Jaime Samms's Blog: Stories Between Men, page 4

Dream Vacation: Or why that’s harder than it looks

Vacation:  noun, va·ca·tion often attributive \vā-ˈkā-shən, və-\

1: a respite or a time of respite from something : intermission

2 a : a scheduled period during which activity (as of a court or school) is suspended

b : a period of exemption from work granted to an employee

3: a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation

That isn’t even a complicated or confusing definition, when it comes to it.

Does it count if I take respite from work to write and then respite from writing to work? I do suspend work to write. Mostly. But then I don’t have a boss, so… Or, I am my own boss. Does that also make me my own employee? Who gives who the exemption, then??

And if I spend time away from home to travel to the grocery for food or to the dance studio to catch a glimpse of my daughter for a reminder of what she looks like, can that be considered a “period spent away from home” where I also work?

…I think I need to hire a management/employee liaison…

Wait. Would that come out of work earnings, or royalties? Would that person then require scheduled vacations, as well? Maybe I could just do that myself. Hey! and then offer time off in lieu of pay!!! Perfect!!!

How does one take a vacation from the three ring circus in one’s own head? Anyone? Beuller?

Movie Talk: Test

The other night, I watched Test, a movie about dancers living at the beginning of the aids epidemic. I’m not a gay guy and I was to obliviously young in the eighties to get what was going on then half way across the world from the small Canadian town where I grew up. I can imagine it being pretty scary. Lots of soul searching. Lots of ostritching. I shy away from watching movies about it. Too many of them end in sadness and tragedy.

But I have a dancer in my family and I was drawn by that aspect to put this movie on my Netflix list where it sat for weeks and weeks awaiting my attention.

I watched it finally. Might I say Scott Marlowe shows some mean acting chops even as he demonstrates his beautiful dance moves. The movie showcased his talents in a fantastic balance of story, music and dance by acclaimed U.S. choreographer Sidra Bell.

And Matt Risch, actor first, held his own on the dancing front. I’ve watched plenty of movies about dancers acted by people who clearly have not dedicated themselves to the craft their whole lives. This is one movie I was never pulled out of because some actor couldn’t hold his own on the stage. As the main love interest, Matt’s role was an important one to believe, and I did.

The movie follows Scott as he navigates the first frightening bout with aids and HIV scare, being called up from understudy to center stage, and being among the first to be honest about what he’s up against just to stay alive.

Small nuances, like listening to Scott’s music choices as he navigates the city wearing his trusted yellow Walkman and then having the machine’s batteries die, leaving him without his armour of sound as he takes the bus across town to get his test results make this more than just another AIDS movie. It is a beautifully realized piece of art as well as an honest look at the other side of the AIDS dilemma: the one where that shows real people making real life choices about how they are going to go forward, be who they are, love who they love.

And the final scene is not your typical hot bodies hot sex finale. It’s much much more than that while being far less dramatic. I have to say that while I seriously contemplated turning this movie off half way through in order to save myself what I was sure was going to turn out to be a tragic and heartbreaking ending, I am infinitely glad I did not. If you want to see a movie about hope and reality in one, this is your chance. Five stars all teh way.

Contest Winner!!!

So just a short and sweet post that Jen CW won the draw for a copy of Off Stage: Right. I’ll contact you Jen, and let you know how to get your book. Thanks to everyone who dropped by!

a bit of winter for your enjoyment

Firefly in Bluewater Bay

It’s New Year’s Eve and ZAM had this great idea to host a yummy tour all about food. The menu is quite extensive; a veritable feast of participating authors offering all kinds of deliciously wonderful treats for your delectation.

May I present your menu

For a central hook up of links for all those offerings, go to ZAM’s blog here:

http://zamaxfield.com/new-years-eve-progressive-dinner/

Now, since my books don’t tend to feature a lot of food, and I wanted to make a few fun announcements of things coming up next year, I thought I would write a lost “Off Stage” scene featuring the guys from my grunge band Firefly, as their new driver on their tour bus wanders off course and makes an unscheduled stop in Bluewater Bay.

