Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 80

The things you forget about birthday parties...

*  Cleaning house is a family endeavor

*  It usually lasts beyond the party

*  Other people's children are a lot louder than yours

*  But sometimes a lot more fun too

*  Taking middle schoolers bowling can be terrifying

*  That one kid looks like he's gonna loop the ball right into someone else's lane

*  You're a much better bowler if you pretend the pins are members of Trump's cabinet

*  Yes, I smashed the horrible and inhuman Alt-Right today on lane 6 at the AMF, why do you ask?

*  You always order too much pizza

*  The only thing more frustrating than ordering too much pizza is when relatives show up early, eat their own pizza, and then won't even help you out by eating some of what you ordered for them.

* My sister didn't eat any cake, either.

*  BTW--Ice cream cake really is much better when the ice cream is soft

*  Also? If you put an ice cream cake in an ice chest and cover it with blankets, as long as the temps are in the low sixties it will last nearly three hours without getting soupy.

*  Your friend really is your friend if she helps you eat some of your leftover pizza

*  You like her kid better too

*  Plans to say, edit or write after the family crashes in a post bday coma are probably best shelved for tomorrow.

*  The blog better not go on to long either

*  Because seriously, you've been up since seven cleaning the damned house

*  But odds are good nobody will mess it up until tomorrow morning!

*  Night!

Scorched Haven--Finale

Hey all!

Rampant, part 2 is coming out this week, along with Summer Lessons  and Freckles is out and doing just fine.

Quickening is under edit, and The Virgin Manny is all up on the website-- whew. I've been telling you that I wrote 260,000 words in 2015 that were on a long publishing release schedule... well, guess what's all coming out next year!

Anyway-- it's time for the finale of Scorched Haven, like I promised.

Now, eventually, I'm going to gather all this together and convert it to .pdf and put it on my website as a freebie--and hopefully pay someone to help me edit it, because I am fully aware that it does not showcase the best of my typing skills. (That is apparently what happens when you wait until midnight to write 3K installments of a serial--color me not shocked.)

But ticks and flaws and all, here is the last part of it--I hope you've enjoyed falling in love with Zeb and Colton as much as I have :-)

And oh!

If you haven't yet read the other 12 installments, well, here are the links!

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12

 Alrighty then... okay... let's see, let's see...

Where were we?

Oh yes.

They were home.

 *  *  *
"Why aren't we in your room?"

Zeb looked up from dumping his duffel bag on the chest of drawers in the corner.

"I have a roommate," he said with a little shrug. "Nice guy--were-kitty. They don't bond as mates and he likes poly. Not my thing, so we weren't likely to bond together."

Colton frowned and looked around the room--which was, all things considered, pretty nice. Wooden king-sized bed featuring a sort of fractal rainbow design on the quilt, with hangings on the walls to match. The wood paneling in evidence in all of the hill was here, a light-colored wood, that made much of the sun coming in from the window over the headboard.

"It's a nice room," Zeb said defensively. His bare feet squished happily in the plush area rug. Yeah, it was nice. Better than his student flat had been, even before he'd sold all his possessions for drugs.

"Well yeah, it's nice!" Colton half-laughed. "But it doesn't make any sense. You do realize we shouldn't have a window to jack from here, right?"

Oh. That.

"It's... well, nobody talks about that here. It's sort of elven magic, but real subtle like. The elves like sunlight and the vampires need half the hill to be underground."

"Oh shit--right!"

He had to smile at Colton's enthusiasm. The kid sort of took to this life like he was born to it. It had taken Zeb three years to accustom himself to the casual magic that permeated every breath he took.

"Yeah. So don't ask me how we have a window--but the only rooms that don't have windows are the rooms that wouldn't see sunlight if half the mountain sheared off.  Green's doing his best to feed everybody's soul, you know?"

Colton nodded, and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "So, uh..."

"I'll shower," Zeb said promptly. They'd both thrown up on that horrible ride. "And nap. Green will probably call a banquet tomorrow to explain shit. In the meantime..."  Zeb bit his lip. This was so embarrassing. "Green will probably come get you. Don't, uh, feel bad for anything that happens. I mean, even if we were going to bond, or already bonded, it would happen. It's... it's how Green gets to know people. It will make you feel good, trust me. There's no shame involved at all."

That scowl was lethal. "I'm not just going to cheat on you because we're not--"

Zeb grabbed his hand, shivering with reaction just from the contact. He took a step into Colton's space and breathed in, feeling that smell surrounding him again. They'd been inside each other, again and again and again. In his entire life, Zeb had never committed to anything--not even Green's Hill, with the fervor he'd committed to this young man.

"It's not cheating," he said softly, nosing the hollow of Colton's neck. Colton shuddered and tilted his head back. "It's answering to your ultimate pack alpha. There might not even be sex involved--and even if you come, it won't feel like sex. It'll be... important."  Zeb took a step back, fighting the erection that had become an almost permanent thing since he'd awakened that morning, replete and exhausted, in Colton's arms.  "I'm going to shower first," he said, feeling grubby and road worn. "And brush my teeth. Uh, if you want food, go into the kitchen and--oh!"

Tiny glowing lights had ably to be washed--and then, bless everybody, a platter of what looked like tri-tip, complete with biscuits and gravy and steamed veggies, appeared.

With two forks.

