'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 12

Queer as Category and Why it Makes me Squirm

So. There was this wee award I learned about last year when a book of mine was nominated, which was sort of cool, but the category was “Best Queer Romance” (which always makes me cringe). Now, I’ve done a more detailed blog post about this in the past, which is here. I promised myself I’d just link back to things like this when they come up, because Queer 101 is exhausting, but this turned out somewhat differently, so… Onward?

(Fun-fact: I even have a T-shirt I wear to romance conventions now that says “My Identity is not a Sub-Genre” because of how often this discussion comes up.)

Another favourite shirt for conventions.

The TL;DR version of that blog post, is this: I can only speak for me as one queer romance author, but when there are categories like “Best Holiday Romance” and “Best Romantic Thriller” and then also “Best Queer Romance” I don’t think it actually elevates queer romance. I think it shoves queer romance all aside. Because if you’ve got a Holiday Queer Romance (as I did), then where does the book go? In my experience, it tends to shunt everything with queer characters into the Queer Category, even if they belong to other categories, because Queer tends to trump anything else.

How do you pick a “best” when one is a Queer YA, one is a Queer Holiday Romance, and one is a Queer Romantic Thriller? What makes one of those the “best” Queer Romance of the bunch when the books only have queer in common? Or, say one is a Queer YA and another is a Queer Romantic Thriller, and they’re a better romantic YA and a better romantic thriller than the non-queer titles in the YA and romantic thriller categories? Doesn’t matter—if they’re slotted into the queer category, only one of the queer titles gets to win, competing against each other.

Now, I should note in this award’s defence and for transparency, last year they also had a paranormal category, and the book that won that award was an m/m romance, so there was at least one queer romance that escaped the generalized “Queer Romance” category.

But I believe it was the only one.

So. Last year, after the awards concluded, I reached out to the organizer and mentioned all this as feedback, and more-or-less put it from my mind. Like I said, this happens often enough I have a go-to blog about it at the ready. When the categories were announced and there was once again a “Best Queer Romance,” I gently—and this time publicly—pointed out how having a queer category ends up giving off the impression that queerness gets one category, and queer titles don’t likely belong in the others (or that it could be easily second-guessed and likely put into the queer category).

I mean, given the RWA, history, etc…, unless something is pretty darn explicit about including queerness across-the-board, seeing a single queer category can easily send a message. An unintentional one, I believe, but it’s still there.

The organizer reached out to me, and it was a bit awkward, but I did my best to explain my reasoning, and used the blog post, because again I can’t speak for all of queer kind here. I imagine plenty of queer people probably don’t care or even prefer there be an explicit queer award (even if it is as a “first step” or something). I remember that from a few queer authors back in 2017 during all this discussion then, and it’s not like things have gotten much better. And it’s fine if other queer folk disagree here, truly. I just thought the way it was set up wasn’t particularly clear, and could fail at what it was intended to do: instead of elevating across the categories, it was (unintentionally) giving off the appearance of tucking queer titles into one category. Maybe using some explicit wording to emphasize what the category was meant to be/do might help? Maybe making it super clear the other categories were absolutely going to welcome queer characters, and that this was in some way intended to be an “and the best of the best!” award from among those queer titles?

So, the end result of this discussion—and, I imagine, discussion I didn’t see behind the scenes—is the award put a vote up and the entire vote is just: “Please vote on whether or not you wish for the Queer Romance Award to continue.”

No context. No explanation. Just a yes/no, should they have a Queer Romance Award, and I just…

Fuck it. I give up. I probably should have just stopped the first time I got “since some people [may] not be interested in queer romance” as part of the reasoning behind why they’d done it in the first place. I mean, yes. People “not interested” in queer romance are never going to vote for queer romance to win in any category, are they? Judges “not interested” in queer romance will never judge queer romance on an even keel.

Having “Best Queer Romance” tucks queerness somewhere those “not interested” in queer romance don’t have to see it.

Great.

A Calculated Risk (Or, Goals Part Two: More Audio)

As I mentioned yesterday, I had a brainstorm for goals, and one of them aligns with one of my favourite things in the world: Audiobooks. I love to listen to audiobooks, I love the accessibility of them, I love how they make walking Max in minus-oh-my-gods weather a slice more palatable, and I’m lucky enough to have three audiobooks out there: In Memoriam, Handmade Holidays, and Faux Ho Ho.

My goal? Another audiobook.

But first, let’s talk about the best freaking audiobook I listened to last year.

A Calculated Risk

Detective Jo Shaw has it all worked out. She’s good at her job, she has loads of mates, and she likes being single. She doesn’t need complications, but an emergency call to the stabbing of a young woman brings plenty of those. Jo has to risk her career to save the woman’s life, and a bad night gets worse when the trauma surgeon turns out to be Isla Munro, Jo’s only real love, who walked out on her 15 years ago and never came back.

With the victim’s children missing and the husband the prime suspect, Jo’s investigation is stonewalled by a community living in fear. As one dead end leads to another, she and Isla are forced to put their differences aside and work together. But the case is far more dangerous than Jo realizes, and her determination to sort the truth from the lies may put her own life on the line.

A Calculated Risk, by Cari Hunter; Performed by Nicola Victoria Vincent

I freaking love Cari Hunter, and I cannot tell you how she presents the north of England not just as a setting but as an extra character—the way the place is, honestly, having been born and grown up there for a few years. If you partner that almost-a-character-setting alongside Nicola Victoria Vincent’s absolutely brilliant performance (she doesn’t just read Hunter’s books, she one-hundred-percent performs them), and you’ve got utter freaking magic.

I want to tell you to just grab all the Cari Hunter audiobooks performed by Nicola Victoria Vincent, or even that you should start way back with their first books together (which I believe was Desolation Point), but when I say A Calculated Risk was my favourite audiobook last year, I may be understating. It’s a contender for my favourite audiobook, period. The mystery is both vexing and perplexing, and she got me, I fell for a red herring and I can’t even be mad about it; the humour is there, even among the darkness, which is a Cari Hunter staple; the characters are fantastic, even when they’re being stubborn gits; the relationship is charming and grounded; and truly, the climax and resolution and how the next book is set up?

I. Can’t. Wait.

If you love thrillers with romantic sub-plots and just want to listen to an amazing mystery taking place somewhere you don’t get to hear about often—and performed to absolute perfection—don’t wait on this one. Nab it.

Speaking of Audiobooks…

So. I want to have another audiobook out this year. The reality of publishing being what it is, it will have to be one I’m in charge of—I don’t have much (read: any) control over whether or not audiobooks are created with my traditional publishers (The Triad books, Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, Stuck With You, etcetera). That decision is up to them, not me.

Now, I’ve no illusions of this being a cash windfall—hence the reason my publishers don’t race to make audiobooks of my work—but I want the accessibility of things I’ve written being out there when I can. Preferably, not solely available on Audible, either. When you release to Audible exclusively, they dangle more royalties at you but you can’t also be available in libraries, which is the current status for Faux Ho Ho, alas, but if my PLR is good to me, I’d love to hire Giancarlo Herrera again—he’s magical!—and I still have “Rear Admiral” to work with.

So. It’s possibly my only choice—my wee erotica novelette—but hey, the world needs more audiobook meet-disaster funny gay erotica, no?

Medea (Or, Goals Part One: Retellings)

Happy New Year! It’s that day where people list off resolutions or goals, and while I’m not a huge believer in the first, I do believe strongly in the second, and since I’ve thought of a few goals (specifically for writing), I thought I’d break them up into posts while also pointing at some awesome things I’ve read.

And I’ll start with the awesome.