So for those of you pining for more from my little grunge band that could and their circle of friends, you’ll be happy to know Off Stage book #3 is in the works, called Off Stage: Beyond the Footlights, and features Kilmer, Jacko, and Tanner, a local pub singer destined to either fix or fracture Kilmer’s heart. The jury is still out on if Jacko or Tanner wins the bass-playing cowboy’s final submission.

In this excerpt, the Firefly members are supposed to be on their way to a glitzy New Year’s Eve party. Sadly, their new bus driver is a terrible navigator and has deposited them in the small, out-of-the-way backwater called Bluewater Bay, and the guys are starving for a good, belly-filling dessert to stave off the hangover of an all night, on bus party and perhaps a bit too much pre-celebratory Champagne.

And for Riptide readers, you might recognize the small coastal town of Bluewater Bay. I’ve been lucky enough to have a shot at writing in the series, and later this year, I’ll be working on a new story featuring Cory, whom you”re about to meet, and some as-yet-unknown love interest. How fun is that???

So, without more rambling, here’s a little scene of the guys just being a pack of rowdy, close-knit friends doing their rock star thang.

“It’s fucking cold!” Clive tried to curl into a smaller version of his big-boned, well-muscled self for warmth. All the drumming for Firefly made him burly, but left him without an ounce of body fat for warmth.

Jethro rubbed a big hand vigorously over Clive’s bald head and grinned. “You should have let it grow in,” he teased.

“Says the dude with rat’s nests in his hair,” Beks shot over one shoulder. “I’m getting coffee and something that’ll slide down without any work on my part. My head is killing me.”

“Wimp!” Jethro called after his lover. “You shouldn’t have drunk that last bottle of champagne!”

Clive smoothed his own calloused hand over his scalp. “I look shit with hair. Besides, it was supposed to be a New Year’s Eve in Vancouver, so I had to look good. Not that it matters anymore. We are so not getting to the party on time now. Stanley is going to kill us.”

“You’re the one who hired a kid to drive the bus, my friend,”Jethro said. “Not my fault he got so lost we’re in another country all together from where we’re supposed to be.”

“Apparently I’m the responsible one, though,” Clive muttered. “We were supposed to be at that New Year’s party. What kind of publicity is he going to have to spin to make this no-show not be all “the band is a bunch of jack-asses”?

“Who cares, man?” Jethro asked. “We’re Firefly. We do stupid shit all the time. That’s why we have Stanley.” He glanced around. “There.” He pointed, “An info booth. Let’s go see where we are,”

“Who gives a shit?” Beks called to them from the doorway of a café across the street. “Check this place out. All day, all you can eat breakfast. Now that’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Their guitar player, Christian shimmied past Beks into the diner leaving a heartfelt “Thank God” in his wake.

“Still swears like a goddamm sailor,” Clive muttered.

“You didn’t really think the hormones were going to change that did you?” Jethro grinned at the drummer and Clive had to laugh.

“No. I suppose not.”

Jethro pulled in a deep breath and ran both hands down his stomach as he stretched his back out. “God it feels good to walk around. All I need is something sweet and delicious in my belly and I am a happy man.”

Clive nodded. “You go find out where we are. I’m gonna get Damian off the bus.”

“Good luck with that.”

Clive pointed to the bakery across the street from where Beks had disappeared into the diner. “He’ll come out for that.”

It turned out getting Damian to get out in the fresh air wasn’t as difficult as Jethro predicted. Their lead singer was as eager as the rest of the band to stretch his legs and a single mention of the promising-looking bakery had him on his feet and off the tour bus.

