Z.A. Maxfield's Blog, page 31

Casual S*x Friday – Cherry Blossoms

A young man stands beneath a cherry tree. Blossoms rain down all around him.  He waits expectantly. He glances at his watch, impatient — always impatient — for the next  the next glimpse, the next word, the next accidental brush of hands.

The first velvety press of lips.

His heart thunders. His eagerness electrifies the very air around him. He closes his eyes and imagines what will be.

Two old men sit beneath a cherry tree. They lift their faces to feel the falling blossoms kiss them and smile at the wonder of it.

 

Tuesday Teasers

This Tuesday Teaser is from my back list. Shall we play GUESS THE BOOK?

Okay! Try to guess the title of the Z.A. Maxfield book this teaser comes from get an ebook copy of the book in question or any other book from my backlist. Make your guesses by replying to me in an email, zamaxfield (at) zamaxfield (dot) com, because if I can’t find your guess, I can’t reward you! Be sure to leave a valid email address so I know where to send your ebook. The sixth person to email me with the correct title, WINS!

Whilst we’re at it, I’d like to invite you to subscribe to my newsletter, for free stories, exclusive contests, and all the news before anyone else gets it!

“We were called to a single-family home containing a cache of illegal fireworks. Kids had found and lit them in an enclosed space, and things got out of control before they could stop it. The rest of the house went up in just minutes. Four boys. Two brothers and two neighborhood kids. The house was fully involved when we got there. ** transported one of them.”

Oh… that meant…

“Some days I can’t do my job worth a fucking damn.” He sat up and discreetly wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

I had to open my mouth to breathe without making a noise, but maybe even that was a kind of embarrassed sob.

“******?” he glanced up at me. How wrong was that? To be so glad to hear him say my name when his heart was breaking.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think kids die for a reason? Like…does God really need them for something?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“What reason could there be for three kids losing their lives like that? It can’t be a lesson. That’s too cruel. But it can’t be random.”

“Ah, ***. Please don’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Why was I even there? What could I say to help ***, with whom I normally lived in a state of friendly détente and unrequited lust? I had followed my feet and my instincts, but now he needed something, and I was absolutely out of my depth.

I leaned over and wrapped my arms around his neck, and it was like grabbing on to a bull. Muscles rippled as his arms slipped under mine and banded tight around me, crushing me. He held on to me as though I was the only solid thing left on earth. He pressed his face into my neck, and I felt the wetness of tears there.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said stupidly.

He shook his head. He was openly crying, and I was acutely aware that there were probably ten people, most of whom were only meters away, who understood what he was going through better than I ever could. I felt his grief like a hot wind all along the place I stuff my inconvenient emotions, and it blew away anything trivial I had ever stored there.

 

Casual S*x Friday – Blue Jean Flash Fic

Connor’s jeans are frayed at the hems. He isn’t the kind to bother hemming them and his momma don’t pay that kind of thing no mind. Mine has fits, so I take up a hem when I need to. I keep my things nice, ’cause my momma told me she didn’t raise no savages. When we were kids she said if I wanted to run around with a boy like Connor I should do for him too, so he don’t reflect his momma’s lack of pride.

When we were kids, I mended Connor’s clothes when I could catch him.

Nowadays, he don’t let nobody do nothing for him. He says clothes only cover what folks don’t want you to see and he’s got nothing to hide. Connor throws off his jeans and jumps into the lake bare-ass naked nearly every day. After, he falls asleep on the lakeshore as the sun goes down. He told me once if it’s real quiet he can hear the grass whisper. He believes when he figures out what the grass is telling him, all his dreams will come true.

So…Connor’s jeans are frayed and burnished in all the right places — at the knees and the curve of his seat. They’re loose around those front pockets where change has collected — where sweat and heat have stretched and warmed and molded the fabric over his skin.

When he raises his arms, I see a strip of bare flesh between his jeans and his white T-shirt and my mouth goes dry with longing.