Medea: Priestess, Princess, Witch

This is not the story of the woman you think you know. You know only the tales of men through the ages. No, this is the story of a dangerous woman fighting for her freedom in a world dominated by cruel gods and ego driven men…

In the house of King Aeetes on the shores of the Black Sea, Medea plays with gods in the forest as visions of a dark future haunt her. Descendant of Helios and daughter of sea nymph Idyia, Medea holds the kind of power meant for the heroes of the epics, the heroes who have yet to arrive in the world. But as a woman, her place is decided by the men around her. Until Jason and his Argonauts arrive, bringing with them the winds of change and the goddess’s voice ringing out of Medea’s lips.

Sacrifices. Politics wrapped in layers of deceit, blood, and ego. Gods with their own agendas not meant for mortal flesh. Magic. Monsters. Love. Who will Medea become in her desperate search for freedom?

Medea: Priestess, Princess, Witch by JJ Taylor

I love a retelling. This is likely known to anyone who’s been around here for even a year, given I do a yearly retelling of a holiday story, but when skillful authors take a character and run in a new direction, I am generally already on board. When said character is one such as Medea—who, let’s be honest, gets basically defined entirely by her relationship to men in the Greek myths because, well, of course, right?—I’m not just on board, I’m intrigued and ready to retroactively apply the new story into my own head canon whenever I think of the myths going forward.

And that’s what happened here.

Taylor does something brilliant with Medea that I never recall feeling about the character in any of those myths I studied mumble-mumble years ago in university: she gives her agency and choice in a way that remains true to the setting (the Gods of the time are awful, whimsical beings after all) and her realities as a flawed being. Medea does not make great choices, but she does make human choices, and you feel for her even as Taylor beautifully weaves her story in around the myth—and beyond—where a woman with so much power seems denied what you come to realize she truly wants: freedom.

The settling leaps off the page, the characters are just familiar enough that it feels like you’re glimpsing inside what could have been—sort of a “there’s the story you’ve been told, but now here’s what really happened”—and the seeming effortlessness of it speaks to Taylor’s skill. Pulling that feel off is freaking difficult, and it’s done damned well here.

Anyway. If you’ve got any love at all for Greek Myth, or even a curiosity about what or who Medea might have been had someone other than those focused on Jason or the other men of Greek heroics told her tale, please don’t hesitate. Nab yourself a copy. It’s out next month from Butterworth Books.

Speaking of Retellings…

So, as I mentioned, I’ve got myself four goals this year for writing. One of them is to collect all those queer holiday retellings I’ve been doing for the last almost decade into a collection and release it out into the world for the next holiday season. As it stands, there’s something close to fifty-five thousand words as is, so I’m going to add a few more stories to the mix, and then I can pester the brilliant Inkspiral Design for a cover—and dare I consider interior art?—and then whatever money it makes, I’ll fire at a queer charity.

So. That’s been said out loud, it’s a thing that’s going to happen, and for all those who’ve asked me if I’d ever consider a print release of “Dolph” or “Frost” or any of the other stories, this year I can say “Yes!” And don’t worry, I’m definitely hiring an editor. Those stories were all written pretty much as-is, given their freebie nature. The Christmas Baubles will be polished before they’re hung out on a tree.

How about you? Do you love retellings? Got a favourite you’d love to tell me about? Please do! And do you make resolutions or set goals at this time of year?

Existing While Queer—during the Holidays

No Angst, thanks!

Being queer during the holidays can be tough, even when you dive into some escapist reading given how often we’re just kind of not-there. I admit to being a lover of the cheesy, low-budget, plot-holes-you-can-drive-Santa’s-sled-through holiday movies, and I happily sip my tea and snuggle under my blankie knowing that the silver-haired older gentleman is totally going to turn out to be Santa for-real and save the bakery/Christmas tree farm/family inn/vineyard. Sometimes you want a sugar cookie, okay?

But I also wish I could have that, but queer. There are some out there. I loved The Christmas Set-up, and Single All the Way, and both especially because they went low-angst, like the typical holiday formula, but let them be gloriously queer. (Especially The Christmas Set-up, which also included some wonderful queers-existing-in-history).

If you’re looking for some reading that gives those vibes? Check out the more than fifty titles waiting for you in the Low-Angst Queer Holiday Reads promotion, either by clicking the image above, or that link right there. Chances are you’ve read my stuff if you’re seeing this here, of course, but there are over fifty titles! (I’m on my third so far, and I’m really having fun with them).

And if you’d like some more thoughts on the whole existing while queer during the holidays thing? Keep reading…

Seriously, more #WritersCoffeeClub, ‘Nathan?

Okay, I swear I’m not doing this on purpose, but over on Mastodon, there’s this series of daily question prompts, #WritersCoffeeClub, and today’s prompt was: What aspects of your life do you bring into your writing? This struck me as another awesome discussion topic, as my answer was pretty simple (on the surface): Existing while queer, mostly.

To build on that theme (and also because of said group promotion I’m taking part in), let’s go back to Handmade Holidays and Faux Ho Ho first before I move on to today’s holiday novella. In Handmade Holidays, Nick is disowned at the start of the story. His family sucks. He finds a new chosen family, has awesome friends, and by the end of that novella he’s super happy—and his biological family never show up again, never come around, and had nothing to do with his happiness. This was a super-important facet of the book for me when I was writing it, because that’s the lived reality of a tonne of queer people I know (myself included). In Faux Ho Ho, Silas’s family is pretty awful, but he loves and is loved by his sister, has some people at his back even when he’s with his family, and going home for the holidays is like wearing an itchy, uncomfortable and undersized sweater that reminds him he’s grown and isn’t who he used to be. That’s another lived reality for so many of my queer friends who have surface-level, kinda-sorta “tolerant” families, and end up holding out because there are some relationships they still want to maintain with some of their family.

In Felix Navidad, I wanted to explore another facet of existing while queer, and that was how queer generations don’t have an inherent inheritability to them. For the vast majority of us queer people, we don’t have queer parents who can tell us about our queer grandparents. We’re usually the only one. (Not always, of course—my husband’s older sister came out before him, which was incredible for him, and I have a few queer friends with children who have queer kids of their own, which I can only imagine how fantastic that must be as a queerling). But most of us don’t know who came before us unless we go seek it out, and we don’t even know what we don’t know. Felix interacting with Danya was all about that, a queer caretaker looking after a queer man many decades older than him, and their interactions among the queer community at large underlining how important that connection is.

I mean, he also gets stranded in a cabin with a hot farmer, but adding these doses of my lived queer reality is important to me, even when non-queer people sometimes complain about it.

Felix Navidad, which is part of the Low-Angst Queer Holiday Reads promo right now!

Felix doesn’t do impulsive anymore. But attending a friend’s wedding reminds Felix he’s the only one of his friends attending solo, and recent losses have him thinking he’s swung too far in the not-impulsive direction.

So, impulse decision number one? Cutting in on a dance with handsome farmer Kevin, the ex of one of the grooms, for a spin at the reception. Impulse decision number two? Planning his first holiday vacation off work. Christmas in Hawai’i will be a gift to himself.

When dancing doesn’t work out, Felix keeps high hopes for his vacation right up until the first flight cancellation. After bumping into a stranded Kevin, who lost his flight home, Felix gives impulse a third try: Why not drive to Toronto together? But after ice rain strands them halfway, it looks like Felix isn’t going to get to give himself his gift after all. Instead, this Christmas is a small cabin—and Kevin.

