Vaughn R. Demont's Blog, page 9

Why I Write Urban Fantasy Instead of M/M

Writing your opinion on M/M is a dangerous thing, I’ve found, and not for fear of offending gay men, but rather the women who make up the vast majority of its writers, readers and reviewers. I’ve said before that I’m cool with that, but I always feel that when I’m about to discuss what I’m about to discuss that I’m drawing a line in the sand rather than explaining a personal choice. I don’t claim that what I write is “better” or anything like that, but still, there’s a confession I need to make.

I don’t read M/M romance anymore. I likely never will again.

And to begin, it’s not because the covers are largely perfectly sculpted abs with no heads (God knows book covers aren’t even in spitting distance of fair for women), nor is it because the leads have the kind of sex that I’ll likely never have with men so beautiful they’d bring me to tears but damaged enough for me to have a shot with them. It’s fantasy, I get it, it’s an escape where the two pretty men get together and have great sex and fall in love.

And I don’t want to read about that, because to me (and I’ve read a few M/M romances)  the final reward for the protagonist is, let’s face it, bland.

M/M romance, and well, a lot of gay fiction tends to reward the protagonist with normalcy. We get the relationship. We get to come out to our parents and be accepted by our friends. We get to buy the house in the suburbs or the nice apartment. We get to go to a state that’ll allow it, and get married. We get to start a family.

In other words, we get to be you. The normal people.

We go through hell and a lot of soul searching and a lot of personal sacrifice… to be regular.

Or we die of AIDS but it’s really tear-jerking.

That’s the fantasy?  That’s what I should be dreaming of? That’s what I need to read a book to experience because in the real world it’s beyond my reach?

Hell, that’s what I can have right now. It’s not much of a fantasy if it’s something that everyone else has. In fact, for me, it’s kind of sad. But then, M/M isn’t really for me, is it?

So I don’t want to write M/M.

I want to write Urban Fantasy with protagonists who are gay.

Instead of being called a faggot every other page…

Put simply, I want to write a story where the hero can risk his life for the common good and emerge triumphant, where the hero beats the bad guy, where the hero has his flaws, but is good-hearted and devoted to values the reader can identify with, where the hero can celebrate victory with the one they love, but where the story isn’t just about that celebration, where the hero maybe reminds us that people are fundamentally decent, and where the hero can rest when he’s finally done.

And I want that hero to be someone like me, but I don’t want the entire story to be putting a spotlight on the fact that he’s gay. I don’t want to have to dumb down a plot or shoehorn in a sex scene simply because my lead is homosexual. If Jim Butcher doesn’t have to do that to Harry Dresden, why should I have to do it to someone like James Black? (Note: My current publisher has NEVER asked me to dumb down a plot or force in a sex scene, but this does happen in the gay genre fiction industry.)

When I was growing up, I didn’t have any stories or movies where someone like me was the hero. I had movies where someone like me was at best the comic relief, or was dying of AIDS. I watched movies where a man sleeping with another man was a sure sign someone was crazy or a murderer or completely depraved. I read books and played video games were we were ridiculous flamers or tokens. Never once did we get to be the hero and kill the bad guy and save the world. I’m not saying that if I’d had a book when I was 16 that featured a gay lead emerging triumphant, my life would’ve been awesome, but it would’ve been nice to have something like that. In college I had memoirs shoved down my throat about gay men who survived the 70s and 80s, some of which were inspiring, such as the stories from the Stonewall movement, and the rest were about men contracting HIV from fucking every random guy they met under a pier or in the park or at a rest stop while they tried to do a gay rendition of The Air Conditioned Nightmare. I realize that the purpose of those memoirs is to wake you up and piss you off, but I have to admit something here: I’m not seventeen anymore. I no longer run purely on righteous indignation. Instead I try to see how I can help in my own way.

Besides, the exception to the Larry Stew rule has already been claimed.

I know that there’s plenty of fantasy out there that features gay characters, but I’m not into traditional fantasy, where someone like me would have to be the Prophesied Larry Stew and ride a dragon and wield the Sword of Destiny and generally possess all manner of badass powers to succeed. In urban fantasy, there’s magic, sure, but it’s in our world, in the places we see every day, and the protagonists are just as worn and damaged as the rest of us. In traditional fantasy, morality is generally black and white, absolute, good guys and bad guys, but in urban fantasy the gray areas are explored much more deeply. Living saints are rare, and rarely protagonists in urban fantasy. Instead, we get struggling people who’ve often been through their own private hell, but not a life so horrifying that we can’t identify. Spencer Crain is the son of a Coyote and the grandson of a trickster god, but he’s also a kid whose father walked out on him and left him alone to take care of an ailing mother. James Black is a sorcerer, altering reality itself with the power of his own will, but he’s also an abuse survivor, someone who has been cut off from his friends and family as a result of his abuse and sees the world in that fashion. Richard Stone is a Fae porn star, but he’s also an orphan trying to live up to a towering example set by his father and wondering why he can’t just give up. Lennox Kingsley is a modern paladin of Pan, but he’s also a college kid trying to nail down what exactly he’s going to be while still dealing with the death of his mother.