He asks me for another beer and I dig down deep into the cooler to get him the iciest brew I have, even though my hand stings and comes out dark red. He smiles at me when he pops the top off using the edge of the picnic table. I think it’s cool how he does that and he thinks it’s cool to impress me. His eyebrow lifts and we share a secret smile.

I watch as he brings his beer to his lips and then I swear to god, I feel myself flow past his lips, over his tongue and down his throat — exactly like I’m that beer and he’s consuming me and I’m taut…I’m rigid with nerves.

Connor flushes and looks away, but seconds tick by and I’m still watching him. I’m waiting, and then his gaze slides back to caress me when he thinks no one is looking.

I smile at him, like I always do — like I always have — because I like to throw my clothes off and go for a swim. I like to lie on the lakeshore and make music from the night sounds.

I know what the grass is whispering.

 

 

Breaking News – Gasp!

Gasp! (coming soon in print version…)

Three Crow Press says – Z.A Maxfield’s newest book Gasp! is not to be missed.  The characters are strongly written and will pull you into their story right from the beginning. 

Rainbow Book Reviews says - This is a very entertaining love story. The characters are different and creative and unforgettable, especially Gasp.

From The Armchair Reader - I absolutely adored it, and will most likely be reading it again sometime! This is a book that I’ll recommend to everyone because it showcases the best of this author and what I love about her work so much. I haven’t stopped thinking about this book for days. Most definitely recommended!

Stay tuned for release dates, a contest and more details. Sign up for my newsletter here:


Free stories, news, and exclusive contests

Tuesday Teasers

This Tuesday Teaser is from my back list. Shall we play GUESS THE BOOK?

***Update…the winner is: Kari!*** Try again next Tuesday!

The first person to guess the title of the Z.A. Maxfield book this teaser comes from get an ebook copy of the book in question or any other book from my backlist. Make your guesses by replying to me in an email, zamaxfield (at) zamaxfield (dot) com, because if I can’t find your guess, I can’t reward you! Be sure to leave a valid email address so I know where to send your ebook.

Whilst we’re at it, I’d like to invite you to subscribe to my newsletter, for free stories, exclusive contests, and all the news before anyone else gets it!

“You’re shitting me,” said ******, taking some scallops off his skewer and dipping them in tartar sauce. He looked up at ***** as he popped them in his mouth. He didn’t even chew before he was talking again, his mouth full of juicy grilled bits of shellfish. “How the hell does being naked and stroking yourself help?”

****** was so caught up in the story that he waved off the shocked gasps of the couple at the table adjacent to theirs.

Inwardly, ***** rolled his eyes. “Well, I guess it has to do with those self-same instincts and sensibilities I spoke of before. I think man is innately animal. We’d all lie around licking our balls all day like dogs if we could reach, right? Sure. I believe that if men had more flexible backs, or perhaps shorter torsos, we would have no civilization to speak of, but we’d all be completely in touch with the ‘other’. I think stroking myself naked just helps me get in touch with the ‘other’, you know?” He leaned on his hand, looking up at ****** innocently.

****** spooned up some clam chowder, nearly missing his mouth. “Ah, the other.”

“Of course.” ***** took a sip of his tea,

“For the record, you had me until we were all licking our balls all day,” he looked at his food in disgust. “And that was about three minutes longer than it should have taken.”

“For the record,” ***** told him, “You should probably never play poker with anyone.”

Good Luck, folks —–> Go!

 

 

Teaser Tuesdays – Guess the book challenge!

This Tuesday Teaser is from my back list. Shall we play GUESS THE BOOK?

The first three people to guess the title of the Z.A. Maxfield book this teaser comes from get an ebook copy of the book in question or any other book from my backlist. Make your guesses in the comments on my website only, here, because if I can’t find your comments, I can’t reward you, and be sure to leave a valid email address so I know where to send your ebook.

For news, free stories, and exclusive contests:

“You didn’t put down a bath mat.”

“We’ll get it before we get out.”

“We’d better. Don’t want you to slip. Gotta watch over you” A smile crossed ****’s lips briefly. “C’mere. If we don’t move, probably nothing bad can happen.”