“Felix Navidad,” by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Let it Trope, Let it Trope, Let it Trope…

Today’s Trope…

Tropes are awesome, and one of the best parts about writing a holiday romance novella is choosing which Trope to use. With Handmade Holidays, which I chatted about yesterday, I explored “Friends to Lovers” and “Slow-burn” and—my forever favourite—”Found Family.”

Today, though, thanks to taking part in the Low-Angst Queer Festive Holiday Reads group with over fifty queer romances fitting said category, I’m gonna quickly chat about Faux Ho Ho, my second holiday novella, where I dove full on into a “Fake Dating” trope (and also “Found Family” because I can’t not write that one, sorry-not-sorry).

I’m the first to admit that a fauxmance makes zero sense. Like, it just doesn’t happen in the real world. And yet, I freaking love them. And part of that is because, when writing it through a queer lens, it hits this wonderful subversive note to me that I flipping adore: instead of a queer couple having to pretend they’re roommates, or friends, or anything other than being in love—which absolutely does happen and is awful to live through—I get to turn it around and have them pretending to be in love! And then, because Romance, they end up actually falling in love. I love me a reversal, and that one brings me joy.

I’m sure if you’re here, you’ve likely already read my version of this trope, the aforementioned Faux Ho Ho, but even if you have (and thank you!) I hope you pop on over to the Low-Angst Queer Festive Holiday Reads page and maybe find yourself a new favourite by a new-to-you author!

Faux Ho Ho, part of the fifty-plus titles you can find here!

Silas Waite doesn’t want his big-C Conservative Alberta family to know he’s barely making rent. They’d see it as yet another sign that he’s not living up to the Waite family potential and muscle in on his life. When Silas unexpectedly needs a new roommate, he ends up with the gregarious (and gorgeous) personal trainer Constantino “Dino” Papadimitriou.

Silas’s parents try to brow-beat him into visiting for Thanksgiving, where they’ll put him on display as an example of how they’re so “tolerant,” for Silas’s brother’s political campaign, but Dino pretends to be his boyfriend to get him out of it, citing a prior commitment. The ruse works—until they receive an invitation to Silas’s sister’s last-minute wedding.

Silas loves his sister, Dino wouldn’t mind a chalet Christmas, and together, they could turn a family obligation into something fun. But after nine months of being roommates, then friends, and now “boyfriends,” Silas finds being with Dino way too easy, and being the son that his parents barely tolerate too hard. Something has to give, but luckily, it’s the season for giving—and maybe what Silas has to give is worth the biggest risk of all.

“Faux Ho Ho,” by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Not-so-Tropetastic?

As a timely coincidence, once again, the Mastodon daily topic landed for me on a topic I have a strong feeling about. Here was the prompt: #WritersCoffeeClub Dec 16 – Any writing tropes you dislike, without insulting other club members? (I love that caveat, by the way.) And this will not be low-angst, so if you’re totally not in the mood, skip away, have a great day, I adore you, you are awesome for considering your own mental health and spoon supply.

So. If you’re still here, my short answer that fit into a Mastodon reply was this: I don’t know that it’s possible to do the bully-and-bullied romantic pairing trope in a way that will ever make me want to see it play out; especially if we’re talking making the homophobic bully use the “turns out he’s gay!” trope on top of it as well. For me, it’s “he’s only hurting you because he likes you” toxicity, doubling-down on the “most homophobes are secretly gay” untruth. Just… no.

To expand on that a little, what makes me uneasy about this trope—especially in romance—is two-fold, and crosses over into something I think can and does do harm as a supported narrative. One, there’s that feeling of turning homophobia (and violent homophobia specifically, because bullying is violence and often literal assault) into a “the hate was coming from inside the house”—which then puts all the onus and blame and the entire problem back into the hands of the queer community, as though it’s an internal problem queer people need to fix, when queer hate is absolutely not majority from within, but rather something that nonqueer people need to take the lead on dismantling. There’s this thing I see—a lot—where as soon as, say, a powerful political figure comes out swinging (and doing real harm) against queer people, the jokes begin: they’re probably closeted. There. Done. Dealt with. But… no? No, in fact, all you’ve done is say “the bad person in this situation is queer” which, uh… do you see the homophobia there? (And please, I’m begging you, don’t respond with “but wasn’t there a study that showed homophobes had arousal responses to gay sex?” because no, no, and no.)

The other side of it is the notion of bully romances is—literally—pairing an abuser with the abused, but somehow, having it be two men somehow absolves or excuses the abuse? Like, I don’t know that I’ve ever even seen a romantic pairing of a man who tormented, attacked, and made a woman’s life living hell when they were in high school, but there are so many out there with gay dudes, and… I struggle with that. A lot.

Anyway! Not the cheeriest discussion for a holiday post—especially one where I’m pointing out you can grab some Low-Angst Awesomeness—but it struck me as a worthwhile discussion.

Low-Angst? Check! Queer? Check! Holiday? Check!

Fifty+ New Potential Favourites!

Hey all! December 15th always feels like rounding the last major corner towards Christmas to me, and I don’t know if it was all my years in retail (it was totally all my years in retail) but at this point in the year, I’m snuggled down with comfort reads. Low-angst comfort reads. Low-angst, holiday-themed, queer holiday reads. Often novellas (just something about the season that fits snugly into novella length for me), a few favourite re-reads, and listening to audiobooks while I walk the husky.

Now, if you’re here, you already know I’ve got three holiday novellas out there, and it all started with Handmade Holidays, my chosen-family, multiple-year, such-a-slow-burn-it’s-nearly-just-smoke queer romance. Handmade Holidays is based so very much on one of my own holiday traditions: Christmas Tree ornaments. Like my main character, Nick, I got a tree the first year I had space for it, and also like Nick, I forgot ornaments. That first year, it had candy canes and a single ornament a friend gave me, and it started a tradition: adding to that tree. It’s the same for Nick and his circle of chosen family, and though I imagine if you’re here, there’s a very good chance you’ve already met Nick and company, I have joined in with a group of wonderful authors of over fifty low-angst queer holiday romances again this year, and you can check out all the offerings by clicking that image above, or this link, right here. Go check them out, and maybe find a new favourite!

One of three of my titles available among the 50+ Low-Angst Queer Holiday titles! Check ’em all out!

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.

A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born.

As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.

Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late.

Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

Handmade Holidays, by ‘Nathan Burgoine

Ornamental

Speaking of, our tree also went up, and as it’s an annual tradition here to share a couple of snaps, but I also wanted to note that something incredible happened this year with our tree. This year tipped a balance: as of this year, there are more years of ornaments on the tree than there were in life before it. I’ve come further than where I began, and as we decorated it this year, the little gasps of memory and laughter were all the sweeter for it. Making your own traditions, especially as a queer person, has been so important to me.

As always, the first ornament to be added to the tree for the year involves our rescue husky, Max. He’s definitely a character—sometimes an antagonist, like when he blew all the tendons in my left arm—but he’s always just adorable enough to get by. And while he can be very photogenic, sometimes the results are more amusing than not, and those are the ones we tend to pick for immortalizing him on the tree, given his goofy anti-gravitas. This year was no exception, as he threw this look at me while I was trying to take some lovely pictures of fall foliage.

See what I mean about anti-gravitas? That is not a patient puppy. He was so very done with me doing clicky-things with my phone. Still, you have to love him. I’m serious, he does just enough to be loveable, every time, no matter what else he’s done beforehand. It’s incredible.

Then there’s this. My husband went to the Rijksmuseum this year, while on a business trip, and while he had the sublime experience of seeing Johannes Vermeer’s “The Milkmaid,” he didn’t want me to feel left out, so he went to the gift-shop at the museum and purchased… this.

I can’t say I feel sublime about it, but I can say those dead eyes do follow you throughout the entire room no matter where you’re standing, so that sure is something!

