Jaime Samms's Blog: Stories Between Men, page 13

What Writing GLBTQ Romance Means to Me

So, to start off with, I am recycling a post I wrote a short while back, because I don’t know that I could actually say any of this much better than I said then, and I don’t know if I have anything much to add.

Granted, I wrote it on a day when maybe my back was up, and I was feeling more mouthy than I usually do, but nevertheless, here it is, because it all remains true.

I have to say something. I’ve kept a lot of silence on this issue for forever, because I hate drama and controversy. (I’m a Libra. I don’t *do* conflict. I resolve it) But there it is. I’m going to say it: I’m a woman. I write man-sex. And here comes the arrogance: I’ve been told I do it passingly well.

So that’s that. I know there are people out there who will never be able to make an informed decision on how well or poorly I managed to write about gay men, because they will never read one of my books *because* I am a woman.

So be it. That is about you. Not me.

But you sort of make it about me when you tell me I have no right to do what I do. When you say I’m only doing it for the money or because I’m some sort of perv who gets off on it. When you tell me I am not and cannot possibly be sympathetic to your plight because I’m a woman, I’m straight, and I don’t know your struggles.

Well. Let’s label, if that’s what me must do. I’m *not* straight. Never have been and I know how it feels to be invisible, misunderstood (like right now, for instance, you don’t think this attitude is bigotry, misogyny, judgmental, patronizing or demeaning?) and I know how it feels to be told I am “Other” “Wrong” “Misguided” “Confused” Well. Okay, that last one is accurate. I won’t quibble about it because I was confused for a very long time about myself, who I am and who I wanted to be.

But no longer.

I’m a woman who is good at what she has chosen to do with her life. I’m a mom, and I have wonderful kids. I have a husband who has gone to the mat for me because he loves me, and I love him. I write stories about what it means to be human, in love and confused or scared or hurting. I write about how it is possible to be strong in the face of all the world, the people you love most, and complete strangers who’ve never met me telling me “No” and finally finding the strength in myself to rise up and say “Yes. In your face, YES!”

And yes, I did just change pronouns in the middle of that last sentence, and that should tell you something. I am not writing about you. I’m not telling your story. I’m writing mine. This is me. My life, my work, my soul, and this is what the universe has brought to my door and told me it is my right to do. No, not my right. What it IS RIGHT FOR ME TO DO.

So keep your judgments and your opinions and your labels and don’t read my books if what I am offends you. You don’t have the power to make me stop. You don’t have the power to make me go away. Your judgerment is all about YOU.

My writing is about me. You want to know who and what I really am? Read my stories. It’s all there. Peel away the layers and look at the truth. It isn’t about you.

Thank you. Because I’m stronger now than I was when I didn’t want to say any of this out loud. I’m braver and I’m better, and that’s because of you. If that wasn’t what you intended, well, rethink your strategy, maybe, because I believe in me and what I do. That won’t ever change just because you don’t believe what I believe.

I know a lot of people get stuck in the turnstile of straight privilege when this topic comes up. And one of the hallmarks of being a person of privilege is that one rarely recognizes that one is privileged. At the end of the day, every last thing a person says or does comes from their own heart, filtered through their own life experience.  The theory of privilege and appropriation would stand if I claimed I was speaking from the life experience of gay men, if I proclaimed to be writing about the truth of gay men’s experiences in the world. I don’t claim that, because that isn’t where my stories come from or what they are about.

I write about life as I know it, love as I experience it, the world as I see it from my own unique vantage point. If I want my stories to sound and feel authentic from someone else’s vantage point, I ask them to read it and tell me what they think, whether that person is a gay man, a recovering alcoholic or their family, an HIV councilor, or a BDSM Master, photographer, mechanic, or construction worker. That’s called research.

There are gaps no amount of research will ever fill in, though. For those I have to look inside myself and find my own truth. I have to fill in that outline of the world with all the colours of my own rainbow because no one is ever going to see those colours the same way I do. And that’s okay. They have their own rainbows and their own way to express them. These stories are mine, splashed across the pages for everyone to see, and I know full well my colours will change by being observed through another’s eyes, and that’s okay, too. After all, red, blue and yellow are only the beginning…

Follow the rainbow and visit the other posts, and if you’re interested in a book of mine, leave a comment and your email, and, tell me which one, and I’ll see if I can’t fix one of you up with something nice.