“Where are we?” He sauntered next to Clive for all the world the picture of the man before the band had nearly imploded. His hands—and their scars—were hidden behind black gloves, spiked and buckled like the rest of him, and though his hair wasn’t spiked up in all its blue, hedgehog glory, he still looked bad-ass in all the black makeup and swagger, even with the miles-long pink scarf wrapped around his neck and hanging nearly to his knees.

“Bluewater Bay,” Jethro said, jogging up to meet them. “Becks is already in the diner with coffee and a menu, but I want pastry. He ambled with them to the bakery and Clive held the door for both of them as they went inside.

“Hi!” From behind the counter a startling young man with vivid blue eyes and a shock of bleached, spiked hair on his head greeted them with a smile full of brilliantly white teeth wide as spade heads. He wiped his hands on an apron already besmirched with flour and something that looked like grape jelly His grin widened until a dimple popped on his left cheek and his bright eyes became upside down half-moons above round, freckled cheeks. “First customers of the day. You have to get up mighty early to beat the film crew, so that’s saying something. You have any idea how hard it is to keep that many camera men and key grips in jelly donuts? It’s impossible, I’ll tell you that for nothin’. They love their jelly donuts. It’s amazing. Never saw anything like it. Except Amelia. She carries that ginormous fancy camera with all the bells and whistles around on her shoulder all day long, and you would think she’d be built more like a bull than a pretty little doe, but there you have it. Skinny as anything, and no donuts for that girl. It’s banana cake all the way for her. Make it special, you know, and she says it’s what keeps her pretty. If you go for that. I don’t.” He grinned wider, if that was possible. “I like ‘em beefy, hairy and tattooed, if you want to know.” He winked at Clive who scowled back. It was too early for dodging flirtatious bakers.

The man behind the counter waved a hand. “You probably don’t want to know. You’re in first though, and I haven’t talked to anyone in hours. I—” He visibly checked himself with an exaggerated blink and one hand lifted in a stopping motion in front of him. “You’re here to eat though.” He picked up a tray off the counter in front on him. “Donut? Or—hey!” He put the tray down again and waved to the counter behind him. “You want to try something new?”

The three rockers stared at him in silence, awestruck at the bewildering flurry of sound and energy.

“I’m Cory.” The young man held out a hand. “Bought the bakery just a while ago, and well, thought it was going to go under until the show came to town.”

“Uh.” Clive jolted out of his shock and took the offered hand. “Clive. And this is Jet”—he pointed to Jethro—“and—”

“Damian, Yeah. I know. Firefly. Man I love you guys. I love your new guitarist. He’s totally rad.”

Damian frowned and cocked his head. “People still say that? Rad?”

Cory shrugged and grinned. Again. “Sure, dude. You want some dessert for breakfast? Because I can totally set you up with that.”

And because it is the new year, and we should all kick it off right, I’ll be giving away a paperback copy of Off Stage: Right, the first book in the band’s series, to one of the people who comments on my blog and asks for a copy. I’ll make the draw on January 1 at 6:00 p.m.

Winter Wonderland

If only every day could be like today. Beautiful to look at and not so cold I want to curse whoever had the idea of winter. Check out my back yard.

I does look like it’s going to be a white Christmas, though we have had three separate dumps of snow and subsequent melt-offs, so I guess nothing is certain until it;s certain.

Meanwhile, I played with my phone again, and here are a few more views of my yard and trees. It’s just a winter wonderland picture day Enjoy, because I had fun with picmonkey playing around with them. I think that could be an ultimate time waster for me….

And last but no least, my favorite of the day, probably because I can remember looking in my parents’ photo albums when I was a kid and seeing polaroid pictures that actually look like this in real life:

Video and other stuff Roundup

So this morning, I have a fun video round up for you, as well as a link to a hilarious life story from a random tumblre that a friend showed me last night that was too good not to share.

So first up is Angel Martinez. I had the good fortune to listen to her panel at GRL in Chicago this year, as she talked about writing sc-fi. I realized at that time that she will always be way better at it than I will ever be, and that I am, in the sci-fi writing world, probably going to remain a one-hit-wonder. Which is ok. For today, I want you to check out Angel’s blog where she reads from all kinds of other people’s books. Today, she is reading from my story, Renegade, and she does a fantabulous job. Thanks, Angel!!!