I jest (somewhat). We have a history of also loving to find less-than-gorgeous ornamentation for our tree, and honestly, dead-eyed Milkmaid bunny fits right in alongside our Rainbow unicorn, Santa in his big-horn Texas mobile, Winky the one-eyed Fox, and all the other denizens of our tree that—it’s probably horrible to admit this—seem to end up on the far side of the tree most years. They always make us laugh, though, and remind us of the year we got them. I’m sure dead-eyed Milkmaid bunny will bring us her version of joy for years and years to come.

Do you do a mixed-ornament tree? A themed tree? No tree at all? I’d love to hear about any other traditions you have—especially how you’ve made the holidays your own if you, like me, spent a lot of time feeling like you’d never enjoy the holiday at all. And don’t forget to take a visit to the Low-Angst Queer Holiday reads page, and maybe find yourself a new favourite to snuggle up with!

Most of ’81

Every December 14th for the past eight years, I’ve re-written a holiday story through a queer lens, retelling it as a way to retroactively tell stories to my younger self that include people like me. The first year, I wrote “Dolph,” (a retelling of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer). Then I wrote “Frost,” (a retelling of Frosty the Snow-Man), “Reflection,” (a retelling of “The Snow Queen”), “The Five Crowns and Colonel’s Sabre,” (a retelling of “The Nutcracker and Mouse King”), “The Doors of Penlyon” (a retelling of “The Christmas Hirelings”), “A Day (or Two) Ago” (a retelling of “Jingle Bells”), “The Future in Flame,” (a retelling of “The Little Match Girl”), and then last year, “Not the Marrying Kind,” (a retelling of “The Romance of a Christmas Card.”)

This year, I went more contemporary than I have yet when I set my gaze to one of my favourite songs, “Christmas Wrapping,” by The Waitresses, and realized the song takes place in 1981, which—if I were to re-tell the story in Toronto—makes it one hell of a year for a queer lens. In 1981, Operation Soap happened, kicking off protests and leading to “Toronto’s Stonewall,” and then the end of the year leveled a particularly rough kick at the throats of queer people when the Ontario Legislature voted against including sexuality in the human rights code. And, of course, the end of 1981 was when news of the “Gay Cancer” in New York was starting to be heard elsewhere. So, our hero of this particular retelling has every right to be Bah-Humbug! as 1981 draws to a close…

Most of ’81

December, 1981

Despite the scent of the cooking food—a favourite part of his favourite holiday—and a determined effort to reclaim this night in some way, Christopher found himself wincing as that awful Christmas medley song started playing. 

Again. 

“Bah humbug,” Christopher said to himself, rolling his eyes at his own frustration, but he fiddled with the radio until the holiday music—which of course he kept finding on multiple stations—was finally replaced with something he could stand. 

Blondie, explaining he couldn’t outrun a gun-wielding alien about to shoot him and eat his head, seemed a much better choice, frankly. 

What a year.

Closing his eyes and rocking his chin along to Blondie, Christopher tried to gather some sense of purpose or energy beyond “get to the end of the day.” He took a breath, snorting to himself, and pushed off from the wall. If he could skip Christmas this year, he would. Hell, he was doing a pretty close facsimile as it was. 

Today had sucked. The whole month had sucked. Fuck, everything about this entire goddamn year had sucked…

Well.

Christopher smiled.

Most of ’81.

*

February, 1981

“So, the lesson here is I am shit at skiing,” Christopher said, pushing open the door to the ski shop and tying not to limp too badly.

“You almost had it by the end of the day,” Patty said, tugging her pom-pommed toque off her head and grinning at him. Her short dark hair was barely ruffled, which was better than Christopher could say about his own spikes, which had been all but destroyed by his own. 

Beside Patty, Ariel made a choking, laughing sound of derision, but didn’t overtly argue with her girlfriend, which was honestly a rare moment of kindness from the butch, and one he intended to take in stride. 

Man, his ass hurt.

“Uh huh,” he said. “How about we hit somewhere with alcohol? Numb my pain?” He aimed his best please-can-we-stop-being-butch-lesbians-now? gaze their way. 

“Black Russians it is,” Ariel said. 

“Delightful,” Christopher said, spinning away from the two of them to try and find a mirror—he needed to fix his spikes—and colliding bodily with someone who’d apparently decided to take the same narrow aisle between the puffy ski jackets.

Someone cute. Tall, good shoulders, and short blond hair done with stylish, wavy volume, and killer brown eyes. 

Hopefully not intending to kill Christopher, at least.

“Sorry,” Christopher said, holding up his hands and deepening his voice to the most normal-dude register he could manage (not a forté) before spotting what he was almost completely sure was a welcome smile from Blondie Brown Eyes. 

Christopher relaxed a notch. 

“You’re good,” the man said, with a smile revealing the most wonderfully crooked eyetooth Christopher had ever seen. The rest of his teeth were all perfect little soldiers, with just the one nudged back, and somehow it worked magic for the man’s smile. 

“I haven’t been good all day,” Christopher said. “My friends are trying to teach me to ski.” He aimed a thumb at Patty and Ariel and if that wouldn’t be enough to tip off Blondie Brown Eyes he was family, nothing would. “I’ve been falling on my ass all day.”

“Maybe you need more practice,” he said, revealing the cutest eyetooth once again.

“Please don’t tell them that,” Christopher put his hands together, like he was begging. “I just convinced them to go to drinks.”

“Where you heading?” he asked, and okay, that was a great question, because it sounded an awful lot like maybe Blondie Brown Eyes was intending to meet him there. 

“I… don’t know,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“Don!” a voice called, and Blondie Brown Eyes turned to glance at a pair of men on the other side of the room, and if they weren’t family, Christopher would eat one of his own shirts. The hair, the moustaches, these boys were not being subtle, and given how nearly identical they looked, Christopher decided to err on the side of optimism and believe they were together, leaving Blondie Brown Eyes free to be single until the point at which Christopher captured his heart.

Or, y’know, his attention for an evening. 

Or an hour. 

He could work with an hour.

“Here,” Blondie Brown Eyes said, sliding a hand into his pocket and pulling out a matchbook, and, after patting his jeans, a short pencil. He flipped open the lid of the matchbook, and wrote something down. Then he held out the matchbook towards Christopher in two fingers.

“I have to go,” he said. 

“That’s awful,” Christopher said, taking the matchbook.

Blondie Brown Eyes smiled, and then he was gone.

Christopher opened the matchbook. In it, underneath the name Don, was a phone number.

“Did you just pick up a trick in a ski shop?” 

Christopher turned. He hadn’t heard either Patty or Ariel approaching, but they were both behind him now, aiming big grins his way. 

“Maybe,” Christopher said, sliding the matchbook into his pocket. Maybe his months-long dry spell was over. Maybe despite a January man-drought, 1981 would be his year after all. 

“Back to the hotel and change before drinks?” Ariel said.

“Please!” Christopher said. He kind of assumed he wasn’t going to bump into Don at whichever bar they went to, but if it did happen, he was going to restore his spikes first. 

In their room, however, the plastic cube light on the telephone was blinking. 

“We have a message,” Christopher said. Patty dialled down to the desk while Christopher surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror. It was a miracle his post-toque hair hadn’t scared Don away completely, he decided. 

When he was restored to his best self, he came out and hunted to see what options he’d brought any of his own favourite shirts, settling on his tightest option, and listened while Patty hung up and then, to his surprise, picked up the phone and started dialling again.

“Jonas wants us to call him,” Patty said, sounding worried. “He left a message saying it was a family emergency.” She finished dialling, and waited.