A Little Rough and Tumble Afternoon Kissing

Today it’s all about rough and tumble rock singers.

“Oh! You fucker!” He didn’t waste time massaging away the pain, but dashed after Damian and tackled him to the couch. They landed with a grunt and a thud, Damian on the bottom, all of Lenny’s elbows and knees prodding him in uncomfortable places. Lenny managed to get one of Damian’s hands in his grasp and sat heavily on his thighs as he wrestled for control of the singer’s free hand. “You are going to be so sorry you did that.”

Damian grinned. “I doubt it.”

The match was short lived. What Damian lacked in bulk, he made up for in height and reach. He had miles of it on Lenny, but he had to be quick. The little red-head was lightening fast, and Damian was smarting in a dozen places by the time Lenny hopped off him and made a dash for his room.

He didn’t get far. They both landed with a thud against the wall, laughing and out of breath, and then kissing, tongues thrashing hands still grappling for dominance. It ended with Damian’s back to the wall, his lanky frame subdued not because Lenny outweighed him, but because the smaller man could out-manoeuvre him with seduction every time.

He let out a moan as Lenny’s knee pried between his legs and the guitarist’s small, supple hands snaked under his shirt.

“Len—fuck.” He head thudded against the wall under the onslaught of Lenny’s tongue coasting from his clavicle to his jaw.

Enjoy all the other authors and their kissing fools. Link up at Victoria Bliss’s blog and read on!

What if this is the last Great Idea?

We all think it. Not very many of us will ask it out loud. Maybe because that makes the possibility too real. You always hear writers talking about their craft as something as fundamental to life as breathing, more important than eating or sleeping. (Not more important than caffeine, though. Don’t get me wrong. We do have our priorities.)  But we speak of our stories–our creations–as we speak of our children. With pride, excitement, frustration, but ultimately, with love.

We love what we do. We have pride in our creations. Writing is a part of our fiber, DNA, spirit, soul.

When we can’t do it, we go a little bit nuts. Someone once told me, for them, it was the spiritual equivalent to a bad asthma attack. As though their soul was fighting to take the next breath, to let go of the trapped, stale air, but was, instead, suffocating under an invisible weight.

The weight was nothing: no words. No ideas.

And in that moment of wondering if you’ll ever fill up again, who would dare to tempt fate and ask, out loud: “What if? What if the last story was the last great I idea I ever have?” No one. Not even me, because I didn’t decide to write this blog until I was once agian in the spiritual free-fall of a new idea.

For me, the binding comes soon after I finish something. For a day or two, my mind rests. I’m free of the guilty feeling of not putting words onto the page and I revel in the pride of a job well done. I let myself feel good about not writing. I enjoy the contentment of having completed a project.

Then it begins. I start to feel the emptiness of “what next?” It isn’t that I don’t want to think about what I will write next. I literally can’t. My mind shunts away from looking for new ideas, like a trickster engineer in my brain, continually switching my mental train to a new track for his own enjoyment. It isn’t even that I want to hang onto the previous characters. They have told me their story. I’ve written it down, and they are gone. Moved on. It is me who is trapped on the endless loop of no ideas. The longer and more intense the finished project was, the longer this stage lasts, but every time, it lasts just long enough for panic to set in and I begin to think…”What if…”

You would think by now, I should be able to recognize the pattern, and sometimes, I catch on. Sometimes, it isn’t untilI am finally well into the next project that I can appreciate the break for what it was. A necessary part of the process. Down time of the soul. Regeneration.

But holy hell, is it scary when you’re in it.

So if you love a writer, and one day, they look at you, their eyes half-wild,  and a bit staring, their lips slack, just hug them and whisper in their ear “It isn’t the last one. Don’t worry. You’ll have more stories to write. You’ll be okay.”

Trust me on this. You’ll be their hero for recognizing their distress. You can’t fix it, but you can help them not go off the deep end.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling. Anyone else want to share?