"I guess there's snacks," Zeb said, smiling faintly.  The meat smelled great--but he wasn't a new werewolf. He could wait. "I'll be out in a few. Save some if you can."

If he couldn't, Zeb knew where to go.

He set the shower to parboil and coated the sponge in body wash. The last three days--Ritchie's death, his own wounding, then Colton, all of the world, all of his heart and body about Colton--lay heavy on his skin. Maybe he could wash some of it off, right? Maybe he could scrub and scrub and let the days run down the drain in a swirl of dirt. Maybe if he rinsed off the scent of Colton's come on his skin, he could erase the way his heart ached at the thought of Colton moving into his own room, discovering the other creatures there at the hill.

He'd been so fine, so noble, going down on one knee before their leader. Learning the ins and outs of this world from Zeb's hurried, half-distracted explanations.

Zebulon, third spear carrier on the left, was not a mate for that fine young man.

The his chest hurt, and his throat, and his eyes burned. He stayed under the water until that went away, and he was worn from letting it out.

When he got back out, Lady Cory was sitting on the bed, looking exhausted but interested, as she spoke to Colton, who was sitting across from her on a room chair.

"So he crashed through a guard rail!" she said, her voice holding the thrill of someone asking about a fight at school. "That's sick." She looked up at Zeb, who stood with a towel around his waist, feeling stupid. "He's telling me about your mad-ass driving skills--I'm totally impressed!"

Zeb flushed, feeling unworthy. "It's amazing what you can do with the right motivation," he mumbled.

"Right?" She grinned at both of them. "Did you see Bracken fly? I mean, not his favorite, right? He wobbles--but dudes, you should have seen us at the thing, with the place? When we sprang the new werewolf and the half-elf. It was pretty amazing."

"The thing with the place?" Zeb asked, winking at her over his shoulder. He was rooting around the drawers to see if he could find some sweats or something.

"Well, you missed a lot while you were gone." She grew quiet then. "We're sorry about Ritchie--I know you guys weren't close, but it's hard to lose someone. And he was your friend."

Zeb paused, boxers and pajama bottoms that had just magically appeared in his drawers in hand. "Thank you," he said, moved. "I... I liked him, you know?"

"Well, five hours in a car will do that," she said back seriously, and he could have kissed her just for understanding. Then she turned back to Colton. "Now, Green usually likes to talk to all the new recruits--but he's sort of got his hands busy tonight. Do you think you can wait until tomorrow?"

Colton nodded unhappily. "Do I have to sleep with him?" he asked baldly, and Zeb wanted to bang his head against the dresser.

She regarded him with the sober attention of a judge. "Not have to--and it's not really 'sleeping' or 'sex'." A wicked grin appeared. "I mean, yeah, sometimes it is. But sometimes it's just talking, in private, to someone who won't judge you for the thing in your heart that you fear the most.  So don't worry about it. If it's sex, it's sex. If it's not it's still time with Green-- and that's important." She grimaced. "You are really lucky, you know? I mean, Zeb might not have told you, but usually bites don't work like that--especially not when you're so close to death. You must have been really damned strong--but more than that."

"More?" Zeb asked, surprised.

"Oh yes." She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was wearing stretchy shorts and a ginormous white T -shirt over them--Zeb had seen her dress for a formal audience and look stunning, but here, in their temporary room, she looked very domestic. A plain young woman with freckles and thick curly hair and a bold nose.

Her power was almost more terrifying like this.

"See," she said, talking to both of them earnestly. "What you have to understand is that it doesn't always work--not the were-creature bite, not the vampire bite. I mean, it works mostly here because Adrian chose a lot of you, and if he didn't, his people did. And he just sort of knew, right? Who would fit in? Who would welcome the transition? But some of our people--like Jack? Teague's mate? He's such a stubborn asshole, Teague almost couldn't keep him alive long enough to meet with Green, so he could accept the change in his life. And Charlie-- Charlie was dying of cancer. He got the bite, but he was so weak Whim had to invoke the power of the Goddess to change him."  She half-smiled. "It was pretty awesome, actually--I mean, that's what everybody says. They wouldn't let me go."

That last thing was spoken so wistfully, Zeb had no choice but to accept that there were some parts of being Queen that he wouldn't want a damned thing to do with.

"So why do you think it worked with me?" Colton asked her--but respectfully, as though he understood how much she would have loved to have been involved in everybody's life.

"Oh! Because Zeb was already half in love with you," she said, and Zeb sucked in a breath.

"We'd only just met," he said, not having anywhere good to look. Colton was staring at him, hunger in his eyes. The bedspread and wall hangings were damned bright. And Lady Cory looked so surprised.

"You didn't know?" she asked. "Neither of you?"

Colton was glaring at him now--Zeb could feel it. "He keeps trying to tell me that I'll get here and it'll be some sort of porn-ucopia and I won't want him anymore."

Cory snorted--an unladylike sound. "Bullshit. Zeb, look at me!"

He did, and her eyes were incredibly, sincerely, velvet green/brown.

"Are you paying attention?"

  He nodded.

"Good. Because you couldn't have saved his life if you hadn't cared for him. And if by some miracle he'd lived, he would have ripped you to shreds after his first change--especially because it didn't happen supervised, or during a moon.  Even the way he changed was Goddess-given. Zeb, you must have fallen in love with him at first sight. Because your heart--the power of your heart alone--is the only reason he's here."