Check out Angel’s blog, Romance for the Hungry Mind because I recently listened to her reading from The Butterfly King, and I love listening to her read. You can so totally tell she enjoys it.

And then for the fun factor, I ran across this video of large manly men meeting kittens somewhere. Probably on someone’s facebook feed, but it’s cute and the guys are ridiculous. I laughed.

And as a final treat for you all, you have to read this story. It’s so funny. I laughed, and will never think of my church hymnal in quite the same way again. Especially because the ones we use are veritable tombs…

A Christmas story told on demand to relieve some stress for the requestor. And everyone else.

If it Ain’t Broke…

…don’t fix it.” This has been dad’s mantra since I can remember, and there is a lot of good sense in the idea. Why mess with something that works?

The symbol of his railing against a world that continuously improves on things that work perfectly fine is his nice, serviceable black rotary telephone. He can pick it up and call a friend, make a plan, and be done. It works. When he had to go out and buy a touch tone phone, he went through a dozen models, all of which were crap before he found one he could live with (and that could live with him!)

Why bring this up? Because it sort of makes a point I learned these past couple of days.

I’ve been sort of barren, writing-wise for about a month now. Not that I haven’t been busy I have. I revised a completed WIP and sent it to my publisher, and revised a co-written book with the other author and that has been sent to our publisher, and I’m currently doing the same for the fifth Rainbow Alley book.

But there have been no new words.

At first, I thought it as because of that peculiar down time I tend to need just after I finish a work. There is a week or two of mind-quiet when I am perfectly happy to melt my mind with Dr. Who reruns and book candy. When that stretched out, I blamed the new job and the hours I was putting in to stay on top of it. And then I blamed (like any writer who has the hear-me-love-me-don’t-judge-me narcissism gene) poor reviews and wept that “They just don’t get me!!!!” (I know it’s bullshit. I’m over it. Mostly)

What I never suspected to be the culprit was my work station.

I was spending so much time working, that when it came time to write, I couldn’t be bothered to move my computer from the kitchen table, where I can work and participate in family things like kids’ homework and Destiny playing, down to my office where I have been writing now for over two years.

Then hubs made me this space, because we both wanted me off the kitchen table, and while I absolutely love the solution for me being able to work upstairs, it is less than ideal for writing, with PS4 gunfire in the background and the kid calling out something like “is mushroomcloud one word?” every five minutes.

I was losing my writing mojo and feeling terrible because of my non-productivity.

And then I made a plan with my writing buddy to meet her on line and devote a few hours of the day to new words, and new words only. Since I was doing this with her, I felt I owed her my undivided attention, and so I drug ye olde laptop down to my proper office and plugged it all in. We logged on, and in three and a half hours, I had the first 3,000 words of a new story banged out.

And it hit me. It wasn’t work. It wasn’t doldrums or poor reviews. It was me. It was the rapport I had built up with my writing self in that cozy space where I feel like me, where I belong and no one else does. I had built a routine and a writing sanctuary, and then failed ot use it. I tried to reinvent my wheel, and the new models kept breaking.

Now that space might look like complete chaos to anyone else, but everything in it means something important to me. It speaks to me because it is me. My life and experiences, the things I love and the things I want, all surround me in a cocoon of protection where I can take chances with my words. It works.

Of course there is something to be said for being able to write anywhere, any time. If you don’t have much spare time in your day, then you must develope that skill. That isn’t exactly my point. My point is, whether you have a designated writing spot, or the world is your office, if you have a routine to follow, or a ritual for the road, or a special pen, or your paper has to be pink and smell like roses, whatever it is, use it. Don’t break your writing mojo, and don’t dismiss that such a thing exisists. Whatever you use to tap into it, keep it close. Keep it safe.