Sunday Submissive Snog

This kiss is from one of my current WIPs, a Rainbow Alley story featuring Jacob, who had a very brief fling with Cliff in Fix This, Sir, and his new love interest, Aaron. Aaron is a skateboarder hoping to make it onto the pro circuit,  but with a lot of issues from his past and his current life to overcome first.

“God. I want—” Aaron actually let out a small grunt from the effort of stopping his own words. He couldn’t say it. Didn’t deserve it. In the circle of his embrace, Jacob’s body stiffened. Hands that looked more delicate than they actually were pressed against the small of Aaron’s back.

“Want what?” Jacob asked.

You. Nothing else. Just you.

He didn’t consciously move. His hands slid up Jacob’s back as he leaned slightly away, holding his small, compact prize close while he moved enough to look at him. And there it was. That look. That supreme confidence that this submission to his will, to what Aaron wanted, would get him a kiss.

And again before he thought, Aaron was granting the unasked, bending, closing the space between them until hot breath poured from one mouth into the other through parted lips. So close. Aaron could count the passage of time in heartbeats, just as he could when he was in the air. All that existed was the perfection of the moment between take off and freefall. Each heartbeat was a lifetime, a blink of an eye, an eternity.

And Jacob remained perfectly still, willing, patient.

The first touch, lip to lip, wasn’t a kiss. It was just a touch, a shared breath. Aaron explored the softness of the moment, tested Jacob’s fragility and found only more strength to wait and accept.

More. His arms tightened, his head bent that last millimetre, and life rushed up at him in a kiss. Jacob was the parachute, the landing gear, the perfectly executed trick, Aaron’s guarantee of a safe landing. Only he never wanted to come down. He wanted the soft moans he was hearing as they trickled into his mouth and the compliance, the utter and absolute acceptance that Jacob believed this gift was Aaron’s due.

Don’t forget to join the other authors in today’s Snog-fest by visiting Victoria’s blog and clicking the links! Happy Snog-day!

Inviting Drama…

But I have to say something. I’ve kept a lot of silence on this issue for forever, because I hate drama and controversy. (I’m a Libra. I don’t *do* conflict. I resolve it) But there it is. I’m going to say it: I’m a woman. I write man-sex. And here comes the arrogance: I’ve been told I do it passingly well.

So that’s that. I know there are people out there who will never be able to make an informed decision on how well or poorly I managed to write about gay men, because they will never read one of my books *because* I am a woman.

So be it. That is about you. Not me.

But you sort of make it about me when you tell me I have no right to do what I do. When you say I’m only doing it for the money or because I’m some sort of perv who gets off on it. When you tell me I am not and cannot possibly be sympathetic to your plight because I’m a woman, I’m straight, and I don’t know your struggles.

Well. Let’s label, if that’s what me must do. I’m *not* straight. Never have been and I know how it feels to be invisible, misunderstood (like right now, for instance, you don’t think this attitude is bigotry, misogyny, judgmental, patronizing or demeaning?) and I know how it feels to be told I am “Other” “Wrong” “Misguided” “Confused” Well. Okay, that last one is accurate. I won’t quibble about it because I was confused for a very long time about myself, who I am and who I wanted to be.

But no longer.

I’m a woman who is good at what she has chosen to do with her life. I’m a mom, and I have wonderful kids. I have a husband who has gone to the mat for me because he loves me, and I love him. I write stories about what it means to be human, in love and confused or scared or hurting. I write about how it is possible to be strong in the face of all the world, the people you love most, and complete strangers who’ve never met me telling me “No” and finally finding the strength in myself to rise up and say “Yes. In your face, YES!”

And yes, I did just change pronouns in the middle of that last sentence, and that should tell you something. I am not writing about you. I’m not telling your story. I’m writing mine. This is me. My life, my work, my soul, and this is what the universe has brought to my door and told me it is my right to do. No, not my right. What it IS RIGHT FOR ME TO DO.

So keep your judgments and your opinions and your labels and don’t read my books if what I am offends you. You don’t have the power to make me stop. You don’t have the power to make me go away. Your judgerment is all about YOU.

My writing is about me. You want to know who and what I really am? Read my stories. It’s all there. Peel away the layers and look at the truth. It isn’t about you.