Zeb couldn't look at her anymore, but the only place he could look was into Colton's wet, limpid eyes. "Your voice," he said weakly, exposed--literally, naked. "I was hiding under that porch, and I wished... everything for you. I was rooting for you to get laid until I realized he was a douchebag, and then... I just wanted more."

Colton nodded.

"I'm nothing special," he said quietly. "I'm a small-town guy with a narrow mind. But you saved me from all that. Why won't you let me save you?"

Zeb blinked. "From what?" But he felt it--the yawning void of nothing that he had been. The quiet despair of being the third spear carrier on the left.

"From being invisible to yourself," Colton said, standing.

Lady Cory popped off the bed and padded out, shutting the door quietly behind her, and Colton approached and stroked the side of his face with gentle fingertips.

"I'm going to shower," he said softly. "I'm gong to take about a minute and a half. Eat the leftovers--you're going to need your strength."

Zeb just gaped at him, and Colton turned toward the bathroom. He paused at the doorway--"Don't bother putting on your pajamas," he warned.

Zeb let them fall into the drawer, and headed for the tray which sat on the end table. He pulled back the covers and sat down thoughtfully, towel still wrapped around his waist, and managed a couple of bites of meat before Colton came back into the room--damp and smelling like body wash--and naked.

Zeb dropped the fork with a clatter. "Uh--"

"Are you ready for this?" Colton asked. He stood in front of Zeb, so Zeb was eye level with his crotch, and he managed a sarcastic eyebrow-lift as looked up at Colton's face.

"Very funny," Colton told him, dropping to a crouch. He leaned forward and kissed him, a kiss devoid of desperation and fear for their lives--but still very much full of the passion that had driven them for the past days.

Zeb opened for him, holding nothing back. Why should he? His queen and leader had already laid his secrets bare. Colton knew--had known from the very beginning, that Zeb was his for the taking.

Colton pressed him back into the bed, kissing relentlessly, hands moving over Zeb's body with sure possession.

Zeb was his--all his. They'd done this dance, and Zeb had conceded. The only difference was that Colton knew any objection he'd made had been pretense and bullshit anyway and now they both knew it.

Colton covered Zeb's body with his own, their skin soft and silky together, as Colton sucked on his neck and jaw hard enough to leave love bites. Zeb bucked at the zing of pain, and Colton bit his neck harder.

"No more hiding," he growled into Zeb's ear. "Whose are you?"

"Yours," Zeb breathed willingly.

"Who wants you?"

"You do."

"Who loves me?"

Three remarkable days.  Three days that changed his life more profoundly than the bite that pulled him into this world, this amazing world that he would never leave.

"I do."

"I love you too," Colton growled. He shoved two fingers into Zeb's mouth and Zeb sucked.  Colton pulled them out and Zeb gasped, "Lube in the drawer."

Colton paused to grin, the grin making him boyish and young.  "Lube would be good," he said, lowering his hand to tease Zeb's entrance anyway. Zeb flailed for the drawer as Colton penetrated one finger and rubbed, the harsh friction making him crazy stupid needy.

"Here," he gasped as Colton penetrated with the other finger. "He---eeerrrr..."

Ah! the mix of pain and pleasure--almost... almost... then Colton fumbled with the lube bottle, and the sudden cooling of slick on Zeb's sphincter was an arousal in itself.

Colton laughed softly and kept stretching him, fingers scissoring as Zeb spread his thighs in abandon.

He would give himself to the boy--this man--again and again and again. And he wouldn't feel used, or used up, he would feel rebuilt and reborn, every time Colton took him.

Colton poised his erection at the slicked, stretched entrance of Zeb's body, and Zeb moaned.

"Yes."

"I belong here," Colton told him, thrusting in.

He did--he belonged in Zeb's body just as surely as they both belonged in Green's Hill.

"Yes..." Zeb breathed again, and as Colton began his stroke, rocking back and forth.  "Yes--Goddess, Colton, all of me. Take all of me!"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Colton's flurry of thrusts left Zeb breathless and pleading, aching for climax, cock throbbing for release.

And repossession.

Forever and ever again and again.

Colton's hand on him, gripping him into orgasm was almost anti-climactic next to the revelation that Zeb was already bonded. This man's every touch was magic on his skin, on his soul. He was the most important thing in Colton's life, and Colton wanted it that way.

Colton wanted him.

Zebulon's deep throated groan of come resonated through his entire body. Colton must have felt it, because he gave his own cry of climax, and fell into Zeb's arms, rutting still, even as Zeb wrapped his arms and legs around Colton's body.

"You love me," Colton panted, as though Zeb's soul hadn't been bared for him just moments ago.

"I love you," he confessed.

"I love you back," Colton told him, an almost shy smile pulling at his mo uth.

"Good."

Colton kissed him then, with such incredible sweetness he wanted to cry.

And then he wanted to do it again.

Colton was a new werewolf after all.

*  *  *

Cory sat in the common room, knitting, and Green huffed in, looking miffed.

"Are they still at it?" she asked, amused.

"It's been hours!" he complained good-naturedly. "Usually new recruits are, you know, sort of anxious to meet me, right?"

Cory laughed softly, and Green regarded her, knowing his expression was fond and not caring.

"Are we feeling slighted, oh fearless leader?" she asked, voice all sweetness and sarcasm.

He rolled his eyes. "I have things to do this morning, you know. I was sort of hoping to make sure the poor kid isn't going to hate it here."

