy, who won't stop whistling, and we are especially hating his father, who is buying the six pack, and who will not shut this kid up. We are very much hating the kid who is complaining viciously to his grandfather about "all the gorum store people who won't stop messin' round."
I swear to God, it's like our California Safeway opened a back hell-portal to Maycomb County, GA, circa 1930.
And just as we were drawing up to the register, another character from To Kill a Mockingbird spoke up.
"Oh my God-- HE'S the sexiest man on earth? Oh he is NOT the sexiest man on earth."
She is talking, of course, about John Legend--and the disgust in her voice was... unnerving.
"That's because you've never seen him play Jesus Christ," I said, pretty sure that would shut her up.
It did shut her up, for a moment. She probably considers herself a Christian. "Well, I don't think he's sexy," she sniffed. "I like my men to be..." Zoomboy and I met eyes. "...tall," she finished.
Ladies and gentlemen, I do not think she had a problem with his height.
And then, as ZoomBoy and I smirked, we heard a small, indignant voice from the line at the register next to us.
"He's 5'9"!"
We cracked up, and the harried clerk rang up our cookies, and the woman sputtered and tried to explain that five-nine was NOT that tall.
And I hoped our local Safeway could go back to modern day Cali just as soon as humanly possible.
Things That Are Broken
* My bathroom--don't ask about the floor, don't ask about the plumbing, don't ask about the sink. And don't ask how badly I wanted to hide when the heat and air guy needed to use it this morning.
* My house--Chicken brought her charge here so she could "borrow my dogs" and play with them in the park. He commented on the mess, commented on the smell of dog, and commented on how icky everything was, before he took my dog and left. Yes, he was seven, but I think he broke my indifference to other people's opinion.
* My day--To start with, the heating and air guy got here at 7:45, when I was STILL ASLEEP. And then proceeded to wreak havoc on my entire morning. And then Chicken was coming and going with this kid who didn't like my house, and stealing my dogs and needing laundry and basically my schedule was shot.
* My dog--Chicken took the dogs out to the center of the park. Usually, I take them in a big loop--we walk this most every day. She wanted the dogs to play so she took them off their leashes. Geoffie rolled around happily, did the dog thing, and looked at them with limpid eyes-- what's next? Johnnie trotted to the walkway and started to do the loop.
You heard me. My dog FORGOT HOW TO DOG.
He doesn't know how to do anything in the park besides WALK THE LOOP.
You all, I broke my dog.
*hangs head* My job here is done--I'm going to bed.
* My house--Chicken brought her charge here so she could "borrow my dogs" and play with them in the park. He commented on the mess, commented on the smell of dog, and commented on how icky everything was, before he took my dog and left. Yes, he was seven, but I think he broke my indifference to other people's opinion.
* My day--To start with, the heating and air guy got here at 7:45, when I was STILL ASLEEP. And then proceeded to wreak havoc on my entire morning. And then Chicken was coming and going with this kid who didn't like my house, and stealing my dogs and needing laundry and basically my schedule was shot.
* My dog--Chicken took the dogs out to the center of the park. Usually, I take them in a big loop--we walk this most every day. She wanted the dogs to play so she took them off their leashes. Geoffie rolled around happily, did the dog thing, and looked at them with limpid eyes-- what's next? Johnnie trotted to the walkway and started to do the loop.
You heard me. My dog FORGOT HOW TO DOG.
He doesn't know how to do anything in the park besides WALK THE LOOP.
You all, I broke my dog.
*hangs head* My job here is done--I'm going to bed.