Thank you. Because I’m stronger now than I was when I didn’t want to say any of this out loud. I’m braver and I’m better, and that’s because of you. If that wasn’t what you intended, well, rethink your strategy, maybe, because I believe in me and what I do. That won’t ever change just because you don’t believe what I believe.

Sunday Snog ~ From Better

This week, I’m sharing from Better, a novel recently released at Dreamspinner Press. Hope you  like

“Because I don’t want to be careful, Jesse,” Aadon went on, overriding his faint protest, passing a thumb over Jesse’s lips and backing him up against a stall.

“Then don’t.” The words warbled out past Jesse’s pulse fluttering in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Don’t be careful.” Aadon’s toned body pressed his against the cold metal. The rush of fear and excitement mingled, and he knew he’d lost the ability to tell which was which. He didn’t know if he cared.

“If I’m not, I could do more damage than Anthony ever did.” Aadon’s palm caressed his cheek, his fingers slid into Jesse’s hair, and he kissed; a light strike of his lips and tongue, there and gone too quickly to capture, but expertly bringing him back down to where he could almost breathe normally. The rush faded, and Jesse wanted it back.

He gripped the front of Aadon’s shirt, preventing him from moving away. “You’re not anything like Anthony, and I’m not who I was then.” He never would have demanded Anthony answer his desire like this. Kissing Aadon firmly, not hard or angry, just without compromise, Jesse closed his eyes, willed the other man to understand. He needed this so desperately. Needed to know he was wanted, desired. Needed to know Aadon could look on him as a man and not a shattered thing.

A soft groan welled in Aadon’s throat and spilled out into Jesse’s kiss. It was so good. So sweet, and held so much conviction. It was, finally, too much to resist. He answered it, tongue stroke for tongue stroke, slowly wresting control of the kiss from Jesse as he pinned him between his hard body and the cold metal of the bathroom stall. His big hands cupped Jesse’s head, his body an immovable weight against him, soaking in Jesse’s heat and desire, keeping him still and contained.

Buy the Book (If you want)

A Blessing on My House (es)

My publishing houses, that is.

Freya’s Bower, first, and the editors I met there who taught me that editors can fix my grammar without ruining my story. These ladies, and one gent (and you know who you are, all three of you) still good friends, I might add, even as we all move forward in our careers, gave me the absolute best foundation I could have asked for in this business. From them I learned to be proud of my own gift, and to listen to those who know more than I do about it. A small publishing house does not equate to a poor publishing house. This one is one of the best.

 

Next in my career came Loveyoudivine Alterotica, a publishing house that runs on passion and bravery. They take chances and encourage their authors to go out on that limb, to dance naked in the moonlight. I’m not much of a dancer, but they have taken a few chances with my writing that have allowed me to stretch my wings into genres I wouldn’t have otherwise dared. They showed me I can do things I didn’t think I could, and that I can be exactly who I am, and it’s okay to be that person. Writing only improves when it comes from a place of truth. And they helped me find my truth.

Pink Petal Books was my third publisher, and once again, I came across editors unafraid to trust my voice, but also willing to work with me to make it stronger. This is the place I learned that I could rework entire stories, make them stronger, better, tighter, and not lose my voice in the process. A good editor, I learned, doesn’t force you to write what they want. They force you to write what you want. And not be afraid to do it. This is where my editor told me, in essence: “I can see what you want this story to be. I can see it’s potential to be that. Now do the work and trust yourself. GO. Work hard, and bring me what I know you can do, and then we’ll talk.” On the surface, it might sound like a rejection. In truth, it was just the vote of confidence that I needed to take that final step into a world I was scared to create. And I’m not talking about the fictional one inhabited by ageless gay shapshifters in love. I’m talking about the one in which I can stand up and say, “I’m a Writer. It’s not what I do, it’s who I am, and I’m good at it, and I work damn hard, thankyouverymuch.”

Total E-Bound. This was my first stab at what, to me, was a Big House. This was my foray into the world I’d just created. The first time I submitted a story to a publisher I didn’t already have a personal relationship with. This was my introduction into a career. It felt like a rocky start to me. I was like a newborn colt, all wobbly legs and uncertainty, and the TEB folks were patient and professional and utterly supportive of those first shaky steps. I’d hardly say I’m a front runner, even now, but I know I could have made a lot of very bad mistakes if not for the calm patience of the TEB staff.