"Well, judging by the great schmoopy eye-fucking they were giving each other last night when I went in to visit, I think he's going to be okay."

Green rolled his eyes. "I still have to--"

"I know." She set her knitting down and stood, rubbing her hands up and down his arms. Her touch sent a wave of yearning right to the pit of his groin. Yes, he spent much of his day serving his people--but Cory, always Cory, was so much different than that.  "I'll tell you what. You let them have round four or five or twelve or whatever, and you and me..."

She raised her eyebrows and smiled prettily.

He reached under her bottom and pulled her up until she was straddling his waist. "We make hay while we have a quiet house, right?"

"Every chance we get."

Enemies were out there and allies were uncertain. Their children were, even now, growing in her body, making her every breath more of a burden.

But love and lovemaking were the fire in their blood that reminded them that they were alive, and that  even the worst that could happen was not a tragedy if love had been made and had when the Goddess gave them means.

Her mouth opened for his, and he carried her, kissing and moaning, hands roaming his chest and back, into his room.

He closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked for good measure. Lovemaking was sacred in Green's house, and he was going to make love to his beloved.

It was his most heartfelt prayer for the safety of all he watched over.

Chicken Night

I didn't mean for this to happen.

I remember when I was a kid, and people used to joke about how "Monday was meatloaf night, and anything was better than meatloaf night..." Or how some families had "Taco Tuesdays".

No, I thought--anything is better than to be that predictable.

Of course, that was before soccer and dance and choir recitals and indoor soccer games and snack Thursdays came along--so apparently certain food on certain nights is an inescapable part of parenthood. I mean, Chipotle Wednesdays have been a staple for ten years.

But the last couple of years I've been trying to cook more often (don't laugh!) and although I wouldn't call myself a great cook, I do have a few things I do well.

Apparently, chicken is one of them.

It all started about fifteen years ago, when I asked the family what they wanted for Christmas. Big T said, "Fried chicken!"

I destroyed the kitchen and fried me some chicken!  I'd seen my mom do it--how hard could it be?

Well, apparently it was a success, because the kids asked for fried chicken every Christmas after that. The little kids now think that fried chicken with potatoes is what you eat for Christmas--doesn't every family eat fried chicken and garlic potatoes?

And a couple of years ago, ZoomBoy asked me to cook chicken some day NOT Christmas.

At first I was reluctant. Real fried chicken, with the breading and the eggs is a messy, artery clogging mishegas--good for special occasions but I was not ready to just pull it out on the fly.  Then it occurred to me that I could, possibly, pan fry the chicken without the breading, just using the seasoning that made it so good. (Plus curry. Curry makes everything better. So my pan-fried chicken has curry, chili powder, garlic salt, and lemon pepper. And it's delicious.)  And then, when pan frying felt too heavy, I pulled out the simmer sauces. Well, not the simmer sauces the grocery store makes, because those are bland--I do a bottle of ultra cheap barbecue sauce and a bottle of ultra cheap Italian dressing, and simmer the chicken until tender.

And I simmer or pan fry a LOT of chicken.

Like four big bags of frozen chicken if I'm simmering. Or two big trays of boneless skinless thighs if I'm pan-frying. The idea was that we would have chicken for the next couple of days after chicken night. Cold lunches, in salads, for snacks-- chicken GOOOOOOD, right?  Also if I used the simmer sauces, I'd cook noodles in them afterwards and have noodles. Yum. Food for a WEEK, right?

Once.

Once we have had chicken for days and noodles too. It was last week, after Big T moved out. I was like, "Holy God, how did we manage to keep this extra chicken for three days! This is amazing! This is incredible! This is exactly what chicken night was founded for--at last, we have discovered the true meaning of chicken night I am a grown up, I am adulting, I am SO PROUD!"

Tonight, I made the mistake of telling Chicken that it was, well, chicken night.

She stopped by after a day of granola bars and coffee and had some chicken. Then she made a carry out package for Big T, so he wouldn't feel left out.

I went into the kitchen to put away leftovers and was confronted with one lunch helping of chicken and noodles.

And the knowledge that chicken night was a thing--a real thing. I'd offered Mate and the kids a choice tonight--either I could go watch their last practice of the season, or I could stay home and cook chicken and hot chocolate.

They picked chicken night.

Chicken stopped by on purpose for chicken night.

She brought some to her brother to make him happy and not feel left out.

Chicken night is a THING.

Even if leftovers are, sadly, NOT.

A Woman's Place

So, this is a story from my weekend--

I was in Babetta's, my Local Yarn Store, buying some lace yarn because I'm saying, PI shawls. They're a thing.

 Anyway-- as I was making my purchase, aware that Mate and the kids were in the car, waiting for me, a family walked in.

Indian, dressed in their Sunday best--Mom in a pant suit, Dad with a tie and jacket, grown daughter wearing a spectacular silk sheathe, gold silk wrap, and knee-high boots. (She was stunning--I'm always surprised when people just go for it in color and style in our dusty corner of the world. San Francisco? I wouldn't have batted an eyelash, but here? She was glorious.)

Anyway, they walked in, looking for coffee.

"Oh, do they have other things besides coffee?"

"Yes," said Gustine, Babetta's niece who works Sundays. "We have cookies and some biscotti, and Italian sodas."

"Oh, good," said Mom. "So it's a good coffee place."