In the midst of all that, romance is often a distraction, a means of feeling something towards normal for a moment, but it’s not true catharsis. Romance is a flicker of hope amidst the fire of determination. I don’t want to write a story where a man’s broken life is fixed because he met the right guy. I’ve been in relationships like that, and your life is still just as broken, but you now have someone to lean on while you try to fix it, and let me tell you, that can put a hell of a strain on a relationship. Sex in the midst of that is a drug, an escape, a moment in the afterglow where everything seems manageable or a thousand miles away even as the problems lurk on the periphery. I realize that romance is meant to be escapist, but as I stated, I don’t want to write a romance.

And there’s a danger to saying this, an acceptance as well. There isn’t a lot of money in this, I’m well aware (VERY well aware. ), if I want to make my writing more about the urban fantasy elements than a couple of guys sharing tender looks and having adjective and allegory heavy sex, but I’ll have to be okay with that fact that that will turn some people off (sometimes literally) to my writing. I’ve received fan mail, both positive and negative, and I have to say that the most heartwarming was the e-mail that simply stated that the reader wished he’d had the book when he was 17. Those are the books I want to write.

We still cool?

Community Service (Broken Mirrors #3)

Cover Art by Angie Waters

Something to whet your appetite, the advance cover of the 3rd Broken Mirrors book, Community Service, coming in Spring ’13. James AND Spence will both share the spotlight in a new adventure. Coming soon from Samhain Publishing!

Ladies and Gentlemen, Lightning Rod

Now Available.

Order from Amazon || Order from Samhain || Order from Barnes & Noble

Always stand. Never fall.

Broken Mirrors, Book 2

If I could offer one piece of advice now, as I fall past the eighty-fourth floor of Victory Tower, with the sky above me the swirling eye of a crimson hurricane, the blade of a goddess stuck in my thigh, and a man I used to love preparing to end the world, it would be this: Magic is not the answer to your problems.

Sorcerers have always been feared in the City, their origins as unknown as the nature and extent of their power. When James Black, a young man fleeing an abusive lover, becomes a sorcerer, his old life is erased from existence, and his new life is indebted to powerful entities.

Escaping the man who abused him was supposed to be the end, but the very magic that freed him has put him on a collision course with the gods and the Sorcerer King himself.

And only one of them can survive.

Warning: This is a work of urban fantasy featuring a gay male protagonist, with a romantic subplot and focus on magic, dragons, tricksters, sorcerers, and survival of domestic abuse. Please adjust expectations accordingly.

Advance Review from World Fantasy Award* Winner, Rachel Pollack:

Vaughn R. Demont’s Lightning Rod is an amazing book–inventive in its magic, gritty in its urban setting, winning and funny in its very likable hero.  The book recalls the great television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer in all the best ways, a mixture of adventure, comedy, and deep emotion. And something more.  Like Buffy’s Joss Whedon, Demont has created that rarest of literary creatures, a perfect metaphor.  For Whedon it was high school as Hell, for Demont it’s the best evocation of the effects of abuse I’ve ever read.  I can’t reveal how the book does this without giving away some jaw-dropping spoilers, but it’s something that stays with you long after you’ve read it.

Rachel Pollack, author of The Tarot of Perfection, A Collection of Tales

*1997 for Godmother Night

Please whet your appetite with this, the first chapter of Lightning Rod:

Copyright © 2012 Vaughn R. Demont

All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

Chapter 1

I have two modes reserved for post-sex. Conversational and scared rabbit.

When Heath finished with a grunt and an almost laugh of relief mixed with bliss, I let him fall asleep and focused my eyes on the bedroom door until his breathing grew rhythmic and I could hear the rough snerk of a snore.

Scared rabbit.

He was quiet this time, every other time he’s vocal. I’m not exhausted, another change. Usually I’m out, drained by the time he’s finished, but tonight I can’t sleep. I’m wide awake, aware, and I don’t want to spend the next couple hours in his arms while I wait to fade out.

There’s a definite art to slipping out of bed. I have to move slowly, keep my muscles flexed, use the nightstand to support myself and prevent any excess noise. You would think that the most efficient method would be feet first, but it’s not. Eventually you have to literally move your arse (sorry, ass) and that causes a lot of creaking unless it’s a really nice mattress, and we don’t have one of those. So it’s face-first for me.