***** laughed at that. “If we don’t move, nothing good will happen either.”

“*****?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What you said about getting on people’s nerves… Maybe you don’t try so it won’t hurt if people don’t stick around, but I’m still here.”

***** shifted his weight and grimaced. “I thought you said you weren’t going to move? In case you’re wondering, that should include your mouth.”

“I just want you to know that if anything, you’ve grown on me. No matter what happens, there will never be a time when I won’t be here for you, somehow, even if we’re apart.”

***** didn’t know what to do with that. Was that some kind of lover’s lie? Those white lies of goodbye for now that really mean I’m moving on?

Good Luck, folks —–> Go!

I’m hosting an exclusive contest!

 

Name That Hunk!

I’ve created an exclusive contest for subscribers to my newsletter — name that Hunk!

Get your favorite man’s name into one of my books! Tell me what you want my next hunky main character’s name to be and why you love that name so much! Look to the July newsletter campaign for details.

 

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News, Reviews, and Birthday Fun

Grime and Punishment has been getting its fair share of really nice reviews, among them:

…Not only is there plenty of emotional substance to sink your heart into, but there’s also the very simple fact that ZAM has come up with another great couple of MCs whose verbal skills rival the non-verbal for a practically perfect validation that they should continue to investigate what’s happening between them…. From the The Novel Approach HERE

***

…Z.A Maxfield wrote a beautiful story about life, honesty, and love. The writing is clean and pulls at your heart strings in places. I loved the way she handled this couple in the bedroom–so wide open one to one another, filled with such passion. Those scenes were key to zoning in on who these guys are, and that’s how I love my steam best: hot and integral to the plot rather than just there to fire things up. I cannot wait to read more of this author… From My Devastating Reads HERE

***

So I will recommend this to those that love budding romances, secrets emerging, great supportive family and friends, hot sex and a happy ending. From MM Good Book Reviews HERE

***

Who you gonna call? No, this isn’t some eighties movie throwback. It’s the latest from ZA Maxfield. And I don’t know anyone else who would write a story about a company that handles these grisly jobs and does it with humor and sympathy. From Mrs. Condit and Friends HERE

***

ZA Maxfield is one of those unspoken authors that just naturally seems to go onto my Classic Great M/M Romance Authors list, and I think that this book is a good illustration of why she deserves that spot. I read a lot of likable m/m romances, but it takes a little something extra to sink into the story. The more of this genre that I’ve read I’ve realized how that has less to do with how much I like a plot, and more how the author extends the story into wordplay — one of the biggest reasons that I review a book first on it’s execution and only after on the author’s choices. The best books use prose like an extra limb, manipulating the reader’s emotions not by what they say but how they say it. From The Armchair Reader HERE

***

A BIG thank you to everyone who took a chance on a book about a guy who cleans up dead people!

The next story is Eddie’s, and he’s been pining for his niece Lucy’s first grade teacher, Andrew Daley, so long it was just a mercy to finally let him loose.

When Eddie and Andrew find Eddie’s favorite elementary school teacher — the long retired Mrs. Henderson — wandering around the school grounds in a daze, Eddie’s afraid there’s more to her story than a failing memory. His and Andrew’s mutual concern for the old woman is just the icebreaker Eddie’s been waiting for. Her story is sadder than either man is prepared for.

While Eddie helps take care of Mrs. H., he and Andrew he begin a happy courtship. But nothing ever runs smoothly. Eddie’s secrets and Andrew’s emotionally abusive father make things way harder than they have to be and moving too fast might be as bad as moving too slow…

Boy meets boy. Boy loves boy. Boys have to clean up something horrific together — something that will teach them more than they ever wanted to know about life and love and growing old. What can go wrong?

Unedited Excerpt

Eddie sat down at his desk and got out his headphones. When he worked, he used his computer’s speaking capability to read what he needed of the day’s events.

Mrs. Henderson could not have foreseen the computer he used. She probably couldn’t have imagined something like a reading “pen” that used OCR technology to help severely challenged dyslexics like him, but she’d believed things would get better with time and somehow, she’d made him believe as well.