 

The Continuing Saga…

… Cat vs. Cord

The cord never stood a chance. So, my newest salvo: retractable. And, bought at The Source, where a few extra bucks means if the cat wins again, they will replace the cord for free, as many times as I need in the first year, and then twice more in the next two years. You all have seen how this battle goes. I think they put catnip in the damn things. I’m going to need those free replacements.

On another note, Good news for readers…or listeners, as it were. The Foster Family is now available in audio. Here’s the buy link

Blurb: Growing up in foster care has left Kerry Grey with little self-esteem or hope for his future. A college dropout, Kerry scrapes by on a part-time job at a garden nursery. His friendship with his boss and working with the plants are the only high points in Kerry’s life. He’s been dating the man who bullied him at school, but when his boyfriend abandons him at a party, Kerry wanders down the beach to drown his sorrows in a bottle of scotch.

Malcolm Holmes and Charlie Stone have been together for fifteen years. Despite Charlie’s willingness to accept Malcolm’s unspoken domination in bed,something is missing from their relationship. Early one morning, they rescue a passed out Kerry from being washed away by the tide and Charlie immediately senses a kindred spirit in the lost younger man. When Kerry’s roommate kicks him out, Malcolm and Charlie invite him into their home. As Charlie and Kerry bond over Charlie’s garden, Malcolm sees Kerry may be just who they have been looking for to complete their lives. All they have to do is show Kerry, and each other, that Kerry’s submissive tendencies will fit their dynamic.

Weather…

I mean, everyone talks about the weather, right? Yesterday, it rained and was hoodie weather. The snow was completely gone by midday. In the evening, the park across the street looked something like this.

This morning, it looks something like this.

So yeah. See? Stupid weather. Make up my mind already… it reminds me, though, of a really good book I read once, called Storm Season by Nessa Warrin. I think I need to read it again…

Blurb: 

In Brightam’s Ford, a storm is coming. Ranch owner Jasper Borland and the rest of the townspeople have been rushing to prepare for the months of destructive weather the wet season brings, but with their limited technology, survival can be a struggle in itself. When Jasper finds a lost, injured young man on his property, he has no choice but to take him in. At least he’s quiet.

Unable to speak, the young man communicates by projecting his thoughts—a process that hurts anyone he isn’t touching. Since most people fear him, that means everyone but Jasper. Soon Jasper learns his guest is a telepath, a northerner named Tobias Thatcher, who is searching for his kidnapped sister, Samantha. Hesitant to leave and wary to stay, Tobias must find his sister before the men who took her follow through on their plans.

When the men come for Tobias, he can remain at Jasper’s no longer. But Jasper can’t let him go out alone. As the storms begin, he and Tobias set out on a dangerous journey to save Samantha and uncover the truth.

Also *whispers* I submitted the Actor story today. I’ll post a little excerpt tomorrow.

 

On Teenagers

I’m sure anyone who has spent any amount of time in close proximity to teenagers won’t find this surprising. In fact, they will likely titter behind their hands and nod knowingly.

Two days ago, I popped into the dollar store and bought five pair of fuzzy socks like this one. Five pair. This morning, I went in my drawer to fetch one, because my feet were cold and found one.

That’s what teenagers do.

Also, the last thing I did when I left the house earlier today was ask hubs to remind our teenager (for the third time this weekend) that if she wanted clean dance clothes for the week, she had to bring her dirty clothes downstairs to the laundry area.

When I returned home, after she had left for rehearsal, it was to see that her room’s floor is covered with what appear to be empty dancer shells. ie: pink tights still sticking out the legs of navy blue leotards, sprawled on the floor like broken dolls. And yes. As you can see, it looks exactly as disconcerting as it sounds. Like ballerinas have shed their skins, same as snakes do, and abandoned them on the floor of my daughter’s room.

(Note the lone, crumpled fuzzy sock in their midst…)