'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 103

Holiday Reads (Part One)

Okay, yesterday I fell short of my “try to post something positive once a day through December leading up to Christmas” goal, and I’m not going to let myself beat myself up about that. It wasn’t a great day, that happens, and when my husband suggested we go see The Arrival, I jumped at the chance and it was a brilliant movie.

Not exactly a holiday movie, but I’ll take it.

But! Speaking of holiday stuff, I thought today I’d start my annual revisit of some of my favourite holiday books. I re-read like crazy in December (it’s a leftover from Christmas retail, where I couldn’t bring myself to focus long enough when I wasn’t working, so I re-read for pleasure).

So, what are my favourite holiday re-reads?

So glad you asked.

[image error]A Coventry Christmas, by Becky Cochrane

My original review: I stayed up to nearly midnight finishing “A Coventry Christmas,” and laughing all the while (much to the chagrin of the attempting-to-sleep husband beside me). Keelie is a blast. She’s an assistant manager for a grotesque boss at a bookstore, and Christmas is coming, with all the attendant issues thereof (you can tell that Becky Cochrane has book retail history, and the scenes in the book store made me chuckle for their accuracy). She’s tired, cranky, hates Christmas, and just wants… well, something. Anything. Preferably being swept off her feet (and out of the bookstore) by the handsome beefy security fellow who picks up the morning deposit. But, with a broken ankle and time off at Christmas for the first time since her retail career began, Keelie has the chance to walk… well, hobble… into a new sort of Christmas.

With the superb group-of-friends style that I’ve come to know and love from Cochrane and her compatriots in other works, the ensemble cast is just the right mix of people, and the plot kept me laughing, smiling, and interested. Empathizing with Cochrane’s characters isn’t hard – somehow, regardless of how out-there some of the characters might be, you click with them and get pulled in for the ride.

If you’re having anything like a rough Christmas period, snap this book up. I do warn you that it will eat up what little spare time you have, might make you stay up late, and your husband might take it from you and say things like, “No book right now, talk to me,” but don’t worry – it’s worth it. And you can always steal the book back when he falls asleep.

[image error]The Firflake, by Anthony Cardno

My original review: I love tales retold cleverly.

I’m not one who loves Christmas in a traditional sense these days – working retail often leaves much of the “ho-ho-ho” replaced by “go-go-go” and the end result is being tired. I’ve made it a point to find new traditions for myself and my family and friends whereby I can enjoy small pieces of the holiday.

“The Firflake” just became one of those traditions. It’s a lovely story, taking pieces of Christmas tales and turning them just a little sideways, so the light can shine on them from a new angle – one that’s refreshing and cheerful from the new point of view.

The characters are charming, the magic sparkles in the words, and I finished the tale – which is more like a half dozen tales woven together into a whole – with a genuine smile on my face.

It takes a lot to give me a sense of Christmas cheer, but the author did so. The Firflake has earned a place beside the traditional Christmas stories, where it can shine every year.

[image error]Blame it on the Mistletoe, by Eli Easton (and performed by Jason Frazier)

Original review: It’s amazing how much I used to struggle with trying to love Christmas. Then again, if you’ve ever worked retail, you probably get it. So it’s nice to return to Christmas and find it actually enjoyable.

Also – Christmas stories.

That said, this isn’t one. Or rather, there’s a very tenuous Christmas component to it, but it’s not a story that really has Christmas centre-stage. And even post-retail me is okay with that.

Eli Easton’s Blame it on the Mistletoe is a fun novella-length audiobook that I listened to in a single afternoon worth of household chores, and it was a lovely way to pass the time. The narrative set-up is pretty simple: a jock has a roommate who’s a super-smart (and rather cute) nerdy type. They’re very close, and when the nerd learns that jock has the reputation of being the best kisser on campus, he asks for lessons.

Yup. That’s right. Lessons.

The reason why, and how the two end up together (there’s no spoiler there, as anyone who’s ever read any gay romance will know they’re on a collision course), is actually quite adorable. Even better, the (as-yet) straight jock character doesn’t come across as a gay-for-you character at all (a trope I have little patience for), but rather a character who has successfully managed to not-think-about-it for a very long time—until his roommate’s request makes him realize what’s going on.

It’s sweet. It’s fun. And it’s performed wonderfully by Jason Frazier, who I honestly think is one of the best audiobook performers out there. Seriously—everything I’ve heard him perform is elevated by his skill as a narrator. If you’re at all an audiobook enthusiast, check him out.

I’d Rather Listen

Today, I finished Scrappy Little Nobody, Anna Kendrick’s book. I listened to it—I really prefer to listen to biographies rather than to physically read them, especially if the author is the one reading the book (and even more especially if it’s an autobiography). I like having that one-step-closer to knowing exactly the tone that the author was going for.