Jonas didn’t have a family. Well, he had them, obviously, which was the same as Christopher, but…

“Jonas?” Patty said, a few seconds later. 

Christopher could hear Jonas’s panicky, rising voice, even from here. He looked at Ariel, and she stepped close to Patty, sliding one arm around her girlfriend in support. 

“What?” Patty said. “Oh God. Okay. Okay.” Listening to her talk made Christopher want to scream, but he waited. Finally, she said. “We’ll leave right away.”

They would? 

Patty hung up. 

“What is it?” Christopher said, not able to hold it back any more.

“Cops raided the bathhouses. Like, all of them,” Patty said. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses. “Jonas said they arrested everyone. He was working at the hotline when he found out.” 

“Let’s go,” Ariel said.

Christopher started packing.

It wasn’t until they got back to Toronto he even remembered the matchbook in his pocket, but between helping to get nearly a dozen gay friends he knew out of jail, protesting, marching, and sitting-in, he was a little busy for the next two weeks trying not to get the hell beaten out of him by asshole cops, alongside thousands of others—actual thousands of people like him—filling Toronto’s streets with anger.

It wasn’t just the so-called “Operation Soap” anymore, or the day-to-day reality, no…

It was everything.  

*

December, 1981

Blondie ended, and when another Christmas song took her place, Christopher gave up and shut off the radio. He’d put on a record if he wanted music he could trust not to add more chill to his small bachelor apartment. The silence allowed the low howl of the winter wind outside into his kitchenette, a harshness that had him considering getting started early on the libation portion of the evening. 

Don’t drink alone, Christopher, it’s never a good idea. The advice sounded like Ariel’s voice in his head, and given she was a nurse and saw her fair share of the fallout of people drinking alone, he supposed it was good advice. He wondered how she was doing. Both she and Patty were at their family Christmases by now, and no doubt counting the seconds until they could make a tactical withdrawal and get back to each other. 

Though, in Patty’s case, at least her mother cooked a mean turkey. 

Speaking of. 

He took a moment to check on the food and the trio of pots on the stovetop, then left the kitchenette to sit on the edge of his futon and consider his tiny table-top Christmas tree and the calendar beyond it, where despite it being late in the year, he’d stopped crossing off the days after the big black X through December 1st, weeks ago now.

December 1st had more or less tanked the month for him. 

No, not just the month. The year. 

“Fuck you,” he said, tossing a finger at the calendar, its picture of sparkling, snow-covered winter conifers, pretty streak of northern lights, and every asshole in the Ontario Legislature who’d raised their voice in a “nay” and turned what could have been something actually good, something helpful and necessary and, Hell, what had the potential to have been one of the best fucking days of the whole awful fucking year into…

This.

God, Christmas Eve and he already just wanted this winter over with.

*

March, 1981

An angled rain his umbrella did nothing to prevent soaked Christopher from the waist down as he attempted to cross the street and get under an overhang—any overhang—on his slushy, wet trek down Yonge. 

Spotting a brief respite beside the stairwell up to Glad Day, Christopher managed to hop over a puddle—and collide bodily with someone doing exactly the same thing from another angle.

“Shit, sorry!” Christopher managed, his umbrella going one way while he grabbed out with his free hand for the railing in an attempt not to either fall down or knock the other person over. 

“Damnit, shit!” the other man said, more-or-less doing the same, though he’d had no umbrella and instead used one hand on the railing and one grabbing at the front of Christopher’s jacket, which was honestly the only thing that kept Christopher from falling down.

After a moment to let his heart stop pounding and a quick swipe at his eyes to get the rain out, he looked up, ready to apologize more meaningfully and…

“Don?” Christopher said, recognizing the dark brown eyes and the crooked eye tooth. Also the whole face, which was just as handsome as it had been, what, two months ago?

“Yes?” The recognition wasn’t mutual, which stung, until those brown eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, hi!” The view of the smile, crooked-tooth-included, was all the more enjoyable for the minor delay.

It was him. 

“You didn’t call,” Don said. 

“No, I didn’t,” Christopher said, then held up his free hand. “But it was an accident.”

“Sorry?” Don’s smile grew amused now, like he couldn’t wait to hear how that made sense.

“The raids,” Christopher said, and saw the moment Don realized what he was referring to. 

“Oh shit,” Don said. “You got arrested?”

“Oh, no, I was… it was when we were skiing, but we needed to get back right away,” Christopher said. “But somewhere between getting our friends out of jail and hitting the streets…” He aimed what he hoped was a winning smile Don’s way. “That matchbook? Went up in smoke. I think maybe one of the times I got arrested at a sit in, but I’m not sure.” 

“Well, now I have to forgive you,” Don said. He licked his lips, which were still wet with the rain and also made Christopher want to lick Don’s lips as well as other parts of him. “Are you in Toronto long?” 

What? Christopher frowned. “I live here.”

“Oh, I thought you lived in Quebec, because…” He gestured out into the rain, which Christopher took a moment to parse into We met in Quebec, skiing. Was Don French? He did have a slight accent, and the way he spoke…

“No, we were just getting away together. Some friends, I mean.” Christopher smiled. “So if you want to give me your number again, I swear this time I’ll actually use it. If it stops raining, we could even be dry.”

“Wet isn’t terrible,” Don said, definitely flirting, and now Christopher really wanted to lick him. “But I am not free tonight, and tomorrow I head back.”

“Back?”

“Montreal.”

“You’re from Montreal,” Christopher said. 

“I am,” Don said. “But I am back next month—April 11th. Saturday?”

Christopher winced. The date immediately pinged. “That’s my night for the help line, but… Sunday?”

“I’m only here Saturday.”

Well, damn. 

They looked at each other. Don smiled, then pulled a pen from his pocket, as well as an only-mostly-damp piece of paper. He wrote his name and number again—which this time Christopher noticed included an area code, which was not 416—and then tore the paper in half and handed his name, number, and the pen and other half of the paper to Christopher.

“Now you give me your number. Double our chances this time?” 

Okay, Christopher was absolutely willing to double his chances with this man if he continued to smile that smile and show off that damned sexy curl of his lip. Was it the tooth that did that to his smile, or was it just Don’s whole “even sopping wet I’m desirable” thing?

Christopher didn’t know. He didn’t care. He wrote his name and number down, and after a brief glance at the torrents still coming down from above, Don nodded at the street. “I have to run. Keep in touch, Christopher.”

Yeah, even the way he said Christopher’s name was good. 

“Yes,” Christopher said.

Don made a run for it. Christopher lifted his umbrella and leaned out onto the street to get a good view of the wet jeans stuck to Don’s ass like a second skin.

And of course, Don looked back, and caught him looking.

*

December, 1981

The phone rang. 

Christopher got up, crossing the length of his apartment and lifting the receiver off the cradle. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God you’re home,” came Ariel’s voice, pitched low and whispery. “I’m going to need a rescue phone call in one hour. Deal?” 

“Deal,” he said, unable to stop himself from snorting out a little laugh. “Should I be your boss, all butch and growly? Or are you looking for something in a ‘she’s the best, if we had anyone else to call we would’ve?’”

“I don’t fucking care, just get me away from these people.”

The call disconnected seconds later, and Christopher laughed again, checking the clock, then—not quite trusting himself—grabbing a scrap of paper and writing down a note to himself and popping it front and centre on his fridge with a magnet. 

In one hour, he’d call Ariel’s house, tell them he was so very sorry to interrupt their evening, but that their daughter was the next on the list for the on-call rotation and—oh no—she’d have to leave their family celebration. 