Finally, Dreamspinner. Way back in the days before I ever submitted my first story, I had what I thought of as a fantasy list of publishers I wanted to work with. That was about four years ago, and DSP was just a fledgling company. But it was on that list. Top of it, in fact, and I dreamed of being good enough to find my stories a home at a publisher dedicated to what I loved to read and write. I didn’t really think it was a dream that would ever find a place in the reality of my two-jobs-two-kids-hand-to-mouth existence. And here I am on the very edge of what could be a future of making a living at what I love to do. That’s a future that would not exist without Dreamspinner and the vision their staff has of the world and our place it it.

In fact, that future wouldn’t exist without any one of the publishers or editors I’ve had the good fortune to work with. So try, dear fellow writers, to remember that for every horror story out there, there are enough wonderful people willing to help and encourage. All you have to do is open your mind to the possibilities, and you’ll find them. Or they will find you. It will happen.

Friend Release: Purly Gates by Vastine Bondurant

I’m proud to introduce this book from one of my very favorite authors and very best of friends:

Vastine Bondurant is Texas born and raised, an old fashioned, bling-loving girly girl.

I also write under the pen name C. Zampa for my contemporary romance stories.

My passion, though, is ‘vintage’ romance. I stop just short of calling it ‘historical’, as I aim more to create a mood for bygone eras rather than dish out historical data.

I chose the Vastine pen name, something that conjured in my mind that world I so love to write: men with women, men with men, and the sizzling chemistry that draws them together. Passion. My heart is helplessly bound to romance of a time long gone—gritty, sexy stories of men in fedoras and overcoats. Old Spice Aftershave, Lucky Strike cigarettes, fancy cuff links, hair pomade, mobsters, dress shirts and suspenders. Clandestine whispers on Bakelite telephones from the shadows of cheesy restaurant phone booths. Stories of a time when sex was all the more sexy because it wasn’t plastered on every billboard—no naked Joes and dames in every ad in every magazine. Lovemaking—hot, sweet-and-naughty—but hotter than Hades—a secret between lovers.

Blurb:

A lonely stretch of beach becomes a hiding place for two men who, when their paths cross, are determined not to be ships just passing in the night.

Purlman “Purly” Gates—dark, brooding, mysterious, hiding from his past and the hefty price on his head—is hopelessly attracted to the young man who strolls the beach every morning. At the risk of his own exposure and its deadly consequences, Purly succumbs to his desire and sets out to lure the beautiful enigma into his lair.

Lucky Cleary wants the swarthy stranger who watches him from the shadows of the cottage deck, and his morning promenades finally pay off when the man steps out onto the beach and into Lucky’s life in a move to bring their paths together.

But Lucky has a secret as well—a past mistake following close behind him, promising certain death if it catches up with him.

When each man discovers the other’s identity, the truth forms a powerful bond between them and fans the flame of their passion.

But is the meeting of these two lonely souls a beautiful destiny or merely a cruel twist of fate in which their desire is nothing more than the kiss of death for them both?

Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007XEOQX8/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_ZltMpb1Y3GFFY

Excerpt:

 

Summer, 1930

 

Purly

Even to take a long draw on his cigarette, Purly didn’t shift his gaze from the scene just beyond the deck.

It should have been nothing unusual, really, just a young man strolling the beach. Except it was remarkable as Purly had been told this stretch of shore was secluded, that all its inhabitants had left long ago.

The object of Purly’s study cupped a hand over his brow and squinted ahead at two white Siberian huskies—almost camouflaged against the sparkling crystal sand—accompanying him.

His whistle brought the exquisite beasts dashing to his side to zip frenzied circles around him and spray the shimmering powder against his calves.

For a week now, this man and his canine companions walked the shore every morning precisely at ten.

And every morning, precisely at ten, warmth—pleasing, agonizing, relentless—radiated from Purly’s belly to his groin at the sight of the beautiful passerby.

To call the fellow beautiful, though, was an understatement. Or was it an exaggeration? Purly couldn’t decide. The young man wasn’t conventionally handsome; in fact, if analyzing his looks in one big picture, he might even fall just south of ordinary. And yet something about him twisted Purly into a huge, sweet aching knot of longing.