In fact, when it comes to nonfiction of any kind, I often listen to books rather than physically read them. I suppose it goes back to feeling like I’m in a classroom surrounding—someone is teaching me something, out loud—and I always liked learning in that environment.

It also gives me something to think about while I walk the dog in minus-ungodly-degrees weather.

Today, though, as I finished Scrappy Little Nobody, I stopped to really think about what sorts of audiobooks I’ve listened to, and what qualities they had that made me grab them. I find I’ll pick audiobooks for many reasons, but a few reasons came up, over and over, as I looked through my collection:

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Have I mentioned my audiobook novella?

One, I like to listen to biographies, and nonfiction in general, like I said.

Two, I like to listen to novellas, as they can be finished in a day while I do chores, walk the dog, etc. They’re shorter investments.

Three, conversely, I also like really long audiobooks if I’m about to go on a long drive with my husband. This is how we’ve listened to some really long books, mostly science fiction.

Four, I like to listen to holiday-themed books (like Christmas queer romances) while I’m out in the snow shovelling the driveway or walking the dog in the aforementioned minus-ungodly-degrees weather.

Five, I’m super-loyal to an audiobook performer who can kick verbal ass. For example, if Jason Frazier or Jane Entwhistle read it? I’m way likely to just snap it up, period, before I even finish reading the description.

Six, it’s a great way to find diverse voices (almost literally), in the sense that I can hear the cadence and language and culture of a story when it’s performed well. I enjoy that, and it’s another layer of context for facets of culture I haven’t already encountered.

So, all that said, and selfishly asking as I’ve just broken into the audiobook world with my wee novella In Memoriam (performed wonderfully by Jerry L. Wheeler, by the way), I’m curious: for those of you who do listen to audiobooks, do you have preferences for what types of books you listen to?

Charting the Year Ahead

So. Next year. What’s up for that, eh?

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Totally pre-orderable, by the way. Click the cover.

I don’t mean new year’s resolutions. By a quirk of my publishing dates, it’s time for me to chart the course ahead for what I’ll be working on next year, which means putting together a proposal for a new novel or collection, and offering it up to my publisher. If they say “yes,” that’s the plan for the year ahead. If they say “no,” it’s time to think of something else.

I whittled down my options to three things, and none of them were Triad Magic. That might seem counter-intuitive for folks who write out series novels all back-to-back, but here’s what I’ve learned from working on Triad Soul immediately after Triad Blood: I’m getting tired of them.

Not in a larger sense. I want to tell more of their stories. I have more-or-less an entire novel ready (that would be Triad Magic) as the next instalment. But I mean “tired” in a creative sense, in that I’ve been in the heads of those characters for two solid years, and I’d like out for a while, before I start to hate them. I don’t know if this happens to other authors or not, but it’s happening to me, so I’m going to do the smart thing and step back.

With Triad Magic out of the running, what ended up being the other three?

A collection?

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My latest not-novel is a novella. Again, you can click the cover.

This one is one I’m itching to do, but let’s be honest, a collection of short fiction is a hard freaking sell. I know—and I mean this literally—that collections are hard to market, hard to sell, hard to get people to review, and hard to excite a publisher with. This is not to say I don’t have a publisher who would be willing. I’m blessed, and I know the publishers I’ve worked with would be on board with a collection. But I want to do right by the publisher, too, and I know it would be a soft sales generator, at best.

Also, I’d need to come up with a theme, look at what I’ve already written and published, and then generate more short fiction to fill out half the table of contents (or more), because I’d want to make sure any debut collection wasn’t just reprints. And while I’ve got stories I’m proud of that I’d love to include in a collection, I look at the whole and realize they’re all over the map: some erotica, some not; some romantic, some not.

So, although I’ve got a title (Of Echoes Born), and a theme (second chances, the paranormal, and a chance to try again), and some stories I know belong there: “Heart,” “Elsewhen,” “The Psychometry of Snow,” and “The Finish,” among others, what I don’t have is enough, and I can work on making enough while I work on a novel, so ultimately?

Not yet.

Revisit Light?
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Aw, you never forget your first.

This one was harder to dismiss, as I have, again, most of the idea in my head. I did not write Light to be a series, at all, though in the back of my head I did imagine specific futures for Keiran Quinn, Brian Stone, Rachel, and Karen specifically. I even have notes on quite a bit of it.

And a title, which is pretty freaking rare. It will likely be called Flame. It involves pyrokinesis.

That said, the more I think and scribble notes on this one, the more I realize I’ve got a few plot holes to fill, and the more I want to re-examine some of the built-in issues I’ve created for myself by virtue of not specifically writing Light considering the notion of a sequel. There are things I’ve done with and to the characters that would make quite a few plot points difficult to navigate without some sort of Star Trek-esque “there’s a kind of mineral that’s disrupting the transporters” fix. Until I have something better than a rare mineral, I’m putting the sequel on hold.