I use my hands to ease myself down and forward, trying not to squirm at the dusty, dingy feel of the floor, until I’m able to swing my right leg over and touch the cold hardwood. After that it’s a simple matter of getting my other leg over, standing up, stepping lightly, and retrieving my clothes from the pile near the door.

As I stop in the doorway, the frame littered with red markings Heath painted when we first moved in, I look back at the bed, seeing him sleeping there, a few inches taller than I, brown hair shorn close to his skull. He took most of the blankets in his sleep, but I can handle it, since the mid-May weather is keeping the flat warm.

Apartment. Not flat. Apartment. He’s talked to you about this.

The apartment is a shoebox, to put it lightly. The main room consists of a small table with two chairs next to a window that could only be opened with a brick. There’s also a combination sink/stove with a few Tupperware containers in a stack next to it, all of them holding dry goods. Heath says if I gave him more we’d be living in a condo in Allora by now, but I don’t know what else I can do. I’m living on ramen, I quit smoking, I even started hopping turnstiles to save on subway tokens. I don’t know what else I can shave back.

I exit the apartment as softly and carefully as I can, leave the door unlocked behind me because I can hardly redo the chain from the other side. Once out the door, I trot down the dimly lit hallway to the communal bathroom at the end of it, still naked, my T-shirt, hoodie, jeans and underwear bundled under one arm and my beat-up Chuck Taylors, the socks stuffed deep in my shoes and probably stiff from sweat, under the other. My St. Jude medallion is around my neck. I don’t take that off. He lost his St. Anthony medal. I’m not allowed to think that’s ironic or funny. I haven’t been to Mass since we met. Heath’s been playing around with atheism, but I think he’s more comfortable with just hating God. Sometimes I envy him for that.

I just wish things could be like they were in the beginning.

Once in the bathroom, I close the door behind me, pull the chain attached to the dangling light bulb overhead, and set to getting dressed. The floor is dirty, cream-colored tile, the toilet’s seat is barely attached, there’s a sink with a cracked mirror over it and a shower stall with plenty of mold inside.

After getting dressed, I look in the mirror, smooth out my hair and brush back some stringy red locks. Irish red, that’s the shade he calls it, it’s one of his little jokes, the other being that I see dead people due to the white streak in my bangs. I don’t. I also don’t have an accent. Well, I do occasionally, but it’s more Oxford than Dublin. I only slip into it by accident and he’s never really liked when I—

What’s wrong with my face?

That…

That can’t be me.

But the guy in the mirror, his right eye is nearly closed, puffy, the skin mottled with dark colors, his lips are fat, cracked, teeth stained with dried blood.

I mean, he’s… But he’s never…

Not that hard…

It was just a stupid fight, and it was my fault anyway. I mean, I snuck one of his smokes (one of the ones he rolls himself) but I was having a rough day but I knew they were his and I should’ve bought my own but my legs were sore and…

And I just shouldn’t have pissed him off. I know he has a temper and he can get a little…

I stare into the mirror, meet my dirty green eyes, see the bruises on my cheek visible under the dusting of stubble. I look at my forearms, weak and lanky, at the dark finger-shaped marks there.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

If I run, though, he’ll…

But if I don’t come back, he can’t. He’ll be mad, but he’s always angry about money, and if I’m gone he won’t be spending as much.

I slip back into the room, stepping slow and easy. He’s still asleep, but I’m trembling. I’d wake him up if I slid back into bed, and he might be mad, he might…

My eyes adjust quickly to the dark room, the only light indirect from streetlamps. I need something to protect myself, if he…

Keep it together. Just get something sharp.

The silverware would be too noisy, that would wake him up. He has a small blade though, for opening the post, I mean the mail. It’s on the counter, half of a broken set of scissors, something he picked up before we met. It’s junk, so he won’t miss it. I slip it into the large front pocket of my hoodie.

If I’m going to do this, I have to go.

Now.

I pull up my hood and leave the flat, walking as slow as I can down the hallway toward the stairs, prefacing every step with a silent prayer, my thumb and index finger gently rubbing my medallion. No creaks. First part’s over. The walls are yellowed, chipped paint, trash on the steps. It’s a slum just barely inside the Benedict on 82nd and M. We’re on the fourth floor, I mean fifth. Walk-up. Cheaper than the dorms.

Dad will understand, right? I’m going to have to tell him. I doubt he’ll start quoting Leviticus, he’s not as Catholic as Mom is. Still, should I call?

No, no, get out of the building first, that’s the priority. Heath could wake up at any moment and notice I’m gone. Get some distance.

I descend the stairs, picking up speed with every flight until I leap the last six steps, the landing echoing in the ground-floor lobby, but I’m out the door before I have time to wince. I’m sore, hot, aching, but not tired. It’s a cool May night, but my hoodie is stained with sweat. I reach the 80th and R station, my palms slapping the top of the turnstile as I vault over. There’s a train pulling in, the Blue Line, heading for all points west.