She’d been so, so right. Her faith in him cracked a hole in the ceiling and let him see the sky for the first time and he’d loved her for it. Seeing her today was particularly poignant, because she’d recognized him, after a fashion. She’d remembered him, after all these years.

A quick perusal of a dictionary site revealed the word of the day, caterwaul. Eddie knew what that meant, but just to be sure, he listened to the definition. Every day, he vowed to find a way to use each new word he learned. Caterwaul should be easy. That was a nice word for how Skippy and Kim usually bitched each other out at the end of a work day.

“Stop your caterwauling,” he practiced.

His phone rang, and he glanced at it. Lucy’s face, pink and softly rounded, smiled at him. He shifted his earphones to answer, “Hey Lucy loo-loo, whatcha up to?”

“Uh…” A very masculine voice responded, and Eddie sat straight up in his chair.

“Is Lucy okay?” Eddie demanded, imagining all sorts of awful scenarios. With the business he was in, he didn’t even have to imagine — he’d seen them all. “Is she–”

“No, she’s fine, she’s perfectly safe. This is her teacher, Mr. Daley. She let me use her phone so I could call you.” There was a lot of background noise, children playing, Eddie assumed. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Eddie heard the sound of a door closing and less background noise. “What can I do for you?”

“I guess I wondered how Mrs. Henderson is doing. That is her name, right? You were amazing, how you handled her.”

“Well…”

“You were so gentle with her. She really responded to that. There could have been a big scene, and instead…You were awesome.”

“Wow. Thank you. I–”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“Yes. I took her to the hospital. She had a seizure while we were waiting and they admitted her. I don’t know anything else yet.”

“A seizure? That’s not good, is it?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Eddie shifted papers on his desk, straining for something useful to say. “It’s not, probably.”

“Were you really in her class all those years ago?”

“Yes,” Eddie leaned back. “She was my third grade teacher.”

“That’s wild. I don’t think any of my little ducklings remember me after summer vacation.”

“I’m sure they do.” I never stop thinking about you, anyway. “I can’t believe she remembered me.”

“You must have stood out somehow?” Andrew asked. “Were you a bit of a trouble maker?”

“Maybe.” Eddie thought back to those confusing early years of elementary school. How angry he’d been that he never got things right. How hard every single lesson seemed once he got it home and had to do it by himself. “She had a real nice touch. I was crazy about her.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m going to do what I can to help her.”

“You’re going to think I’m awfully nosy, but Lucy told me you clean up dead people. Are you in the death care industry?”

“No. I…” This is where a lot of guys stepped off the ride. “I’m a partner in a trauma scene cleaning company. We clean crime scenes, suicides, traffic accidents. Anywhere there’s likely to be biological waste or–”

A cough. “Whoa, okay. That’s…I’ve never met anyone who does that. People really do that?”

Andrew didn’t sound disgusted…yet. Eddie minimized things. “I do. I mean my company does. We’re called The Brother’s Grime. You know… for when life’s not a fairy tale?”

Andrew practically purred. “Oh, my God, that’s amazing.”

“I uh…Most people think it’s kind of gross.” Eddie waited to hear if that was the case with Andrew. “The coroner takes the decedent from the scene, the police process it. Someone has to clean up after.

“How could anyone think that’s gross. Imagine if you didn’t. I guess I never thought about what would happen if–”

“Most people don’t think about it until something tragic happens to them.” Silence stretched out between them.

“Well…I’m going to have to go in a minute because recess is nearly over.”

Say something, say something, you’re going to miss your chance. “Oh. Okay.” Estupido!

“Hey. I was thinking. Tonight’s my book club. We’re reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. Have you read it?”

Again with the books. “That was a movie, wasn’t it?”

“You haven’t read it then? I thought maybe you could–”

“I saw the old black and white film — the one with Angela Lansbury.”

A brief pause. “It’s not the same as the book.”

“I don’t suppose so.” Eddie cursed his inability to say with any certainty. And he still wasn’t sure he could ask the man out. “I saw the film when I was a kid.”