Awkward teenage years.
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Oh, and I did write a short story YA once. Click the cover, if you’d like to see.

And here’s where I end up. I have an idea for a YA that’s been sitting with me since the summer. I’ve been holding off on it because—wait for it—the thought of writing YA terrifies me. I’m serious. It’s a huge deal to me. The YA I read as a kid often failed me on so many levels that the idea of even trying is enough to make me feel a little sick.

Then I remembered that I’ve got this amazing publisher, brilliant editors, and—more importantly—both my memories of being a teen and actual teens in my life, as well as access to so many voices and groups and parents and… Yeah, still scary, but possible.

So. I’ll be sending in a proposal for a YA slightly-sci-fi book within the upcoming week. Working title? Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks. The freak in question will be a sixteen year old boy who can’t wait to start over in post-secondary, where he will finally lose his infamy (he hopes) as “that kid who was abducted by the strange cat lady when he was, like, five or something.” Unfortunately, it’s going to turn out he has bigger problems, and the problems involve a sudden and less-than-controllable ability to teleport.

 

I’ll keep you posted on all the projects, of course, and I’d love to hear back from you. I even have a few questions:

Does it drive you batty if an author doesn’t release related books back-to-back? Triad Blood and Triad Soul aren’t exactly a series (in the sense that they’re self contained, as would be Triad Magic), but they do follow each other with a few over-arching narratives.
Collections—do you dig them? Hate them? How much of them do you expect to be new content, and how much do you expect to see reprints? I’m biased to loving anthologies and wanting all the shorts by a particular author in one edition, so I’m biased to not caring, so I’d love to hear your thoughts here.
YA—what are your pet peeves with books for young adults? What drives you mental? (For me, in case you’re wondering, it’s stories where teens have zero adults in their lives they feel they can trust when stuff hits the fan. While that doesn’t have to be a parent, it always strikes me as too close to ‘never trust an adult,’ when, really, it was often adults other than my folks who got me through awful times.)

Merry Christmas (You’re Gross).

Last night was husband’s work Christmas party, and it was hosted/organized by Professional Entertainment Group. For the most part, it was a pretty solid night. There were silly games, a photo booth, and the hotel put on an amazing spread of food.

Except, during one of the games, which involved plastic fruit being shaken around on strings, the host chose to end the round with a quick homophobic joke, because hey, those two men might touch bananas, and ew, am-I-right?

So. It’s one joke. It’s a party. But hey, these days my patience for that crap is zero, and when I saw my husband’s reaction I waited for that game to end, and went up to talk to the guy behind on the stage area.

He waved me off before I could barely say a word. Seriously—he had no idea what I could possibly have wanted to say to him, he just waved me off, calling a young woman over for me to talk to.

So I talked to her. I explained that I got it was a joke, but hey, it’s a holiday party, we’re already the queers in the room, and the rest of the year the world already enjoys us as a punchline, so could we maybe go the rest of the night without the homophobic jokes to remind us how ew we are?

“That wasn’t our intent,” she said, and to her credit, she looked very sincere, and nothing else happened the rest of the night, so… Yay?

On the plus side, my husband’s co-workers asked us a few questions and we got to tell them a bit about what it’s like on a regular basis, so teachable moment.

Right in the middle of a party. Y’know, just when you want to be the guy saying, “Sorry I’m a bit down, that guy running the party just told the whole room I’m gross.”

Ho, ho, fucking ho.

[image error]Also, a reminder: I’m up over at The Novel Approach, and there are prizes offered. If you want a copy of Light and Triad Blood of your very own, you can enter the draw at the end of my post.

Speaking of which, funnily enough, the post I chose to write is all about how the holidays can really suck for queer folk, and how it can feel like one long advertisement of how you’re the punchline, assuming you’re mentioned at all.

It’s almost like I’ve done this before.

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Today, while I was getting ready, it occurred to me once again as I eyed the mirror that although many of the m/m or gay authors I’ve seen pop up in my various timelines baring quite a bit of skin in selfies, I wasn’t one of them.

Seriously. Take a peek at most male queer artist’s pages and there’ll be buffness on display somewhere. Biceps. Chests. Ink. All with a casual smile and a smirk and an “aw, no, this is just me.” That takes a level of confidence that I just don’t have.

Then—once I put on my underwear, because sexy author photos are still often y’know, more or less safe-for-work—I thought, you know what? No. I’m an adult. If they can do it, I can do it. To hell with letting myself feel bad about a body that doesn’t spend hours at the gym. To hell with discomfort I only feel because society tells me I’m not what a queer guy is supposed to look like.

I grabbed my phone, and I took a selfie right there and then, in my underwear.

Frankly, I feel liberated.

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What?

It’s December.

In Canada.

Approachable

Hey folks!