Oh God, what am I doing? I can get back before he’s noticed I’m gone, right?

What if someone saw me jump over? I’ll get picked up and they’ll call the flat and he’ll know and I’ll have to explain and there’ll be a fine and we can’t afford a fine—he’ll get so pissed…

I get on the train, take a seat in the corner, away from the few scattered people here and there. I probably stink. I haven’t washed these clothes in a while. I thrust my hands into the hoodie’s pocket, mostly so people won’t see me wringing them together over the broken scissor.

As the train pulls away from the station, I swear I see him there on the platform—a chill runs through my hands—but when I check again, it’s empty. It’s a sign, that’s what it is. I’ll just ride to the next station, get off, go home, and if he’s awake, I’ll say I went for a little walk because it was a nice night, or something like that. That’s okay, right? Yeah, he shouldn’t be too mad.

The train jostles slightly on the tracks, enough to make me brace against the wall, and see the sleeve of my hoodie and a metal glint in the frayed threads of the cuff. Something’s tangled in there. I pull it free slowly, delicately. It’s a chain, silver, a small medallion attached to…

“No, no, no.”

St. Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of missing things. His medallion, he was so pissed when he lost it, even though he never goes to Mass and…

And it was stuck on my clothes and…

I can’t go home now.

No one pays me much mind, but I keep my hood pulled forward, my gaze cast toward the floor. Every time the train makes a stop I tense, knowing I should check the doors to see if he’s there, but if he does get on, he’ll see me if I look up, so hell with that. What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?

This is how it goes for several more stops, until I feel a hand nudge my shoulder, a male voice telling me we’ve reached the end of the line. It’s not him, but when I look up the man has already moved down the aisle toward the door. I only see the back of his head, but his hair looks dyed, badly, in brown, black, blond and gray. I want to ask him where we are, but a glance out the window answers the question.

Victory Station.

It’s a hub for the United Transit Authority, or UTA, as well as the bus station, built under Victory Tower, tallest building in the state. If I’m going to carry this all the way, this is the place to do it. I can buy a bus ticket going, well, anywhere but here.

It takes an hour of wandering around to work up the nerve to get in queue for the ticket booth. I keep my eyes on my feet, shuffling forward when I see the feet in front of me move. Before long I’m in front of the window, the woman behind the glass taking a look at me and immediately casting her eyes downward. I start to speak, patting my jeans for my wallet as I see the small sticker on the window reading Identification Required for All Ticket Purchases. Would they take my student ID? Would they…

I took the wrong jeans. My wallet’s back at the apartment.

Wordlessly, I exit the queue and head toward the array of chairs in the waiting area. I can feel my throat tightening, panic creeping across my skin.

Just give it up. Time to go home and take my licks and hope it won’t be too bad. Maybe things will be different if he knows I’m willing to leave. Maybe he’ll treat me better. I walk to the bank of pay phones and realize that I’m still without money, and I doubt he’d take a collect call from me.

I do see a familiar face, or at least hairstyle. The man from the train is seated on the floor under the pay phones, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I take a deep breath and walk over to him.

“Hey, you got any quarters?” On closer examination I can see that his face is bruised, some dried blood in his eyebrow, but he doesn’t seem all that concerned about it.

“Just used my last one, honestly. Nine-one-one’s a free call, though. What, you get mugged?” I look away, closing my eyes, my throat feeling tight again. Damn it, don’t start the waterworks, he’ll hate you if you do. No one likes a crybaby. I hear him speak up. “You okay?”

After a few seconds, I shake my head, sniffling again.

He pats the floor next to him, trying to put me at ease with a smile. “Getting mugged happens, man. It sucks, I know. Been rolled a few times myself.” He actually laughs. What’s with this guy? “Bit of advice? Never count the day’s take before you skim off the local gang’s cut. You’ll end up with your ass kicked and out two hundred bucks.”

Great, he’s a criminal. I don’t see many options, though. I’ve been wandering around the station for an hour, Heath must’ve noticed that I’m gone by now. I sit on Bad Dyejob’s right and pull my hood forward more. “That what happened to you?”

“Nah, this was my dad. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like this is a regular thing. My brother, every time I see him he hits me, seems like.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe he’s got a pituitary problem or something, whatever kind of hormone imbalance screws people up in the head.”

Am I overreacting? Am I making a mistake? I mean, this guy is… I turn toward him. “So this happens a lot.”

“Mugging, or getting smacked around? I don’t know, in this city…” He reaches toward me. Please don’t let me get mugged. All I can do is wince before he touches me.