“Okay. Well.”

“Look, do you — maybe — want to get a cup of coffee some time and tell me about…the books you like?”

“Yes.” The enthusiasm in Andrew’s voice took Eddie completely by surprise. “I have some time this afternoon. Are you busy? I get off here around 4:15”

“This afternoon?”

“Too sudden?” Andrew asked. “Yeah, I guess it’s–”

“No, I can do that. Want to meet somewhere at 4:30?”

“How about Stomping Grounds on Chapman, by the high school, is that good?”

“Yeah.” Eddie smiled into the phone. “That’s great. See you then.”

“See you.”

~*~

And finally, I want to thank everyone for wishing me a happy birthday. I had a GREAT day. It was just magical. I took my son to see the Gay Men’s Chorus Of Los Angeles, who were joined by Stephen Schwartz and Liz Callaway for music from Schwartz’s musicals (including Godspell, Pippin, The Prince Of Egypt, Pocahontas, and Wicked.) The chorus was wonderful and there was a reception for Mr. Schwartz afterward, so my son and I got to meet him and tell him how much  his music has meant to us over the years. The GMCLA also performed Testimony, a number inspired by the It Get’s Better Project. Here’s the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus singing it. The song is taken from, and inspired by, actual It Get’s Better messages. Get your tissues.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XZRN...

Musing about Muses

[image error]I have this guilty pleasure thing with BBQ places. At home I drink all kinds of healthy freshly squeezed vegetable juice and green smoothies and eat whole foods, but when I’m on the road, I have a positive weakness for barbecue places. One of the best things about Kansas City wasFiorella’s Jack Stack Barbecue, which seriously? Amazingly tasty. Another guilty pleasure was Pappas in Houston, where I took in some barbecue with my son and the Houston Comicpalooza gang. (More on that to follow.)

So I was on the road yesterday  on my way to pick up my daughter from school, and hit up a Famous Dave’s. I asked for a table for one. I had my kindle, and I was reading Mary Calmes book cause yeah, who can resist a book with a motorcycle racer on the cover. (Heart of the Race)

I don’t exactly know how the subject came up but my waiter asked me what I do, and I said I’m a writer. He was delighted. He writes, he’s been writing since he was a kid, and has even been published.

But lately, he said, he has had a hard time feeling inspired.

I’d just come from an RWA meeting a couple days before, where Elizabeth Boyle talked about moving out of your comfort zone so it struck me that I had a bit of advice I could offer, especially having heard her talk, because I’m not the only one who would offer it. (Mentors, in fact, have offered it to me.)

Muses are all very well and good. They’re like a lot of convenient things. Like napkins and cell phones and cars. It’s a wonderful thing to have them. They make life a great deal easier when you need them. But when they’re not available, it’s not an option to say well, too bad, I don’t have that, I can’t therefore wipe my face, call my mother, or drive to work. When these modern conveniences are unavailable, one must Make Do.

Muses are often unavailable. It’s unrealistic that in one’s long tenure as a writer, the muse will remain seated coyly waiting for you to ask her to dance every morning. It’s especially unrealistic if say, life has called and you’ve had to attend births or deaths or graduations. You’ve raised children. You’ve undergone colonoscopies or MRIs. In fact, you’ve had to attend any number of events at which the muse is not happy to be a plus one, like unfulfilling day jobs or changing tires or waiting in line at the DMV.

These are the times when a writer places his or her butt in the chair and writes anyway. Because writers knows one thing for certain. They have words. Words don’t belong to any specific entity. A writer can arrange them any way she likes, she can stack them up and knock them down. A writer can use all caps or all small letters and he can assume as he fills the pages, that if he doesn’t like what he’s written, he can hit that magical delete key and they will all go away. We’re free to a-muse ourselves.

To become a writer who always has words, a writer has to be using words, all the time.

Writers write. Period. Full Stop.

Professional writers know that on average, they must write a certain number of words daily to make books happen, whether or not those books are a success. Writers stay focused on words. They stay in the moment. The don’t look at past successes and they don’t borrow future problems.