Today’s blog is more of a drive-by, as I’m guest-blogging over on The Novel Approach as a part of their 5-Year Blogiversary. There are prizes, so head on over…

Also, my audio version of ‘In Memoriam’ went live over on audible, so if you were waiting for the announcement, this is it! Click the cover below to head over to audible.

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Frost

It wasn’t a magic hat, and it certainly wasn’t about laughing and playing—though there is dancing—but if you’ll let me, I promise there’s a story worth telling.

It’s not just about the snowman, either. Or the magician—who, by the way, was a woman, not a man, but that should surprise none who’ve watched how history is shifted as it is passed along.

Mostly? It’s about a man who most considered a boy.

He was a man, though, and that’s important to know. They called him Little Jay, and it was not a compliment to deny him even his first full name. He was scrawny instead of strong, short instead of tall, and took so much after his mother that his father would routinely tell others at the pub that his wife must have made Little Jay all on her own.

Certainly, he was of no use to the man, who was a woodcutter and a carver and who had five other strong sons who learned his craft and worked with him every day. Together, through winter the six Carver men filled the fireplaces of all. They were a cornerstone of the village.

Little Jay was more like a crack in the cobblestone path.

So, Little Jay helped his mother in the house. Their family had no daughters, and so it was Little Jay that learned the skills his mother taught. Little Jay could mend, and sew, and cook, and when it was time to make the straw brooms and baskets, his were as good or better than her own. He had a knack for building patterns from scraps that came from always inheriting them, taking broken things and mending them. After all, when one of his brothers or his father would rip or tear their clothing beyond a simple repair, he was small enough to undo the stitches and fashion a new shirt or trousers from the pieces, carefully avoiding the ruined bits.

And with the torn leftovers, he often found enough to make small colorful patchwork hats, gloves and scarves, or small dolls for the children of their village. He also mended for the villagers, and his repairs were often pretty. His mother called this his magic, but Little Jay knew it wasn’t magic to make a pleasing pattern out of castoffs.

It was practical, perhaps. Useful, even. And certainly a way to pass time in the winter.

But magic? No.

Magic was rare, and wonderful, and often in the hands of those the village didn’t mind inviting around when times were dire or needs were great, but otherwise preferred to leave unseen. Such was the case of the traveling wizardess who came through with the first snows each winter.

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The families of village fed her, housed her, and asked her to bless the fields where the crops would grow. She always smiled, never correcting that magic was not a blessing, but worked the spells in exchange for their hospitality. Even Little Jay’s father and mother would have her over to spend a night. Little Jay would sleep in a nest of blankets by the fire, and after feeding her a nutty bread and thick stew, the wizardess would walk through the woods, touching the small saplings the family planted, tying small silk ribbons to ensure they grew tall and strong, and then sleep in Little Jay’s bed until morning.

With each family, she stayed only a night. And she was ever careful not to cross paths with the parson, who made it no secret she was not welcome.

She saw the way even those who hosted her frowned at a woman who wore silk trousers and seemed to feel nothing of the cold, though she expected they cared more about the trousers than the enchantment she had woven into her silks. She knew full well that when she had done the things they asked of her, it would be wise to go, and quickly.

On the last night, before she left the village, the wizardess would perform for the children, making things appear and disappear, and other minor magics that were as much trickery as they were spells. Little Jay waited for this night every year, and though often his brothers would mock him for attending, many of the other parents liked that Little Jay was present at these shows, watching over the other children who watched.

None wanted to offend the wizardess, after all, but were an adult to join the audience, it would seem too much like approval in the eyes of the parson.

That winter, the wizardess wore a shawl of black silk, and as her final trick, she threw it into the air and while it floated down in front of her, she echoed the meow of a cat. The silk was shredded, mid-air, though none saw anything touch it, and the children applauded as the segments landed on the straw covered floor of the barn.

When the wizardess picked up the pieces again, pushing them into her closed fist and then pulling the scraps back out as one long braided scarf, the applause was all the louder.

This, she explained, was the most important piece of magic there was. Anything broken might never be what it was, but in the right hands and with enough heart, it could always become something else.

And as she wove the scarf around her neck, gathering her things about her and getting ready to leave, it was Little Jay who noticed the small scrap of black silk still left in the straw.

He tried to stop her, holding the piece in his hand, but the wizardess merely winked, and was gone. Wizardesses are often like that: they are present to begin a tale, and far less often see the end of one. Her role was done, and here she left the story.

But that scrap of silk?

Little Jay worked it into a silk cap he’d made of scraps.

Change had come to the village.

His mother praised the pattern Little Jay worked into the scraps. His father criticized the dye on Little Jay’s hands, and the uselessness of a silk cap in winter. His eldest brother joked that only a snowman would wear a hat so useless.

After dinner, when his father took the rest of his brothers to the pub, and after he and his mother had finished the dishes and placed the hot stones in their beds, Little Jay went to his small room filled by the large bed he’d never grow into, pulled the quilts over himself, and found himself awake.