“Oh damn.” He pauses a second, taking his hand away. “Listen, I didn’t mean to make light of anything. I mean, if your dad is hitting you, then you need to—”

“My father doesn’t hit me.” Dad is a good man, and other than chasing women, God wouldn’t have any problems with him. “My brothers don’t either. My family isn’t like yours.”

And he laughs, what the hell is so funny about that?

“I hope not. I wouldn’t wish my family on anyone. My mom’s snapped, or she’s about to, my grandfather’s got a crazy ex with serious boundary issues. One half-brother belongs in jail and the other will someday be devoured by pubic lice, and hell, I’ll probably end up a third-rate con artist.” He smiles at me again, but this one’s more sincere.

“You’ll say all that to someone you don’t know?”

“Stranger’s confessional. We’ll tell anyone anything if we think we’ll never see them again.”

I whisper under my breath. “There’s only one person I never want to see again.”

“What was that?” He leans toward me with a wink. “It was a crack about my hair, wasn’t it? It’s okay, think of it as a life lesson to never get drunk with a chick who thinks you’ll look hot with highlights and streaks.”

I don’t answer, and he looks under my hood. He takes stock of the bruises and marks on my face. His voice softens. “Listen, uh, I’m sorry if I’m cracking jokes. Just what I do, you know? Be straight with me, you okay?”

What did he call it? Stranger’s confessional. I wish it could be one of those things where it wouldn’t be real until I admitted it, but I still feel the heat in my skin, the blurs in my vision from my swollen eye. It happened, whether I admit it or not. I look down at the floor, and I shake my head to answer him.

“You don’t have to tell me any details, it’s all right. Besides, uh…” I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting this when he dropped into Victory Station to probably pick pockets or smuggle cocaine. “So you’re leaving…her? Him?”

I can feel the tears coming. Damn it. “Him.” I take a few breaths, try to keep it together. “I just… I looked in the mirror and saw…” I touch my face briefly. What am I doing? “God, I was so stupid. He’s gonna be so pissed, he’s—”

“Hey.” He places his hand awkwardly on my forearm. “You’re doing the right thing here. It’s the brave thing.”

Yeah, right.

“I can’t go anywhere. I don’t have any money, I just came here because…” My face feels wet. “I just ran out, I grabbed some clothes and ran. Everything is back there, I don’t have ID, I can’t get a ticket and…”

Dyejob doesn’t laugh though. A few people do look but keep walking. He reaches into his pocket and takes something out.

“What’s that?”

He fans out five cards at me. “Your bus ticket, or well, it will be once I find a couple fish.” He looks at the passing crowd, and I notice that his eyes are golden brown, closer to golden. “I work this right I can get you bus fare to Idaho if you want in fifteen minutes.”

“But what if you lose?”

He stifles a laugh as he pats my forearm gently. “You’re adorable.” He shows me three cards, a queen and two aces, before he starts shuffling. “I don’t lose, okay? It’s not pride, I know how to work the cards. More than that, I know how to work the mark. It’s all about distraction, that’s why we all talk and rhyme and chat up the crowd. If I can get you to take your eyes off the cards for a second, I’ve won.” He flips the cards over, showing the same queen, but two different aces.

“How’d you…”

“Magic.” He grins big, and I’ll admit it’s slightly infectious. He prattles on for a bit more, but I’m having trouble buying it.

“They don’t know it’s obvious that you’re cheating?”

He laughs, good-naturedly. “Man, everyone knows I’m cheating, doesn’t stop them from thinking they can beat the game anyway.” He sighs, looking over at the crowd. “God, pride is a lucrative sin. Greed too. Even if they’re on to you, there’re ways around it. You play it straight to throw them off or you do a turnover or pull a drop…”

He stares off into space for a moment.

“Um…” I wave a hand in front of his face.

“Sorry, I uh…I just realized that I have to get out of here.” He holds up his hand. “Do you know anyone in the Capital?”

“My father, well, kind of close to there, he’s in the Mews.” A nice suburb for the upper middle class.

“All right.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a bus ticket, putting it in my hand. “This is what you’re going to do, okay? You get on the bus, ride it to the Capital, and when you get off, look for a black guy with bleach-blond hair wearing a motorcycle jacket. His name is Bank, tell him the cracker had to give you his exit.” His fingers push my chin up, my eyes lock with his. “What are you telling him?”

“The cracker had to give me his exit?” Oh God, am I agreeing to be a drug mule? “I can’t take your ticket, though—”

“Yeah, you can. Think you need a getaway more than I do.”

“No, they check identification, and I don’t have mine, and—”

“Relax.” He takes his ID out of his wallet. “Just show the driver this when he checks the new passengers. I bought the ticket with that one, and I can always get another.”

He gives it to me, and it looks a little fake, and the photo, well… “I don’t really look like this.”