By this time Daughter had looked around a bit--and Babetta's is pretty big, with a lot to offer. Spinning, weaving, yarn bags and accessories, class fliers--the store space used to be a gym, and seriously--it's packed.

"No, Maman--it's more than just a coffee place."

"Yes," Mom said, looking around. "It's a woman's place."

And Dad, hearing this--and taking a look himself, took a respectful step outside to sit in front of the store in the chairs and tables Babetta keeps there.

I paid for my purchases and left, and thought about that sort of magical understanding between the women, who saw the colors and the crafts and the things of interest, and Dad, who knew it wasn't something he'd be interested in, but wanted to give his wife and daughter their own time without his pressure for them to hurry.  I thought of the daughter's glorious silk Sunday best, and the perfect, accented voices.

And I hoped there is always room in the world for what is different, and always room in all of us to enjoy the differences and celebrate the things we have in common--like womens' places and bright colors and coffee.

I know the world is scary right now--I am afraid for friends, for students in my children's school, for kids my husband coaches, for every ally I know. The day before the trip to Babetta's I'd had a chance to talk to Mate's assistant coach on Squish's team. He is African American--and the captain of the S.W.A.T. team on the local police force, and he and his family cried on November 8th too. He was afraid for his children--but he and my husband were out, coaching their girls, making the day as bright and happy and healthy as they possibly could.



We need to hold on to those small good moments of peace when we see them. They're what we're fighting for.

Lucky 13

So, the big kids have moved into an apartment together, and just the little kids are at home.

And ZoomBoy turned 13 today.

Someone remembered when the blog was just started--ten and a half years ago, a couple of months after Squish was born.  We called Squish "Ladybug" then, because of a cardigan I'd made her when I was pregnant, and called ZoomBoy The Cave Troll.  

It's from a moment in The Fellowship of the Ring, when the group is in the mines of Moria, and they're overrun with orcs. Our heroes are outmanned and outgunned, and Boromir takes a look at the situation and comes back and says, "They have... a cave troll."  Because dude--the cave troll is overkill, right?

That was our ZoomBoy.

He was bright, sharp, clever from the very beginning. (I think the word Mate used with the must venom was "cunning" when he escaped the living room for the umpteenth time after we'd set the place up as a big playpen.)  Among "Cave Troll" stories that I wouldn't mind remembering are the following moments:

*  He used to scream outrageously whenever his "plan" of whatever had been interrupted. When the kids asked me, "Mom, what's wrong with him NOW?" I'd reply, "He was born on November 15th, 2003."  "So?" "That's all I got. That's the reason he's being such a pissant--now worship the baby god until he stops!"

*  I was a little afraid of making the big kids "worship the baby god", in case we would spoil him rotten. But in his turn, when Squish was born, he worshipped the baby god himself, and Squish, when presented with smaller children, knows the schtick. Apparently "worship the baby god" becomes code for taking care of people and animals smaller and more vulnerable than yourself and judging the big kids' behavior, it seems to stick. (Makes you wonder who stepped on the Republicans' balls when they were little, right?)

* When he was two and a half, Chicken dropped him on his head--literally--and he needed a half-inch cut over his eye stitched. We told them both that he got one shitty test to blame on her--but he had to choose it well. So far, he has not played that card.

*  When Squish was able to crawl, he used to use her to get into mischief. Once, when Chicken told him to stay out of her room, he pushed an ice chest down the hall and boosted Squish onto the top of it. And had HER open the door.

*  He and Dennis Quaid (the big orange tom cat we used to have) had a love/hate relationship. They loved each other, but he loved Dennis Quaid in ways the cat HATED. One of their best moments was when Chicken pretended to lay down on top of the cat. Watching ZoomBoy run around her, shoving at her shoulder and her head and trying to shove her up so she didn't crush the cat was pretty hilarious--and also a nice lesson that, just because he held that cat upside down and squeezed him, it didn't mean there wasn't love there.

*  Before Squish was born, he didn't talk. Like, didn't talk. At all. When he was 2 1/2, about a month before I was due, I had a day set aside to start the ginormous snowball of phone calls that was getting early childhood intervention involved--I'd been through this before with Big T, and oh, shit, I was going to have to do it with ZoomBoy.

That day--THAT DAY--I was pouring him milk for snack. "Hey, Zoomboy, do you want some milk? We have chocolate milk today, would you like some?"

"Yes, Mama, I'd love chocolate milk. Chocolate milk is nummy!"

0.0

The little shit.

*  When he was five, he hid in the coffee table--it's got a high level and a low level.  He did this while cable guys were going in and out of the house. We thought he was out wandering the neighborhood. (Some of you may remember there was precedent, which I used as an anecdote in Racing for the Sun.) I was cruising around the block in the car, trying not to LOSE MY FUCKING SHIT when I decided it was time to call the police. As I was pulling into the driveway, he ran out of the house shouting, "Mom! Mom! Mom! I was playing hide and seek and NONE OF YOU found me!"

I almost slapped him. I seriously almost smacked the living hell out of him. That I didn't is one of the wonders of human nature.

* The ocean is his favorite place in the world. We have pictures of Chicken holding him to calm him down at the ocean, and I kept thinking about Hamlet--"as when the sea and sky contend together"--this is Zoomboy. Sometimes calm and serene and sometimes he's the sea and sky contending for supremacy. That's just my boy.