He heard the other men come home, and he heard them take themselves to their beds. He heard their laughter, and their cheerful wishes for good dreams, and he heard their snores that followed.

After, as quietly as a small man who has learned to avoid notice could be—which is very quiet indeed—Little Jay dressed himself, wrapped himself in a scarf he’d made from scraps, shrugged into his patched jacket, carefully slid his feet into boots after layering two thick socks on first, and found his best, warmest gloves.

Little Jay went outside, into the snow.

He loved the snow, and the patterns it made. Drifts were like waves, and the ice on the pond sometimes looked like large snowflakes. He would catch flakes on the end of his scarf, so he could peer at them, holding his breath, and see the tiny star-like patterns—tiny, beautiful things—before they melted away. Tonight, the dark sky was full of snow, and the dim lights from the village below, and the single winter lantern his mother kept lit overnight, were barely enough to chase off the darkness.

But still, Little Jay had no fear of the dark, and much love for the dance of the snow, and so he twirled, arms wide, knowing the scorn he’d invoke for what he was doing were anyone there to see.

When he saw the way his footsteps remained in the snow he knew it was the kind of snow that would build and he set to work. What his brother had said—only a snowman would wear a hat so useless—struck him as a dare, and he took pains to craft a man of snow as large as Little Jay himself was small, as wide as he was narrow, and as strong as he was gentle. He took care, and time, to craft a jacket of snow, with pond stones for buttons. For boots he wrapped pale orange leaves he found under the trees, and he used needles from the evergreen trees as though the man’s white trousers were stitched with green thread. For the face, he took two slivers of coal for the eyes, which he placed under a strong brow and a square jaw nothing like his own face, and then he wove his patchwork scarf around the snowman’s neck.

Now he was done, the smile slipped from his lips.

The large man of snow in front of him was nothing like him. And while that had been the point, now Little Jay couldn’t help but think this was the sixth son his father would rather have had.

He pulled the silk hat from his head.

To have a man like this, a man like his father, and his brothers, who would look at him and respect him and—yes—love him, even though he was small, and narrow, and gentle.

What that might be like.

He wiped a tear on the hat, then fit it on the top of the snowman.

Then, Little Jay went to bed, which was how he missed the snowman’s first breath.

The next morning, a man came to their door. A stranger in the village was a rare thing, and not often welcome, but the tall, broad-shouldered man was eager to work, possessed good humour and an easy smile, and even in the mid-winter, there were opportunities for such a man. For a place by a hearth and a plate at the table, he agreed to chop wood, or clear snow, or haul what needed hauling. That he was handsome, with eyes darker than anyone in Little Jay’s family had ever seen, and that his clothing was so unusual brought some pause—especially to Little Jay’s father—but the man put them all at ease within moments, and soon it was settled that he would breakfast with them, work the day together, and join them for dinner and warmth thereafter.

When Little Jay and his mother brought out the morning food, Little Jay nearly dropped the wooden bowls of warm oats and brown sugar.

The stranger wore a white fur coat with carved stone buttons, and white breeches sewn with green thread. Leather boots a pale orange, and—most importantly—atop his head, a silk cap made of dyed scraps, and a scarf almost to match.

Little Jay looked out the window, but the snowman, and the cap and scarf, were not there.

The man met his gaze, nodded once, and smiled.

His father introduced Little Jay as an aside to his wife, the way one might mention the spoon a cook stirred with, and if his father or brothers noticed how warm and kind the stranger’s greeting to Little Jay was, it went unmentioned.

His mother asked the stranger his name, and with a short pause to once again meet Little Jay’s gaze, the man said his surname was Frost.

They ate, and then they went to work.

Little Jay fretted the day away, and more than once his mother had to bring his attention back to the blankets they were mending, and the baskets they were weaving. Making patterns out of castoffs felt dangerous now, and Little Jay’s fingers trembled.

Could it be true?

He wove another round of the basket’s rim. The women who would later buy the basket would swear it held more than it should.

Could it be true?

He patched a faded blue quilt with small yellow scraps, making a bright star on an otherwise cloudless sky. The child who would later sleep under the mended cloth would always dream of flying.

Could it be true?

They started the evening meal, and Little Jay found himself weaving bread in knots, something he rarely bothered to do unless the meal was a special one. His mother, seeing him work, considered whether or not her son might be apprenticed to the village baker.

But of course, he had two broad-shouldered sons of his own.

She returned to her work, swallowing the familiar fears of what futures might be there for her youngest, smallest son.

When the men returned, Little Jay’s father’s report of the day was something close to a celebration. The stranger had done work almost equal to the rest of them, and their wagons were full of wood for the village days before they could have expected. His father and brothers tore apart the knotted breads, telling stories of how the stranger felled trees with half the blows it would have taken them, and only Frost himself paused to compliment the bread itself.