He exhales hard, biting his lip. “I’d hate to say this, man, but right now? You don’t really look like anybody.” He pats my arm again, that’s as far as he’s willing to go. Am I the intimidating one in this exchange? “Listen, it’s awful that this happened to you, but right now, as bad as this sounds, it actually works in your favor.”

What? “How?”

“No one’s going to pry, or ask twice. Yeah, you don’t look like the picture, but given your condition, they’re going to give that minefield a wide berth and let you slide. And if anyone asks from now until you get home to your dad, your name is the one on the ID, okay? Hey.” He makes me look at him, and his eyes are sincere. He probably practices that, but it’s working. “Hard part’s over. You’re going to be all right.”

For better or worse, I believe him. I nod once. “Thank you. You’re saving my life, you’re my hero.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He chuckles. “Well, seeing as I’m kinda smuggling you north, just call me a coyote. Only, y’know, without the extortion and stuff.” He stands, and helps me up. “Your bus is over that way, might as well get in line.”

Oh my God, I’m getting out of here. I’m going to get away, all thanks to the kindness of strangers. Everything can be okay. This can really be over. I want to cry, but I’m not ashamed to this time. I hug Dyejob, my coyote, as hard as I can. He returns it, patting my back gently. After a few seconds I start across the lobby to the departure gates.

I glance back at him, and he waves, still smiling, his voice echoing across the distance. “Hey, you never told me your name either.”

“It’s…” I look down at the ID before smiling back at him. “James Black.”

A Gay Man’s Defense of My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic

May the defendants please rise…

Already I can tell some hackles are raised, some are doing stretches so they won’t pull a muscle from so repeatedly rolling their eyes, but yes, this is a blog post, on the eve of my book release, about My Little Pony, one of the more polarizing elements of the internet over the last couple years. Let me be clear, this isn’t a conversion manifesto, I’m not asking anyone to watch episodes, this is more why I support the show. In case any bronies are reading this, I have seen both seasons 1 and 2, and have made one of my characters a Brony.

But let’s get right to the defense, shall we? I believe I’ll start with this:

Lauren Faust and the MLP team deserve a GLAAD award.

Lauren Faust

While Lauren Faust is credited as the creator of My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic,  I do acknowledge that there are many fine members of the cast and crew who contribute to every episode. But still, I realize that saying a show meant for young girls and its creators deserve an award for striking a blow against homophobia can be a little bit of a stretch. So I’ll try to explain it from one of the few areas that I can claim experience.

In case you didn’t read the title of my blog, I’m gay, I’m open about it, out to my friends and family and the world in general, but I know from personal experience that getting to that place is tough. There’s a lot of pain and difficulty and embarrassment waiting in the wings and you never know which, or if all three are waiting on their cue to make your life a living hell. Eventually, you get to a safe place, with some people you can trust, and you take a brave step and come out about what you feel, and then you discover that you’re not alone, that there’s a whole community of people out there who know what you’re going through, that can support you. And after a while, if you’re in a good place, “it gets better” as goes the trending phrase.

So what does this have to do with My Little Pony? Ask a lot of bronies to read the preceding paragraph and replace “I’m gay” with “I’m a brony”, and see how many nod their heads. Am I saying that all bronies are gay? Of course not, but Lauren Faust and the MLP Team, whether they intended it or not, certainly made them walk a microcosmic mile in our shoes, and that, I believe,  is what deserves honoring. I’ve worked at a high school and seen a few kids wearing MLP fan-shirts, and they got just as much negative attention as the gay kids. For the internet, it shouldn’t be any surprise what they face when they admit to being a brony in a non-brony forum.

And it’s obvious that they don’t deserve it. Their only “crime” is liking a TV show that isn’t targeted at them. If that was truly as reprehensible a “gender crime” as the internet would like to make it, then not only would I be out of

Don’t exclude the people who keep you alive…

work since women would be forbidden from buying my books, but they’d also be forbidden from watching football or playing violent video games, and then, dammit, my Borderlands team would be without its primary DPS, and f*ck that.

I have to admit that while MLP sports a mostly female cast, I wouldn’t really think of it as “girly”. Honestly, I think Faust herself says it best here, “People are so uncomfortable with bronies because they think no self-respecting man would lower himself to be interested in girl things unless he’s perverted… …It breaks my heart that the word ‘girly’ is synonymous with ‘stupid’. I want so badly for that to change. If this is a start in the direction of maybe changing that, or at least making that better, I can die happy.”