He wondered if Patty had already initiated her evacuation attempt yet or not. Christopher was pretty sure Jonas was her lifeline this year. It was a good thing they both had fake hospital emergencies to fall back on. Lesbian nurses for the win.

Christopher’s gaze went back to the window, watching the snow blow by, and he closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was like to feel warm.

*

July, 1981

Christopher stood in his kitchen, closed his eyes, and tried to remember what it was like to feel cool. 

It didn’t work. Also, sweating hurt, and he was already down to just his underwear. Maybe he should open the fridge door? Did he even have any ice-cream left? He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the discomfort, and crouched to check. Pain raced along his skin, but he managed to get into the fridge and located what remained of a small carton of ice cream.

One spoon later, and he was bracing himself once more for the journey back to his couch. 

“You can do this,” he said. 

His phone rang. 

“Noooo,” he whined, looking at his ice cream and the spoon and the multiple steps it would take to get to the phone. But it could be work, or the lifeline. He tried to be a big boy, put down the ice cream and his spoon, and stumbled his way to the phone with only one or two curses before lifting the receiver on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said. 

“Hello,” came a voice that was soft, a little accented, and maybe just a little teasing. “Do you like boats?”

“Don?” Christopher said, grinning in spite of the slices of pain criss-crossing his back from holding the phone to his ear. “Sorry, what? Boats?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Don said. “I am here, in Toronto, and we’re taking my friend’s boat around the islands—do you want to come? I know it’s last minute, but I didn’t know this was the plan until I got here.” 

Christopher turned until he could see his reflection in the hall mirror. The reflection facing him regarded him in abject misery. Apart from visible strips on his upper thighs where his swim trunks had covered them, all of his exposed skin was bright red and angry. 

Still, he considered saying yes. Until he turned away from the mirror and it sent another jolt of pain up his back. 

“I… can’t,” Christopher said. 

“Oh no,” Don said. “You’re working?” He sounded let down, but not too surprised. Every time they’d tried to meet up for months it had been like this—one or the other of them just couldn’t make it work. 

“No, I’m burned,” Christopher said.

“Burned?”

“Sunburned. I went to the beach yesterday, actually. And I fell asleep.” Christopher looped the phone cord around his finger, annoyed at himself all over again. “For hours.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Christopher said. “I am a lobster. A blistering lobster.”

Don’s muffled laugh didn’t make him feel any better, but he caught himself smiling anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Don said. “Next time?”

“I hope so,” Christopher said, because he really did. Frankly, he needed a success of some sort, and as much fun as it was to touch base with Don over the phone and renew the spark that was definitely there between them, he’d much rather touch more than Don’s damn base. 

Indistinct voices rose in the background, as did the sound of traffic. Don must be on a pay phone. “I have to go,” he said.

“Enjoy the boat,” Christopher said.

“I would enjoy it more with lobster,” Don said.

Christopher laughed, and Don hung up.

*

December, 1981

An hour later, Christopher made the call. An older woman answered the phone, and when he asked for Ariel in his most professional, butchest tone, she didn’t exactly reply with seasonal cheer.

“Ariel!” she yelled, not even bothering to cover the phone. “It’s that damn hospital for you!” He got to hear muffled noises as the woman obviously read Ariel the riot act before passing her the phone, and imagined the phone receiver was pressed against the woman’s sweater, given the scratching sound he was treated to, but it didn’t quite drown out a quickly hissed “If you leave, your grandfather will be angry!”

“It’s my job, mom,” Ariel said, her voice growing clearer a moment later as she said. “Yes?” 

“What are you wearing?” Christopher said. 

“Oh no,” Ariel said, with the absolutely falsest fake-let-down voice he’d ever heard.

“No one is going to believe that,” Christopher said. “Try to put some actual sadness in your voice, honey. Like… Oh! Pretend I forgot to call, and you were going to have to stay there all night.”

“That’s horrible,” Ariel said, and this time it held quite the veracity. “But I understand.”

In the background, Christopher could hear Ariel’s mother already spinning up more anger over what she likely had intuited was the imminent exit of her daughter. 

“Good luck,” Christopher said. “If you have to, try throwing holy water at her.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ariel said, in a deep, serious voice. “I’m on my way.”

Christopher heard the “No!” in the background from Ariel’s mother as the call disconnected. He put his own phone back on the cradle, smiling to himself. There. Good deed of the year done. Another Christmas Miracle to unite the lesbian lovers in their own apartment for at least some of Christmas Eve. 

Look at him: a regular gay Santa. Only, without much magic of his own. 

“Self-inflicted,” he said, without any real virtriol. He’d turned down every invitation he’d received this year—not that he’d had a tonne—but Jonas some of the other guys from the lifeline had told him he’d be welcome. But the thought of socializing this year just felt…

What?

He eyed the calendar. The big X through December 1st. 

Too much. That was the thing. Something about Christmas this year was just… too much. He didn’t want the party lights, didn’t want the dashing about—though the snow or otherwise—and as much as it made for a quiet apartment, he just wanted to relax on his own. 

As of that phone call, his to-do list was officially done. He had dinner, he had his own company, and if he wanted to drink some Taster’s Choice instead of getting tipsy that was his own business. 

Yeah, so maybe gay Santa he was not.

Maybe he should put on a hat?

*

October, 1981

Maybe Christopher should have put on a hat. 

The chill wind blasting down the Toronto street at him certainly made him think he’d picked the wrong costume for Hallowe’en, but he already had the devil horns from last year, and some red face-paint, his tightest red shirt, and the borrowing Jonas’s black leather pants had made it complete. 

At least he’d been smart enough to wear a black button-up over the red shirt, though he’d definitely shuck that once he got to Stages and—finally—got to dance with Don. 

Arranging the evening had taken a colossal amount of effort, and more than a few favours owed at work and the lifeline, but whatever. It was worth it.

Assuming he didn’t freeze to death.

He bumped into Jonas and Jonas’s latest—was his name Mitchell or Michael?—both of whom waved and dragged him through the doors before he could so much as say hello, and once they were up the stairs, the heat of Stages was wrapping itself all around them and the miserable chill of the walk over. 

“I hate you look better in those pants than I do,” Jonas yelled, while Mitchell-or-Michael went to get them all drinks. 

Christopher blew him a kiss, but his attention was aimed at the door. He knew what costume Don was going to wear—Indiana Jones, which Christopher hoped included the mostly unbuttoned shirt—but so far, every hat he’d spotted belonged to a cowboy. 

They clinked glasses, and then Mitchell-or-Michael downed his and dragged Jonas to the dance floor while Jonas laughed and tried to finish his own drink in time to drop the glass at the end of the bar. 

Christopher laughed, feeling the same urge to just let go, but he’d wait for Don first. 

After ten minutes, he was still riding an anticipatory high. After he finished his drink though, and another fifteen minutes had passed, the high was crashing, and his devil-may-care was starting to devil-may-funk. 

He got groped a few times, and an angel with a tinfoil halo and very free hands aimed some far-from-holy activities directly into Christopher’s ear, but Christopher brushed him off as kindly as he could, still holding out for Indy. He danced with Jonas and Mitchell-or-Michael, and then by himself, and then when it became perfectly clear there was no way Don was coming, he made a polite exit and pulled off his horns for the walk home. 

Don called the next day. His car had broken down at the side of the highway, just outside of Montreal. He’d not even made it half the way to Toronto. His apology was genuine, and Christopher tried to be as gracious as he could about it.

“We’ll try again,” Don said.

“Sure,” Christopher said, but he couldn’t help but notice Don didn’t have anything specific in the way of a time or date to offer, and neither did he. 

Maybe he should have settled for the angel.