*  The famous "stop playing with your wiener" scene in Forever Promised... uh, yeah. If you've read it, you know what I'm talking about. Yup--ZoomBoy.

*  As he's grown, he's gotten increasingly interested in making us laugh. HIs older brother used to get discouraged. "He's so funny. Sometimes, I steal his material for FB."

Yeah, him and me both.

I could do this all night.

I could.  So many interesting moments--so many times he has stood out in my mind as an absolutely fascinating person.  (Hey-- the Socrates award in 6th grade for thinking outside the box comes to mind.)

But he turned 13 today and everybody was asking him how he liked being a teenager.  "Well, I think it's like turning into a cat. I expect to get hairy, have mood swings, and sleep all the time. It'll be great!"

Yup-- that's my boy!

I cannot thank the world or the universe or the gods or the goddess enough for him. He's wonderful.

Tonight he opened his present from his big sister--it was the journal from Gravity Falls. As soon as he saw it he went and fetched his Dipper Hat, so he could read the journal in the appropriate frame of mind.

Soon--much, much too soon, he's going to be an incredibly interesting adult.

Right now, he's my odd little duck, my quirky little buddy, my Cave Troll.

My beloved ZoomBoy.

Happy birthday, ZoomBoy. I hope all your stories get laughs and have happy endings.

The Fine Line Between Yellow and Orange

 So Freckles is out--YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!   Most of the reviews are good--not the ones posted on Amazon, but I swear, the ones excerpted under the book info are real too ;-)

Most of the people who liked Freckles took one look at that adorable puppy on the box and knew what they were going to get.

Absolute fluff.

And regular guys, of course.  With a little bit of a life lesson thrown in.

And that's the fun thing about winter holiday stories-- you can write absolute pure lemon yellow fluffy and not feel bad about it. It's like that chocolate marzipan your mom makes and you pig out whenever you're near it.  It's Solstice, eating sweets doesn't make you a bad person.

That being said, Freckles was possibly the lightest thing I've ever written. When I look at Winter Ball, for instance--that was also pretty happy golden yellow. Except when it wasn't.

Yeah--there were some painful moments in that book--some unexpectedly tender times when Skip and Richie made my throat close up and brought me to tears. The scene where it's raining and they're laying in bed and Skip tries to tell Richie he loves him--just typing that hurts my heart a little. But the scene where Skip has a coughing fit on the soccer field--that makes me crack up. Every time.

And I've always known I've written on a continuum.  There were some genuinely funny moments in Keeping Promise Rock. Even Beneath the Stain had some moments that made me smirk.  Mackey-- God, such a smartass. (When Blake cried on him for forty-five minutes--God, pure karma.)

I don't think I've ever felt that knife edge between laughter and tears so acutely as when I was proofreading Summer Lessons. 

There are some moments in this book that rip my heart out. I'm not expecting them. They're not like Crick and Deacon moments, when the world is coming to an end. I'm writing the next Fish Out of Water right now and Jackson is gutting me like a goddamned fish--pun not intended, but not bad, really.

This is different. These aren't super-heroes like Jackson or Deacon. There is nothing larger than life about them. But one minute they're okay and the next minute you see into the painful, unnoticed tragedies that we fall victim to in everyday life. They don't make headlines, and even when they're talked about, the day to day of them doesn't really hit you--even if you're one of the people living with the problem.

I think that's why I love Mason and Terry's story so much. These are everybody's problems. These are the people who never get their story told--and that doesn't mean they don't hurt as much as everybody else, it just means they don't see themselves as special enough to even have a book.

But shouldn't we all be special enough to have a book?

One of the nicest compliments somebody paid me about Freckles was that Sandy and Carter felt real. REAL. They were people you could walk into as you crossed the street in the morning. Even when I'm writing rock stars or stock brokers or horse ranchers or private detectives, I like to think these people are real. The have soft and vulnerable sides and funny sides and weaknesses and strengths. I guess that's why this whole marketing idea of the three different flavors of Amy was so late in coming. For one thing, I write EVERYBODY.

For another...

I write everybody.

Life on a continuum. From the profoundly happy moments of looking into the soulful eyes of your first dog...

To the small painful moments of telling your best friends that they're your best friends even when you don't seem to fit...

To the big crashes, like in Beneath the Stain or Keeping Promise Rock, where the lives of the everyday man assume the grandeur and richness of a Shakespearean hero doomed by his own flaws.

So I guess that's why I'm always surprised when people hit my extremely fluffy or my extremely dark and talk about "This isn't my favorite flavor of Amy Lane."

I know to an outsider, not skating the rails of my inward ponderings, they probably seem like very different flavors.

But to me, it's white chocolate sliding to chocolate so dark light cannot escape its surface.

All chocolate is delicious, right?

But not for some people--Mate, for example, thinks dark chocolate is a stain on mankind's candy-making blotter. I think white chocolate needs to be on a pretzel.

But I like that books like Winter Ball and Summer Lessons have both flavors swirled together--but distinctly enough to taste.

This makes me very happy.

I hope it makes my readers happy too.

Freckles--Blog Tour

T


our Titles: Freckles

Okay, guys--
I have written ten posts on this tour--and of course there's a giveaway.  But mostly, there's funny adorable dog stories for anyone who follows the blog on a regular basis.
In short, if you wanted more dirt on Geoffie and Johnnie, this is the place to get it. 
So be sure to check out Freckles--it should be available from amazon and ARe tomorrow. And definitely check out the blog tour, because hey-- free content with adorable pups. 
We need some frickin adorable pups right now.