Pictured: The Apocalypse
Not Pictured: The end-result of guys liking MLP

In my own words, I believe that men liking My Little Pony isn’t any more threatening to the state of masculinity than women liking M/M romance is threatening to the state of femininity. It’s simply a case of people viewing that boys are supposed to like motorcycles and guns and women are supposed to like clothes and cooking and god forbid a guy finds he likes designing evening wear without being thought of as gay or a girl want to ride a Harley without being thought of as a lesbian. The rampant internet derision of MLP, and it’s much more pronounced  hatred for its fans is simply a haven for enforcing perceived gender roles, another bout of “get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich” jokes that invaded social media sites to be used “ironically”.  This is, to put it simply, “safely spoken hatred”, timid bigotry.

And let’s face it, I can identify with what bronies go through. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hear “gay” or “faggot” used in conversation, and it makes me worried. If America can’t handle some guys watching a TV show initially targeted at girls, how am I supposed to feel about them handling say… someone like me giving blood and not being immediately assumed as HIV+, or someone like me getting married, or starting a family with another man? But like bronies, I have a community I can fall back on as well, and much like the bronies, because of my community I’m working to be more open-minded and accepting, to love and tolerate as the bronies would put it.

And if this is all a step in the right direction, for a portion of the population to see the world in a different light, to be more accepting of differences just because of a TV show about ponies that teaches people how to be better friends and better people, well, like I said at the beginning, give that woman an award.

The Music of Lightning Rod: Part 5

In the acknowledgements for Lightning Rod, I thank three bands in particular: Tool, Rise Against, and Muse. Muse was a latecomer in my rotation, and I mostly got into them listening to Pandora and occasionally hearing cuts off The Resistance, which I ended up buying and listened to a LOT while writing the final acts of the novel, even naming the final act for “Uprising” which was on repeat for a good chunk of it.

However, that’s not the track I’ll be playing today (though it’s easy enough to find the official video on Youtube if you want to hear it). Since we’re closing out the week, and I mentioned I tend to visualize cinematically when I’m writing a scene, there’s always that moment when you know that the book is done, and you imagine that “fade to credits” moment. Considering that the better known rendition of this song is mentioned earlier in the book, by modern movie logic it only makes sense to end with a more modern cover of it so…

If Lightning Rod were a movie, this is the song I’d want to end it with.

Fade to credits…

The Music of Lightning Rod: Part 4

Switching pace here, but while I wouldn’t call myself knowledgeable enough of The Beastie Boys to call myself a true fan, I do like a lot of their music, and for some action scenes I would listen to their stuff to give me fuel because I always struggle with action scenes. Part of my process is to visualize the scenes cinematically, which often involves background music, and Lightning Rod was no exception. (Partially the reason I’m doing these entries, actually. ) For a major scene later in the book, which I won’t spoil here, for every draft of Lightning Rod I imagined this song playing, partly for the bass line, but mostly for the rhythm of it.

If anything, it’ll give your day a good kick in the ass.

The Music of Lightning Rod: Part 3

I’ll admit that I come up with a lot of my titles on the fly, usually with whatever’s in my sightline. (The term, I think is a “Maxwell Houser”.) A short confession: Coyote’s Creed? Yeah, a copy of Assassin’s Creed was on my desk. The name of the series, however, is tied into a scene in CC where Rourke mentions that the story he’ll tell will be that of “a world that was a broken mirror”, and when I picked up the new Rise Against album, I knew it was a lock. I’ve been a fan of Rise Against since Revolutions Per Minute, having first heard “Like the Angel” in a Tony Hawk game and wanting to hear more. Appeal to Reason is probably one of my favorite, but Endgame’s definitely top 3 for me.

Anyway, less than a week to the release of Lightning Rod, you can still pre0rder from Samhain at the sale price!

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The Music of Lightning Rod: Part 2

To say that I listen to Tool while I’m writing is an understatement. I consider Tool to be as influential on my writing and on the development of James Black as any author I’d count among my influences. Even when James was a Mage: The Ascension character, Tool was one of the bands that provided the soundtrack to his life, and also to my own story of abuse survival. Tool was a band I liked before the whole situation, and it was his (I won’t say his name) favorite band ever. Afterward, I started listening to Tool again despite the fact that it reminded me of him because I wanted to reclaim the band, the music, make it mine again. Lateralus was their most recent album at the time, and the reclamation started with the title track.

I still get a rush of empowerment every time I listen to it, and I wanted to share that with James Black.

The Music of Lightning Rod: Part 1

A short post today, but as we close in on the release date of Lightning Rod, I figured I’d show some of the music that inspired me while I was writing it, and I knew I had to start with this. I know as a gay man, I’m supposed to prefer the original, but this version has always had a lot more personal significance for me.