They laughed into the dark hours, knowing that the next morning they could have the rarest of rewards: a later start. His father offered the stranger Little Jay’s bed, saying Little Jay himself would sleep by the fire in blankets—he was the only one small enough to fit in the nook. And though the stranger protested, Little Jay thought nothing of it, and eased his concern with a smile and a bob of his head.

The others went to sleep, his brothers one by one, then his mother, and finally his father. Little Jay cleared the table with Frost’s help, and they worked side by side in silence. When what work that could be done was done, Little Jay found himself looking at Frost again.

His brow was strong, and his eyes were as dark as flecks of coal. He still wore the silk cap, though he’d shed the white fur coat with the carved stone buttons and beneath that wore a plain cotton tunic. Broad and strong, he seemed so very real, and yet…

Frost reached out, took Little Jay’s hand, and thanked him.

Little Jay listened in silence as Frost explained that anything broken might never be what it was, but in the right hands, with enough heart, it could always become something else. Magic from a piece of a scarf meant to keep a wizardess warm could not be a scarf again, but it could bring warmth of another kind, enough to make what was snow into something that was, though still snow, alive. Something crafted with love might, with that little bit of magic and a single tear, be given the freedom to return the love. He drew Little Jay into an embrace.

There was room enough in Little Jay’s bed, though Little Jay was careful to return to his little nest of blankets and pillows by the fire come morning, and the next day, while he and his mother worked, she noticed the patterns he wove into the baskets were truly things of beauty, and a second blue quilt was mended with whole constellations of snowflakes.

On the market day, the village met Frost, who charmed them all by helping them carry their fire wood to their wagons, and who was the talk of the village by the time the sun hit its peak. Even the parson stopped at their family stall, ostensibly to pick up one of Little Jay’s excellently woven straw brooms, though his mother knew the man had already purchased one only two weeks earlier.

Frost’s laughter, dark eyes, and warm voice put the village at ease, it seemed, and in some small way, it made Little Jay feel welcomed as he’d never felt before. Indeed, Frost had a way of mentioning Little Jay’s talents to those who browsed their stall, and a few times the other villagers looked at Little Jay like they were seeing him for the first time.

But neither the man born of magic and a longing for love, nor a youngest son who made that wish, however, knew how dangerous being noticed might be.

There were few so easily slighted as the eldest Carver son, used to all the attention and praise. And after days of being placed second to a stranger, Little Jay’s eldest brother had begun to study the stranger.

The cap he wore, for one, was familiar.

The eldest son went to the parson with his firewood and asked if he had ever seen clothing like the fur coat Frost wore, and the parson had to admit he had not. The eldest son asked the parson if it was perhaps odd that a man so strong would need to wander from village to village to find work. Having planted the sapling, the eldest son returned to his family, and tried hard to remember where he’d seen that silk cap.

The parson had never come to dinner before, but his request could hardly be turned down. Little Jay worked beside his mother, once again braiding bread dough while she worked to craft a meal worthy of the respected man’s standing. The brothers were not happy to have to wear their finest, except for Little Jay, who liked the way the collar of his shirt made him seem a little older.

At the meal, it was soon clear that the parson wanted to know more of Frost.

Why would a man so strong and so generous of spirit need to wander from village to village?

Frost dipped his bread, took a moment to thank Little Jay for his efforts, and suggested that anyone with a gift should seek to spread the gift as widely as possible. If strong arms made for shorter work, then were they to travel, there would be more gained from them for many.

Was it not hard to keep such beautiful white fur clean? And what sort of fur might it have been?

Frost sipped his tea, took a moment to thank Little Jay’s mother for the lovely blend, and suggested that everyone had surely seen a white furred creature at one time for another, and that it only took patience and fingers as clever as Little Jay’s to make large things from small things, and cleanliness was a goal worth seeking.

And how long would the village be granted the strength and giving of such a man?

Here Frost paused longer still, taking the last bite of his meat. Having come with the snow, it seemed fitting he’d leave that way, too.

Little Jay clenched his hands under the table. His father, uncomfortable with the directness of the parson, suggested it time for hot gin and lemon, and his wife went to set the pot to heat.

And that hat, the parson wondered aloud. How unusual it was.

Little Jay’s eldest brother remembered then. He turned to his youngest brother and asked him plain if he had made it.

From scraps, Little Jay agreed, with a measure of pride.

And this was how the parson’s gaze was turned to Little Jay.

After all had eaten, and drunk, and said their goodnights, the parson left. Little Jay and Frost cleaned the table and kitchen, and then, as had become their habit, they made up Little Jay’s nest of blankets and pillows by the fire, and then left them there alone. They went outside, and danced in the snow together, which Frost could call and conjure to play, before heading back inside to Little Jay’s bed.