*

December, 1981

“Forget it,” Christopher said, after a swallow of coffee, staring at the tiny paper angel on the top of his little tabletop Christmas Tree. Dwelling about Don was not going to make this particular holiday any more tolerable. 

His stomach growled, and he put down his cup, kneeling down in front of his finicky oven to see the world’s smallest turkey through the gritty glass. He was no chef, but it looked good, and he was looking forward to sitting down with turkey and mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and, of course—

Christopher froze. 

He stared at his countertop, where he’d set up a plate already, as well as the trivet for the turkey pan and then back at the stovetop, where the three pots waited—he’d mashed the potatoes, made the gravy, and the carrots were done; all three were just there to stay warm now—and with a sinking sensation, he went to his cupboards, opening them and checking and…

“Oh damn,” he said. He’d forgotten.

He crouched again, looking at the turkey, and… He had time. He looked up at the counter, not rising, considering. Did it matter? 

His stomach growled again.

Fuck yes, it mattered.

If there was one thing about winter Christopher could do without, it was the boots and coat and scarf and mittens routine, but he threw them all back on and bundled up for the cold, late, trek to the closest grocery he was only half sure might still be open, but light streaming from the windows seemed to signify at least this one thing was going to go his way, and he stomped his boots out at the entrance before heading right to the aisle in question, hoping they weren’t out and…

He grinned, triumphant, and picked up a can of cranberry sauce. 

Christopher turned on his heel and headed back to the front of the store, where the line was only three people and took his position behind a tall, blond guy with nice shoulders and…

Wait.

No way.

“Don?” 

Tall, Blond, and Nice-Shoulders turned around so fast he nearly collided with Christopher, and it was, in fact, Don, crooked eye-tooth making its usual glorious appearance as Don aimed a delighted smile Christopher’s way. 

“Christopher,” he said, and okay, so that lightly accented voice was sort of the best thing ever, really. “Hello.” 

“Hello?” Christopher raised his hands, one empty, one gripping his cranberries. “You’re in Toronto?” 

It maybe came out a little accusatory.

“I am,” Don said. “I was going to call you tomorrow. Just got here—I’m house-sitting for my friend, the one with the boat—he had to go to New York, for a friend…” He shook his head, like the details weren’t necessary, which Christopher wasn’t so sure was true. 

He’d heard the news out of New York. The sting of Don having come to Toronto without telling him faded to nothing, and fizzled out. 

“Anyway. I was house-sitting anyway, so I decided to spend this one alone,” Don said, and he sounded almost embarrassed by the admission. “This year has been so crazy, I just… needed a break.” 

“Me too. I’m sort of skipping Christmas this year,” Christopher said, completely understanding that particular sentiment. “But why here, here?” Christopher waved at the store all around them.

“Oh, it’s silly. I brought dinner with me—just turkey sandwiches—but I forgot…” Don held up a can. 

Cranberry sauce.

“You’re kidding,” Christopher said, showing off his own can. 

Don laughed, and Christopher joined him, and some pressure inside him seemed to release, and those two cans of cranberry sauce seemed the singular most hilarious thing he’d encountered all year. They howled. 

Then the clerk cleared her throat because the people ahead of them were already checked out, and so they wiped laugh-induced-tears and took their turns buying their cans of cranberry sauce and shuffled back towards the front of the store, still letting out puffy breaths of half-laughs whenever they looked at each other as they returned to the windy, dark, and snowy outdoors.

“So, I may have been skipping Christmas this year, but I’m six blocks that way and I have something better than turkey sandwiches to offer you,” Christopher said, aiming a mittened thumb over his shoulder. 

Don raised one eyebrow, that smile returning, and Christopher cleared his throat, because he hadn’t intended that double entendre but frankly, he’d stand by it.

“So you’re saying maybe we don’t skip Christmas?” Don said.

“Couldn’t possibly,” Christopher said. “Not this year.”

Don glanced around, but they were alone on the street and snow and wind was whipping in every direction, so when he leaned in for a kiss, Christopher rose on his toes to meet him, and the moment they connected, the cold just sort of fell away all around him. 

Magic. 

Don’s warm lip turned in a smile even as they broke apart, far too soon.

“I’ve been waiting all year to do that,” Don said, with a little growl. 

“Me too,” Christopher said. “Also? More please. Once we’re out of the snow.”

“Deal.” Don laughed. “I really was going to call you tomorrow.”

“After that? I really believe you.” Christopher nodded.

Don grinned. “Just six blocks?” 

“Just six blocks,” Christopher said, and turned to lead the way.

Cover Art

Click here to go see some awesome Canadian-penned Christmas romances…

Over on Mastodon (I’m at @NathanBurgoine), today’s #WritersCoffeeClub topic popped into my feed with “What things make a good book cover design?” and I realized how much I love the topic, and how the current group I’ve hooked arms with for Canadian-authored Christmas romances was a great example, right there for me to point at.

Now, this could be a whole essay, and I was a bookseller for a couple of decades before I was a writer, but I think the core of it has to be this: a book’s cover is decision support. Just like a review, the blurb, the very title of the book, the cover needs to be part of the package telling the reader whether this book is right for them or not. And the or not is just as important as selling a copy to the right reader.

Someone browsing on a tablet or walking through a bookstore aisle should be able to gather basic information from your cover. Yes, I’m saying they should be able to judge your book by its cover. 100%.

I know. I know. That’s totally not how that saying works, right? But here’s the thing: that’s the cover’s job.

The cover is there to show someone passing by “hey, this book is about X, and if you like X, pick me up and take a peek!” That’s a judgement a writer wants a potential reader to make. There’s a balance to be had between wide appeal and specificity there, of course, and you never want to cross into misrepresenting what a book really is, just to grab more attention. Like, if you put a light/fun rom-com illustrated cover on an angst-laden dark-thriller of a book, you’re just going to piss off readers who saw the vibe the book was projecting, and then didn’t get that vibe from the book itself (and yes, these art styles and the vibes associated with them change with trends and yes, that’s frustrating).

As examples from my own work, I don’t put shirtless dudes on my books unless they have erotic content in them. My contemporary paranormals have no people on the covers at all because I know, as a queer writer writing queer characters, if I put people on my covers, even fully clothed ones, readers will assume those books to be romance no matter how I categorize them. (That’s a whole other rant.)

My holiday novellas are illustrated covers done by the brilliant Inkspiral. That generally tells readers they’re like Hallmark-ish (only queer, given the two dudes on the covers).

And so on.

So. Let’s take a quick detour to the Romantic Canadian Christmas page, shall we? (Go ahead, I’ll wait.)

See how easy it is to spot the Hallmark-esque ones? My two-guys-dating ones? Which are spicy? Romance cover art is generally aces at telling you what to expect from a book—and that’s because romance does what all the other genres do, backwards, in heels. You can have romance containing sub-genres of all the other genres out there. Romantic thrillers. Romantic science fiction. Romantic fantasy. Romantic contemporary. Romantic historical. Romantic mystery. And so on and so on… (Heck, even Romantic horror!)

But when you walk into a bookstore, it’s generally all under one sign: “Romance.”

So the cover has to do a tonne of the heavy lifting—because you don’t want a fan of Rom-coms picking up your Romantic thriller if they don’t like thrillers.

But just take a glance at some specific examples from that group:

Anne Lange’s “His Fake Holidate”—Just look at her curvy hotness! I can tell this one is going to be smokin’ hot just from her pose alone. That one model is telling you a lot about the book.

Donna Alward’s “Deck the Halls”—Cozy. Gentle. Loving. Even the town name: “Darling.” Everything about this cover, right down to the font, is telling me the book will give me hugs and healing, isn’t it?