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Storytellers: House of Stone

So here we are again, with an all new edition of Storytellers, where I go into a little bit of behind the scenes info on House of Stone, my first novel with Samhain and my first published work of “official” novel length. After this, I’ll go into my Torquere days with Last Paladin and The Vampire Fred, as I know there are some of my readers who are curious about those. Anyway, without further ado…

 

1. The Headbutt Scene… Funny Story…

There’s a scene about midway through the book where Richard Stone faces off against some fellow Fae who are looking for a fight, and he answers them, well, in a less than noble fashion. Thing is, I don’t really know anything about fighting outside of shooting at paper targets, which is the primary reason that I hate combat scenes. My housemate at the time, however, was proficient in karate and had a working knowledge of various maneuvers, so I went to him for information about headbutts.

I promptly learned that headbutts are not as awesome as they’re portrayed in the movies. If you don’t do them exactly right, and hit the person in the exact right place, you’ll hurt yourself far more than the guy you’re hitting. So, being curious (i.e. stupid), after watching him demonstrate the proper technique against some particularly intimidating air, I decided to try it on a shifty looking door. I came to about ten seconds later, and had to explain the red mark on my forehead when I was called in to substitute at a high school the next day…

Even to this day, when I read that scene I remember looking up at the ceiling and asking, “Did I do it right?” Door wasn’t even scuffed. Asshole.

2. The Entire Book Was Written Through “Real-Time Writing”

After writing The Vampire Fred, and while working on my creative thesis for grad school, I found that I could get a lot more writing done if someone was right there waiting for me to continue the story. As a result, I’d write into an instant message window, get instant feedback, and copy/paste the passage into the Word file. While there are a lot of pitfalls to something like this, I couldn’t argue with the production I was having with it, so I decided to write a whole book using the method.

An unsuspecting fan who sent me a letter about how much they liked my writing ended up being my test subject, and she was happy to basically read House of Stone long before anyone else did. I think she’s also the only reader that didn’t mind the fact that Richard was into Pearl Jam.

Over the course about six or seven months, she’d meet with me nightly online to chat about the book, and give me a reader’s opinion on how the story was progressing. As a result, she got the dedication, and I’m still rather grateful for all of her time and patience. I mostly use beta readers now, the most commonly accepted method of writing a novel, but every now and then when I see a writing friend online I’ll post a few paragraphs to get their feedback if I’m wavering on whether a section works.

3. The Novel Was Born From a Writing Prompt

Person, object, activity.

It was a prompt used in my high school drama club to warm us up for rehearsal with some improv, and more often than not, since we were all hormone-addled high schoolers, they could get kinda nasty if our faculty advisor wasn’t around. Every now and then I’d use it to help some friends who were working through mini-blocks, and one day, someone tossed a prompt at me.

A nobleman, a grand piano, and performing in an adult film.

While there is a grand piano in House of Stone, it’s mostly in the backstory of Simaron’s mother, but the prompt got my brain going, namely why a noble would ever lower himself as to perform in pornographic films. I made him Fae, because in the City, you could be a Fae noble and no normal person would care, and if he were low enough on the nobility totem pole, it’d mean he likely wasn’t collecting any tribute. Even if he owned his own land, there would still be property taxes, and what kind of work can a really attractive and well-hung guy get when he doesn’t even have a high school diploma?

4. It Kicked Off “The Dedication War” In My Family

In the acknowledgments for House of Stone, I thank my mom for supporting me “despite knowing what I write”. To be perfectly honest, my mom has only read the creative thesis draft of Lightning Rod, and I pray to whatever higher power there is that that’s the only thing she reads. Let’s face it, not every writer of gay genre fiction wants his or her mom reading a gay sex scene that they wrote.

However, the dedication was not to my mom, rather to the woman who helped me out in writing it, but it started off a half-serious debacle in my family between me, my mom and my sister about who would get the dedications for my upcoming books. Thus far, both of them have been mentioned in the acknowledgements, but none of them have received a dedication, and god, when they found out that my friend Angie had received the dedication to not one, but two books (and she’s likely getting the dedication for Community Service as well)…

Suffice to say, when edits come in and it’s time to write the dedications, it’s always an interesting time.

Extra Tidbits

- House of Stone was written entirely to Pearl Jam, and every single chapter is titled after a song that Pearl Jam performed or covered.

- While writing the first chapter, I did research on how porn stars get their jobs, which is something you can never explain properly without whoever you’re talking to saying, “Ah. Yes. Research.”

- House of Stone went through thirteen rounds of edits. Yep. Thirteen. My editor doesn’t screw around.

- There have been two mini-fics about Richard where he meets other people in the City canon. One was an untitled piece where Richard meets Lennox from The Last Paladin, and the other, entitled “Yellow Ledbetter”, takes place before House of Stone, and involves a scene between Richard and James from Lightning Rod, which is casually referenced by both characters.

- House of Stone was written side-by-side with a now disavowed James Black story entitled “Dead in the Water”, where James faces off against a necromancer and zombie ogres.

- Simaron’s name is pronounced sih-MARE-un, got SO many e-mails over that.