From the hill-top, unseen, watched the parson.

The sheriff and the parson came for Little Jay after the Carver father and brothers and Frost had left for the morning’s work. His mother, standing in front of her youngest son, tried to refute what they were saying.

Little Jay, however, was tired of scraps. He was tired of mending the broken things of others, and watching others have lives he might never have. So Little Jay stepped forward, and told them of a scrap of magic, of a wish and a tear, and of how a man made of snow was the most loving thing he had ever encountered, of a man who loved him despite his size, and who danced with him in the snow and made the snow dance with them in kind.

Little Jay had been loved, and he did not care if magic had been the seed of that love.

They took him.

Little Jay’s mother ran to the woods, and found her husband and her sons and Frost, and it was as though she saw Frost for the first time. Eyes as dark as coal, more handsome than should naturally be, skin unreddened by the cold, unlike her husband and sons, and a simple silk cap that could have done nothing to keep the cold at bay.

She wanted to hate him, and though she told him what had happened and how it was his fault, she knew the words were untrue even as she said them. Her eldest son, appalled, threw himself at Frost, and so surprised as the big man that he did not stop the eldest son from tearing the silk cap from his head and flinging it far into the woods.

The eldest son turned, sure he would now see a snow man where Frost had stood, but Frost remained. Frost pushed the man aside, and began to run. Though Little Jay’s father and mother and the other brothers tried to chase after him, the snow itself seemed no impediment to Frost, and soon he had left them behind.

Frost paused at the home where he had shared the winter so far, grabbing one of the unfinished straw brooms—just the broomstick—and then was once again on his way.

Down he went, to the village.

The villagers had seen the parson and the sheriff pass by with Little Jay between them, and many had heard the whispers spread in the wake. They lined the street, and parted before Frost as he approached. Each time his broomstick touched the ground, a tremor ran through the village.

The sheriff, seeing the large and angry Frost approaching, held out his hands and called for the man to stop, but Frost raised the broomstick and thumped it against the ground, and a wave of snow and ice burst forward, knocking the sheriff aside.

Frost drove his stick into the ground by the doors of the parson’s church, and the doors were driven from their hinges win a spray of cold.

Little Jay lay inside. Fingers snapped, each a refusal to recant; back bleeding, each stroke a refusal to speak of Frost with anything but love; feet broken, a refusal to apologize for magic.

The parson’s words of condemnation died on his lips when he saw Frost’s coal-dark eyes, and the fury within them, and he stumbled aside as Frost lifted Little Jay, and carried him from the church to the street, from the street to a field, and from the field, away.

While they walked, the snow parting and rejoining behind them, Little Jay reached up a broken hand, and asked for one more kiss.

In the mountains, where the snow fell thickest, Frost knelt down, and gathered Little Jay into his arms again. The small man was shaking with cold, and his body all but finished, so broken at the hands of the parson and the sheriff. Frost, created out of love and a wish, shed his first tears, and held Little Jay tight while he kissed him.

In that moment, it was understandable that both had forgotten what they’d learned.

But with that kiss, Frost and Little Jay both were reminded.

Anything broken might never be what it was, but in the right hands, with enough heart, it could always become something else. Even hands and a heart first made of snow. A scrap of a scarf and a tear had seen to that. And now, a tear and a kiss were magic and heart enough to restore some of what was lost.

A magic twice mended, first for love and now for life, could only go so far.

Still, Little Jay took a breath. And then another. He sat up, and felt none of the cold around him. He smiled, looking at the man who had carried him from his village, and understood.

Little Jay rose, and when his hands brushed a tree, patterns of ice spread up and down the bark, like scraps of winter mended and woven into something beautiful. He turned to Frost, who nodded.

Their hearts were now the same, winter born and winter sustained. And since that day, they travel together, loving and loved, wherever the winter snows might take them. They leave patterns behind for those who might need to see beauty when things are cold.

Little Jay left the name Carver behind with his village, taking Frost’s name as his surname instead. In all the places the snow falls, there are none quite as happy as Frost and the man who used to be Little Jay.

But you likely know him as Jack.

Lily

I know I already did my two wee posts about books I’ve read this year that I think would make great gifts, but the year isn’t done, I just finished Lily, and oh my gosh you need to get this into the hands of readers.

Especially readers who love, say, Neil Gaiman.

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You want this. You want this so much.

Yep, that’s what I said. It’s totally that good, and people who love Neil Gaiman can be right sods to buy for because they snap his stuff up as soon as it’s out there. I remember this from the bookstore days, and I remember the frustration of having to explain to people that no, there wasn’t a new Neil Gaiman that had just come out that their daughter/wife/son/husband/friend/whoever wouldn’t know about. Most of the time, I’d try to find things that were almost as good to suggest, and I felt good about that.

If I was still working at the bookstore full-time, I would be handing this to each and every one of them.