Available at Amazon, Are, and Riptide
Stops for this tour:November 14, 2016 - Diverse ReaderNovember 14, 2016 - Man2MantasticNovember 14, 2016 - Alpha Book ClubNovember 14, 2016 - Scattered Thoughts and Rogue WordsNovember 14, 2016 - Love Bytes ReviewsNovember 15, 2016 - Prism Book AllianceNovember 15, 2016 - Booklover SueNovember 15, 2016 - Erotica for AllNovember 15, 2016 - Creative DeedsNovember 15, 2016 - My Fiction NookNovember 16, 2016 - The Jeep DivaNovember 16, 2016 - The Day Before You CameNovember 16, 2016 - Fangirl Moments and My Two CentsNovember 16, 2016 - The Novel ApproachNovember 16, 2016 - Book Reviews and More by KathyNovember 17, 2016 - GGR-ReviewNovember 17, 2016 - Dog-Eared DaydreamsNovember 17, 2016 - Delighted ReaderNovember 17, 2016 - Sinfully Gay RomanceNovember 17, 2016 - Joyfully JayNovember 18, 2016 - Wicked Faerie's Tales and ReviewsNovember 18, 2016 - Bayou Book JunkieNovember 18, 2016 - OMG ReadsNovember 18, 2016 - Two Chicks ObsessedNovember 18, 2016 - MM Good Book Reviews

"I'd cut his throat in a church..."

The line is from Hamlet--I forget the act and scene, but it's Laertes. Claudius has asked the young man what he would do to avenge his father, and this is Laertes's answer.

Pretty hardcore, right? You gotta admire a young man with convictions.

And also, contrasted to Hamlet's actual actions, both far more humane, and far less humane.

See, Hamlet, as you may remember, had been in a similar situation earlier on in the play. He was hiding in the confessional when Claudius came in and confessed, with tears and true repentance, that he'd actually killed Hamlet's father.

Hamlet had the perfect opportunity to kill Claudius--he was right there. 

But Hamlet claimed that he didn't want to kill Claudius there, because he'd just confessed his sins and he'd be good to go. I mean, getting struck from lightning when you're exiting confessional is both a big f-you from God and a huge blessing in disguise. Unless you're schtupping someone inside the church you're going to heaven with a clean slate, do not pass purgatory, go straight on up, right?  At least according to the Elizabethans, and those people had their heavenly ascension down to a science. (Literally. They had a heavenly ascension chart the same way we have a periodic table. For real.)

So, on that point, not killing Claudius was really the least humane way to go.

But I've always maintained that it was also the action of a just man who refused to--hey!--cut a praying man's throat in a church.

Of course some of the irony here is that Claudius really felt like he couldn't pray, because he wasn't giving up any of the good shit he'd gotten from the murder, but Hamlet didn't know that--he was assuming that Claudius had no conscience and that the confession was the be all and end all of the justice.

So which way was "better"? Which action was the bravest, the noblest, the most manly and kind?

Well, let's look at what would have happened if either one of them had changed their course of action.

If Hamlet had killed Claudius in that church, Ophelia would have lived.  She'd already betrayed him, but he might have forgiven that, and hey, he wouldn't have Polonius's blood on his hands. (I maintain Polonius was not as innocent as some portray him, but that's another chat.) HIs mother would still be alive, but she'd hate him, and he either would have had to flee the country forever, or been hanged as a murderer.  Either way, he wouldn't have gotten to taste the sweet breath of freedom as he betrayed his two childhood friends who were only following their king's orders (I'm bitter about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, so sue me) but he also might not have gotten to taste the sweet sincere love of a good man who was not passion's slave. (That last part is pure speculation on my  part, but only because I ship Hamlatio with a nerd's zeal.)

At the end of the play, everyone would be alive except Claudius, but Denmark would be fucked and Hamlet's life in shambles.

Okay...

Let's see if Hamlet did kill Claudius, but Laertes, one of Hamlet's most prominent foils, decides to take the same route and not execute perfidious revenge.

Well, Polonius would still be dead, and so would Ophelia, and that would suck, because seriously, poor Ophelia--I think Hamlet loved her, but in the end she was only a tool. *shakes feminist fist in true anger* But in the end, everyone else would live.  Hamlet has forgiven Claudius, forgiven his mother, and he and Horatio might live in "Fuck you, I"m over Denmark" bliss for many years to come. Hell, Laertes could come with them. They would be a threesome and I could write that ship a thousand times, huzzah!

But notice what doesn't happen with either of these scenarios--

Claudius is never revealed.

Gertrude never shows her son that she loves him more than she loves Claudius.

Hamlet hasn't grown into the person who could, with such understated philosophy, accept that death would come or it would not, but he would live his life with serenity.

Laertes would never have grown beyond his father's shadow to the point that he could recognize the evil in an authority figure whom he'd been trained to suck up to until the last sip of toe sweat.

Denmark never gets the sublimely manly and commanding leadership of Fortinbras upon her throne to fix the entire goat-fucking cluster-hump that was Denmark's political family.

Hamlet's father is never avenged publicly.