Elle Rush’s “Tinsel and Teacups”—From the title down to the items on display, this one tells you 100% what it is: Cute. Adorable. Sweet. That “snuggle under a blanket” feel is right there, at a glance.

Karla Doyle’s “Gift Wrapped”—I mean. Hello. There has been some clear gift un-wrapping going on, and there is little doubt in my mind the intention here is to scorch up your holiday.

All Christmas books by Canadian authors, but different. And you can spot it at a glance.

That’s what covers do.

Over Two Dozen Christmas Books from your favourite (or new favourite) Canadian Authors…

You can check out those books at this link!

Hi all! After working mumble-mumble years in retail, I had something of an aversion to the holidays, but after stepping free from that environment—and reflecting on how there were parts of the holidays I quite liked, actually—a few years ago now I wrote a queer holiday romance novella, “Handmade Holidays.”

I know, right?

If you could go back in time and tell younger ‘Nathan he’d be doing that, he’d have laughed in your face. If you told him he’d write two more of them, and turn it into a quartet of stories centred around holidays (albeit one of said holidays being April Fools’ Day), he’d probably have called security, assuming you were drunk in the store.

Which happened. Often. Especially the closer things got to Christmas. Stress, and all that.

The funny thing is, though, even at my most Grinchified, I read holiday books every year, and loved them. Usually starting in early November, I’d cue up some holiday audiobooks for my rides to work—the Patrick Stewart performed version of “A Christmas Carol” gets a yearly listen from me—and a few other holiday-themed romances are added to the list of the stories I re-read every year. It’s part comfort-seeking, and part setting-the-mood.

Elle Rush (who is both on that list of re-reads and the organizer of the reason I’m here chatting with y’all today), has put together a group of Canuck Authors doing Christmas Stories, and I was grateful to pop my three tales in there for your consideration. Now, if you’re here, and you’re reading this, likely you’ve already bumped into me before, but that’s the best part of hooking arms with a group of other authors: do me a favour and go check them out, and maybe find a new favourite! Also, Elle Rush made sure there would be a variety of tones, for those of you who maybe like your romance perhaps less peppermint-sweet than I do.

I hope you’ll go check out a Romantic Canadian Christmas!

Handmade Holidays, part of the Romantic Canadian Christmas lineup!

At nineteen, Nick is alone for the holidays and facing reality: this is how it will be from now on. Refusing to give up completely, Nick buys a Christmas tree, and then realizes he has no ornaments. A bare tree and an empty apartment aren’t a great start, but a visit from his friend Haruto is just the ticket to get him through this first, worst, Christmas. A box of candy canes and a hastily folded paper crane might not be the best ornaments, but it’s a place to start.

A year later, Nick has realized he’s not the only one with nowhere to go, and he hosts his first “Christmas for the Misfit Toys.” Haruto brings Nick an ornament for Nick’s tree, and a tradition—and a new family—is born.

As years go by, Nick, Haruto, and their friends face love, betrayal, life, and death. Every ornament on Nick’s tree is another year, another story, and another chance at the one thing Nick has wanted since the start: someone who’d share more than the holidays with him.

Of course, Nick might have already missed his shot at the one, and it might be too late.

Still, after fifteen Christmases, Nick is ready to risk it all for the best present yet.

Handmade Holidays, by ‘Nathan Burgoine

If you’ve got a second, tell me about your favourite holiday reads (bonus points if they’re Canadian, but I understand not every winter-holiday romance ends up set in Canada, even if most of the ones by Hallmark are actually filmed up here.)

Appearances: The Publishing Triangle Outspoken Series and Can*Con

I have been remiss in keeping loops… um, looped here on the blog, but I’ve got a couple of appearances coming up, and so today I will… uh… loop. (This is what happens when I have a multi-day headache before a long-weekend that involves a family birthday: you get the same word over and over.)

It won’t be like that on Thursday October 12th, Friday October 13th, Saturday October 14th, or Sunday October 15th, though, because I will be on my game at not one, but two events!

OUTSpoken: The LGBTQ+ Reading Series

So, I’ll be joining The Publishing Triangle’s launch of their new LGBTQ+ Reading Series, OUTspoken, on Thursday, October 12. OUTspoken was presented last June as a joint program with the East Midtown Partnership as part of that organization’s Pride celebration, but now they’re making it monthly and moving it to the Bureau of General Services – Queer Division, the not-for-profit Manhattan bookseller located within the LGBTQ Community Center at 208 West 13th Street, Room 210. (And they’re fully accessible to those with mobility concerns.)

This kick-off event (at 7:00 PM EDT on Thursday, October 12) includes: Jeffery Berg, ‘Nathan Burgoine (joining us remotely from Ottawa, Ontario), Dale Corvino, Allen Ellenzweig, Michael Thomas Ford (joining us remotely from Ohio), Robyn Gigl (joining us remotely from New Jersey), Nina Kennedy and William Christy Smith.

I’m going to read from Stuck With You (for the first time, even!) and I am so chuffed to be in such awesome company. I hope NY friends will check it out, and for the rest of you, there’s the wonderful YouTube stream. I really, really appreciate the efforts The Publishing Triangle took here to add a remote option.

Can*Con 2023: Conference on Canadian Content in Speculative Arts & Literature

On Friday October 13th (that bodes well) through to Friday October 15th, I’ll be at the local Sheraton Ottawa for the always-wonderful Can*Con 2023: Conference on Canadian Content in Speculative Arts & Literature! I’ll be there, in person, masked up (I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this con’s masking policy) and chatting with awesome people who are way smarter than me.

As for where and when I’ll be? Ta-da!

If you’d like to see the full schedule of events (because of course you would), you can see both the in-person and virtual schedules for Can*Con here, but as for my three panels, here’s what you’re in for:

Happily Ever After? Romance as Speculative Fiction—Tall, dark, and handsome, swashbuckling, bodice-ripping heroes — we all recognize that this is a fantasy, even though Romance as a genre historically is seen as having little in common with speculative genres of SFFH. However, what is lost by ignoring this potential connection? What can we learn about our interests and motivations towards fiction by exploring Romance as Speculative? Friday October 13th, 5:00pm EDT, Salon E; Moderated by Regina M. Hanson; panelists Charlotte Ashley, ‘Nathan Burgoine, and Renée Gendron.

That’s Not Queerbaiting, Actually—What do queer creators—and queer characters—owe to their readers (if anything)? As much as we need more queer love stories, a lack of on-page romance doesn’t negate a character’s queerness. A coming out narrative isn’t the only shape a queer story can take, either. Despite the pressure to explore romance and identity struggles, what other kinds of themes are queer writers exploring? How do writers push back against reductive or limiting expectations? Saturday October 14th, 5:30pm EDT, Salon F; Moderated by Erin Rockfort; panelists Claudie Arseneault, ‘Nathan Burgoine, and Cortni Fernandez.

Supporting Queer Writing in an Age of Rising Fascism—From Florida’s eagerness to ban books and trans people alike to Target’s removal of queer-themed merchandise from its shelves, the situation for queer people on this continent is getting worse by the day. What challenges does queer writing face today in American venues, and what threats are on the horizon? How might Canadian institutions support queer writing in an increasingly hostile age? What options are there when the United States is such a dominant hub of the field? Sunday October 15th, 1:00pm EDT, Salon E; Moderated by Nathan Caro Fréchette; panelists Phoebe Barton, ‘Nathan Burgoine, and Sean Dowie.

I hope to see you there, or if you can’t be there, I hope you’ll tune-in virtually! Either way, thank you as always for sticking around here…