A snug black swimming suit molded to the man’s fluid form—to the elegant slope of his shoulders, his long, lean torso and smooth ass. A nice body, not athletic by any means but delicately toned.

But his face. Goddamn, his face. Features too perfectly imperfect to be real. Dark lashes offsetting sleepy, pale green eyes—green like Purly had never seen before. Full lips parting in a near kiss, offering the promise of a dazzling smile and a glimpse of not-so-straight teeth.

Luxurious curls, the color of warm, dark honey crowned his head. As the breeze teased stray locks across his brow, he brushed them back with his fingers.

Yes, Purly concluded, the man could be considered beautiful. And what unusual beauty. Arousing, hypnotic. Yet an odd innocence, only vaguely aware of its own attraction, lurked in those green eyes, in that hinted smile. Angelic, almost.

Attraction for other men was hardly new to Purly but it had only existed until now as a very secret, very tightly capped bottle of potential danger.

He’d always kept company with dames—wining, dining and fucking them—and therefore had no explanation for the lure of men’s bodies or the very private quickening in his gut at how beautiful some of them were. But one thing he did know. The annoying preoccupation did not mean he was queer for he’d never considered acting on the draw of a masculine physique.

Until now…

Into his life walked the first man to ignite the desire to do the forbidden.

Love at first sight belonged only in fairy tales as far as Purly was concerned, so he knew his unexplainable infatuation with this person wasn’t some sort of instantaneous amour. Nonsense. Call it obsession, for maybe it was. But it was not love at first sight or anything resembling it.

Instead of sleeping, he did helplessly drift to erotic imagery of the stranger every night. He did imagine touching him, holding him, burying himself deep inside that gently curved ass. He even sensed the need to protect him. Protect him from what, he hadn’t an inkling, only a strong twist of heart advising him that the young man was vulnerable, very afraid of something.

Yes, the almost-Adonis whose eyes matched the ocean right before a storm did perform a morning promenade every day. Never once, though, did he glance up to meet Purly’s eyes though he surely had to be aware Purly so very intently registered his daily passage

But today, just as he reached the deck, he tilted his regal head, met Purly’s gaze and offered a brushstroke of a smile—so slight, did it even count as smile?—and his lips moved to form one solitary, inaudible word.

That nod and the whisper of a word on the traveler’s lips—only God read what he’d said, for Purly couldn’t—triggered Purly’s pulse into a riotous but luscious sprint.

Careful not to expose his pleasure or the newborn erection developing in his trousers, Purly leaned into the wooden railing and took a drag on his cigarette.

For Christ’s sake, the guy had probably only said hello or morning. And, yes, Purly knew it was silly to allow his libido to go off half-cocked just because of a smile—a barely-there smile at that—and an indecipherable word.

Just as quickly as the man’s smile had appeared, though, it faded.

The dogs had tarried behind to investigate a crab and their master turned to whistle at them, waving them to keep up with him.

The stunning dogs ran ahead then returned to gallop circles around him.

Throwing back his head, the lustrous curls jostling with his movement, the stranger let out a pleasant laugh while playing with his partners. Then he stretched for a moment and continued on the path he’d begun. His legs—those smooth thighs—moved in perfect rhythm like the wheels of a very pretty locomotive.

Once the fellow passed the deck, Purly tossed his cigarette into the sand and gazed as the orange glow slowly sizzled from the tip.

He cast one last glance at the man’s retreating figure then crossed the gritty wood planks to the cottage door. Never, during this entire week, had he lingered to observe the morning stroller’s return path past the deck. Somehow, Purly figured, to still be watching at that point would appear a bit creepy.

The recording on the portable phonograph had finished playing by the time Purly entered the house. He closed the screen door, cranked the handle to start the machine up once more and gingerly placed the needle arm on the spinning disc.

The strains of Haydn’s 101st symphony—warbling and tinny but still pleasing and soothing—filled the small space.

Purly lit a cigarette, sank onto the wrought iron bed and allowed his mind to drift with the music and the cool breeze from the rattling little fan on the windowsill. Soon, though, he found his thoughts had returned to the stranger. How absurd to spend so much time thinking on this person, but what else was there for Purly to do while here on this beach but…think? And he had no control over the path his muse took, did he? Absolutely not.