And, of course, Horatio and Fortinbras are never allowed to unite in coital bliss. (Look, if Hamlet's dead, Horatio still has to bang somebody. It's my ship, dammit!)

My point?

Extremism rarely solves anything, and knowing when to act and when to stay your hand is an incredibly tricky business.

If you look at the end scenario, Hamlet met his end with a clean conscience and most of his to-do list checked off, and he got to do that because he walked away from an amoral act.

Laertes's actions provoked the end of his family name and the end of Denmark's monarchy, all in one rash vow of vengeance.

Of the two young men, the one who did the most overtly humane thing ended up in the best shape as the last breath was drawn.

Hamlet is a deeply flawed play--I took a master's course in it. I mean, I've had nearly 18 units of Shakespeare, and this fucking play figured large in more than a semester's  worth of analyzation, and one of the best and worst things about it is that there ARE no cut and dried answers. If you're reading MacBeth or King Lear or Othello, you KNOW what you want the hero to do and who you want dead at the end.

If you're reading Hamlet?

ehhhh... it's a crapshoot.

But then, real life is like that too.

I just refuse to believe that cutting a man's throat in a church ever led to anything good.

Tired

Okay-- we're all tired and sad, but I've seen us trying to cheer each other up too.

I've got a couple of links here that helped me stop sobbing this morning. (I am not kidding about this--I now have that sort of headachy insomnia that comes from being in tears or on the brink of tears for more than 24 hours. If you're a fellow sufferer, I'm so sorry.)

But like I said-- these gave me hope:

Literary Comics

Knitting

The Letter Aaron Sorkin Wrote

These Four Women

The Story of the Founder of Star Trek

This Song About Fighting the Good Fight

And a conversation with my friend Ambrosia, because even though she was just as sad as I was, I texted her out of the blue and it ended up in a chance to see her and talk.

Get some sleep, all. Hug your family. We still have work to do in the morning.

Night.

Squish and Politics

I almost can't tell this story, because it hurts too much. But it's a hopeful story too, so I'm going to go with that.

Squish and I are now the only two people in the car in the morning. (And the dogs, of course.)  It used to be Zoomboy, Big T and I--we'd drop T off at the bus stop. Then ZoomBoy went to junior high and it was Big T and Squish and I.

Now T has moved into an apartment with Chicken, and it's just me and my baby.

My baby finally gets my undivided attention.

"Mom, should we hate Republicans?"

I am startled. Yes--this election has been bitter, but Mate and I have all sorts of friends.  Some of them are Republican, and they know I'm liberal, and we just don't talk politics.

"No, hon.  Republicans are people--we shouldn't believe what they believe, but we shouldn't hate them."

"Why would they even want to vote for Trump? I don't understand. He says mean things about everybody else we love. Except, you know, the Republicans."

"It's called dog-whistle politics, honey. Dogs are trained to respond to the whistle because they have no language. People who don't think critically about words and meaning, or about the way the world fits together, hear a rich white man speaking, and they think they need to respond to him. That's how your dad and I think the Republican party has worked for a while. It's why it makes us so mad."

"But we shouldn't hate them?"

"No. With the exception of Trump--and some of the people around him--most Republicans just want to run the country. In elections past, it's been a difference of how they thought it should be done. But at the end, you had hope that the person in charge was at least trying for the biggest number of people to be happy."

"Oh, so, like in soccer. Where both sides fight hard, but at the end you say good game."

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

"But liberals were better than conservatives."

"Mom and dad think so. But it didn't used to be so divisive."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it used to be a difference of philosophies--"

"Like one person likes french fries and the other likes mashed potatoes with butter?"

"Sure."  (What can I say--as a family, we really like potatoes.)

"What's it like now?"

"Like one person likes french fries and Trump wants to kill everybody else with fire."

"Does he really?"

"We don't know. That's why it's scary."

"Should we hate Trump?"

"No, but I do."

"He's really mean."

"He's said something awful and demeaning about pretty much every person we love. And women too."

"I know.  I said that already. Is that why you voted for Hillary?"

"She's the most qualified candidate I've ever voted for. That alone should be the reason."

"I hope she wins."

Well, we all know how that turned out.

And she cried, bitterly. She's ten--she saw the unfairness of it.  I cried too.  We changed the channel-- watched @midnight, because Chris Hardwick always seems to know how to use humor to make it better--without forgetting it exists and reminding us that we can change it.

When that was over, she went to bed and I sobbed on my husband until I couldn't breathe.

It's not fair. I thought better of my country. I thought better of people in power. I thought better of my friends and neighbors.  This was not a joke, this was not reality TV--this was how my children are going to grow up.

But they are going to grow up.

They're going to remember this.

I'm not suddenly going to start voting for idiot liars because they're white men. I'm not suddenly going to drop my friends or tell my children to drop their friends or tell them to treat people badly because our friends are people of color.  I'm not going to believe people are less than people because the weenie with the launch codes thinks it's cute to demean people with disabilities. And I'm not going to stop writing gay romance or working for marriage equality because an anti-LGBTQ nazi is in the white house.  Every story I write, every happy ending I craft, is going to carry with it the subtext that our world can be, should be MUST BECOME a place where this happy ending can occur.

And someday, my children will be old enough to effect change.

And they're going to remember that Hillary didn't give up.

And mom didn't stop being liberal.

And our house was a place where you didn't hate anybody for their politics.

But you didn't dog-whistle knee-jerk for a goddamned soul.