What happens is that eventually, the words themselves become the goal.

The plaything.

The shiny bauble.

The writer says, hey, look there, I’ve said something interesting. I’ve created something new to me. I’ve begun something I can finish as long as I keep going because it really is that simple.

A writer takes all the qualifiers out of his work ethic and simply assumes he will write, whether or not he feels like it.

Does this mean writers don’t schedule much needed breaks, attend family functions, or go on hiatuses where they don’t write? Is taking time off the kiss of death?

No, of course not. It wouldn’t be much of a life without those things. Every professional needs down time. Sometimes it takes longer to get back into the swing of things, into the routine of writing, but that’s true of anyone who’s been away from the job. It takes time to get up to speed.

I guess what I’m saying — the advice that I offered my waiter was – the professional writer takes responsibility for his words. She knows they don’t come from outside her. They come from within her, she owns them, and she can’t afford to wait for inspiration. A professional writer must work with or without it.

Given that, there’s never a time when a writer has to stare at a blank page.

A writer simply writes.

And I can assure you, as anyone who has ever met a muse knows, the best way to get a muse to hang around is to show you could be having fun without her.

 

 

 

 

Time Passages

When I was graduating from high school in 1978, the song Time Passages by Al Stewart was on the charts. I love that song so much. When you consider that album and the popularity of Stewart’s 1976 “The Year Of The Cat” my entire high school life was scored by two albums. Disco was just beginning to come along and suddenly, Saturday Night Fever was everywhere. I had the only boyfriend in the entire school who could swing-dance well, although he dumped me before prom and I had to scramble to find another date.

I’m thinking about all this today, because my son had his senior choir concert last night. I charged my phone, because while I have a video camera, I don’t really know how to use it. I actually own three different cameras. Unlike my dad, I never could get the hang of being behind the camera, distanced from the life I’m living by metal and plastic and glass. I never had a knack for filming what my family was doing because I preferred to participate.

My dad used to set up the cameras and make us wait upstairs on Christmas morning while he fiddled with lights and reflectors and when we opened our presents — because his camera recorded no sound, he directed us, “Give me some more surprise, honey.”

I don’t really think I have a value judgement to add here, I don’t think he was less involved, or less invested in us as kids than I am with mine. He preferred to capture things, he wanted the reassurance that they wouldn’t disappear, while I have a pretty terrific memory and I believe, even with the best intentions, you can’t really hold on to anything.

So anyway, of course, my phone ran out of space just before my son marched onto the stage in a military coat, singing the Enjolras part of the One Day More song from Les Miserables. Which made me cry anyway, as it always does. I only say this to illustrate how life works. I had charged my camera, uploaded my pictures, but alas. Sometimes good intentions just aren’t enough.

But I guess what struck me most about the evening, besides the great music our small suburban high school puts out, is that time passes, whether you like it or not. When my son was eighteen months old, he went to Montessori preschool. I mostly put him there because I could work in the office, get a break on two kids’ tuition, and we’d all get something out of it. He went in the early mornings, and came back to me at naptime. My daughter Zoe who was four at the time, had been going since she was two and was turning into a first rate reader.

That year they did a Christmas program, and the under twos all got Jingle Bell Bracelets they could rock out with while singing Jingle Bells to a prerecorded track. My son didn’t want to leave me, and he put up a fuss, until I told him while he was up there I was watching, and at the end, I’d give him a special sign to tell him I love him, I’d snap my fingers on both hands and then give him the thumbs up.

I gave him that same sign, automatically, after his number from where I was seated in the front row.

I know what you’re thinking. How poignant, she still does that, she still remembers it and probably someday he’ll really appreciate it. Cause that’s what I was thinking. I was thinking, yeah. Wow. I have surely come full circle.

Last night, after the finale, The Impossible Dream my son Max who was sitting next to me nudged me and said, “Hey mom, did you see, he gave you the sign.”

No, I had not seen. But now I know he did it.

Years go falling in the fading light

Time passages

Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight

by Alistair Ian Stewart