One thing was certain, though. He wanted—no, needed—to meet the green-eyed being who so curiously intrigued him, who had to do nothing but parade the shore to

touch a match to Purly’s once-dormant lust. Even if it was only to hear a voice from the full lips, then so be it.

Purly would find a way.

Friend Release: The Statue by Zathyn Priest

So don't know how many of you know about my pal Zathyn. I 'met' him years ago in a chat room somewhere and he quickly revealed himself to be one of the nicest, most talent authors and artist I know. He's also generous to the point of insanity. Plus, he saved my sanity helping me out with this very website, and I could go on and on about how great he is, but I'm pretty sure he's already turning eight shades of red and cursing me for going on about him. He just doesn't know the impact he has on people, the glow he exudes, even over the net.

That and I love his writing and his art.

(And in case you didn't recognize it, that, right there, was a big ol' fangirl moment)

So, on to the point: The Statue:

Blurb: Freelance journalist, Tristan Church, wants to expose Galloway Mental Hospital’s dirty secrets. Teaming up with broody photographer, Mark, promises other perks. A ten year relationship with high school sweetheart, Eli, no longer offers Tristan the excitement he craves. Mark made his intentions clear and Tristan is close to giving in to his advances.

One morning at ‘The Gallows’ leaves Tristan reeling. He wasn’t prepared for the hell he witnessed and certainly wasn’t prepared to meet Zane. Disarmed by Zane’s angelic manner, Tristan can’t believe anyone would stand him up. He soon realises the tardy boyfriend only exists in Zane’s mind and the beautiful young man is not a visitor to The Gallows but a patient.

Eli walks out and Tristan’s life falls apart. A decision to meet with Mark almost ends in tragedy and Tristan finds solace in Zane’s company. Before long Zane’s delusions begin terrorising him again. While Tristan fights to save his own sanity and get Eli back, he knows someone must fight for Zane’s right to love a man no one else can see. A man who scares away violent hallucinations, takes away Zane’s fear, keeps him safe, and is trapped inside a stone statue.

Can I just say: I'm excited!!!

And here the purchase links:

http://scarlettiebooks.com/?page_id=262

or

http://zathynpriest.com/brokenpencil/?page_id=970

Friend Release: The Statue by Zathyn Preist

So don’t know how many of you know about my pal Zathyn. I ‘met’ him years ago in a chat room somewhere and he quickly revealed himself to be one of the nicest, most talent authors and artist I know. He’s also generous to the point of insanity. Plus, he saved my sanity helping me out with this very website, and I could go on and on about how great he is, but I’m pretty sure he’s already turning eight shades of red and cursing me for going on about him. He just doesn’t know the impact he has on people, the glow he exudes, even over the net.

That and I love his writing and his art.

(And in case you didn’t recognize it, that, right there, was a big ol’ fangirl moment)

So, on to the point: The Statue:

Blurb: Freelance journalist, Tristan Church, wants to expose Galloway Mental Hospital’s dirty secrets. Teaming up with broody photographer, Mark, promises other perks. A ten year relationship with high school sweetheart, Eli, no longer offers Tristan the excitement he craves. Mark made his intentions clear and Tristan is close to giving in to his advances.

One morning at ‘The Gallows’ leaves Tristan reeling. He wasn’t prepared for the hell he witnessed and certainly wasn’t prepared to meet Zane. Disarmed by Zane’s angelic manner, Tristan can’t believe anyone would stand him up. He soon realises the tardy boyfriend only exists in Zane’s mind and the beautiful young man is not a visitor to The Gallows but a patient.

Eli walks out and Tristan’s life falls apart. A decision to meet with Mark almost ends in tragedy and Tristan finds solace in Zane’s company. Before long Zane’s delusions begin terrorising him again. While Tristan fights to save his own sanity and get Eli back, he knows someone must fight for Zane’s right to love a man no one else can see. A man who scares away violent hallucinations, takes away Zane’s fear, keeps him safe, and is trapped inside a stone statue.

Can I just say: I’m excited!!!

And here the purchase links:
http://scarlettiebooks.com/?page_id=262
or
http://zathynpriest.com/brokenpencil/?page_id=970