The Blurb:

Lily is a girl who discovers she has the ability to see how others will die simply by touching them. Only she doesn’t want this gift, and takes extreme measure to protect herself from it. When her mother—because every fairy tale has to have a wicked (step)mother—sells Lily’s services to an evangelical preacher and his wildly popular travelling tent revival, Lily is torn away from the idyllic place she’s always known as home and thrust into a world of greed and manipulation that threatens to destroy her unless she can find a way back…if she survives the quest the old witch Baba Yaga has given her…or the attention of the tent revivalist who promises to save her soul. Lily features the eerie artwork of Staven Andersen and the moving words of award-winning author Michael Thomas Ford.

A word on this artwork? Ohmigosh. So dark and pretty all at once. I listened to this book on audio, and then went back and physically read it again after, just so I could touch the pretty hardcover.

And trust me, you want the pretty hardcover.

I’ll probably go into a more thorough review later on, once I gather all my thoughts, but I wanted to come forward right now and tell all of you wondering what to get that reader in your life that I have your answer, right here.

Get Lily, from Lethe Press (direct from the publisher), or, check your local brick-and-mortar through indiebound.org, or of course you can always look at the usual e-tailer suspects.

But seriously. That beautiful hardcover edition. So so pretty.

Making Your Own Path

You can learn things from huskies.

For one, I learned that if you’re pretty and fluffy, people will randomly compliment you as you walk down the street.

Okay, maybe I already knew that one.

But I have learned just how smart a dog can be. My childhood dog, Chopper, was a lovely and loving dog. He was not, however, by any stretch of the imagination a smart dog. Truly.

Coach isn’t exactly Einstein, but he’s pretty darn smart. He can certainly communicate with me. This morning, for example, after our 7:00a walk, he made it very clear—in fifteen minute increments—that he’d like to go back outside into the snow.

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Seriously, he’s like a snow-plow.

He does this by walking into the room, looking out of the window at the snow, turning to me until I look at him, and then huffing, loudly.

Huskies aren’t subtle.

Today, I dug out the snow shoes, and we went to the local baseball diamond, looped around the big field surrounding it, and then wandered off into the woods and along the power lines. It was a long trek, and the snow was untouched.

When we started, I was in a pretty sour mood. Every time I look online these days, it’s like another layer of an onion is peeled away to show me some new horrible level of bigotry and intolerance empowered by the noise from the south.

But Coach loves the snow. He made his own path the whole way. He leaps his way through the snow, with little hops that blast the snow aside, and then, when he gets too far ahead of me and I call him back, he reluctantly comes racing back along the same path he just made, which is now nowhere near as hard to travel, lets me pet him, and then races off down the path he made—easier still, now—and then starts forging anew at the end of where he’d been.

Blazing the way? Hard, but worth it.

Moving back where you came from? Disappointing, and far easier.

Getting further ahead by walking the paths already made? A pleasure, and once again joyful to start blazing ahead from where the path left off.

Like I said, Huskies can teach you things.

Blaze on, folks.

“Aw. Isn’t that swell!” (Or, “How I learned to love ‘The Muppet Christmas Carol.’)

It has likely not escaped your notice that I’ve not often been a giant fan of Christmas.

I know, I know. Shocking.

Best audio version ever.

One of the few things I do love, however, is A Christmas Carol. I re-listen to the audiobook version (performed by Patrick Stewart) every year, and at some point—two days ago, this year—my husband and I sit down and watch the 1951 Alastair Sim movie version.

In black and white.

This is my favourite version, and was always the one we played at my home growing up. How it managed to continue to be my favourite, I’m not sure. Many things that remind me of my youth are things I no longer like to think about, but Alastair Sim, dancing about on Christmas morning somehow slices right past my agnostalgia and gives me a smile of joy.

Frankly, it’s one of the few pieces of the holidays I have always enjoyed, and as such, I try not to question it much.

My husband loves A Muppet Christmas Carol.

So.

That.

We watched it last night, as we do every year, and some odd things happened this year.

One, when we were watching the Alastair Sim version, at the point at which the voice-over explains that Tiny Tim doesn’t die, some force of nature drew forth an exclamation of “Aw. Isn’t that swell!” from me.

For those who know A Muppet Christmas Carol, this is Rizzo the Rat’s piece when Gonzo—sorry, Mr. Dickens—points out that Tiny Tim doesn’t die.

I’m not sure who was more surprised of the two of us.

Two, when we were watching A Muppet Christmas Carol, I found myself smiling and grinning and humming along to the opening song.

Obviously, something has shifted. It might be once more facet of joy sneaking back into the holiday now that the big boot heel of retail isn’t stomping on the season. It might be the reality that it has been decades—actual decades!—since my solo Christmas years.

And it might just be that A Muppet Christmas Carol isn’t so bad…

Well.

Probably not that.

Maybe.