Libby Drew's Blog, page 3
July 18, 2013
Both Happy and Sad
I’m not into Hollywood gossip as a rule. Actually, I’m one of those saps who feels badly that these people have to live under a microscope. So for me to click on this sort of article is out of character, but… BUT!
Read it:
YOU GUYS. Do you know what’s so amazing about this article? It’s about Zachary Quinto and Jonathan Groff. Two gay men. Yet their sexuality is never mentioned in the text above, as though it’s the complete non-issue it should be.
I feel conflicted. Sad for Zachary and Jonathan, yet also strangely elated. I might have to self-medicate with coffee and chocolate.
Read it:
“A” and “B” have called it quits as a couple, several outlets report, although they apparently have been dunzo for a while now.
The [movie] star and the [TV show] guest actor broke up last spring, according to Gossip Cop and Us Weekly. While both outlets report that they remain good friends, Perez Hilton claims that things did "not end well." The couple reportedly started dating in early 2012.
Us Weekly points out that it was distance that put a strain on the relationship. "”A” being away and filming was not easy on them," a source tells the mag. "They really loved each other, so it wasn't an easy split."
As mentioned, the thespians are on friendly terms. According to JustJared.com, “A” went to see “B” perform recently on stage. But the couple hasn't been photographed together since back in February, when they were seen
out walking their dogs together in Boston. “A” was snapped walking the pups with a mystery man in NYC in early June.
It's been a tough week for “B”, who is best friends with "Glee" star Lea Michele. “B” — who was also friends with
Monteith — and Michele met when they co-starred on Broadway together in 2006's "Spring Awakenings."
YOU GUYS. Do you know what’s so amazing about this article? It’s about Zachary Quinto and Jonathan Groff. Two gay men. Yet their sexuality is never mentioned in the text above, as though it’s the complete non-issue it should be.
I feel conflicted. Sad for Zachary and Jonathan, yet also strangely elated. I might have to self-medicate with coffee and chocolate.
June 16, 2013
June 16th, 2013
Vacation starts tomorrow! Thought I’d never get to this point, at least with my sanity intact. I promised myself in February that I wouldn’t take my laptop on holiday. No work. No editing. No writing. Just ten days of sun and sand and fruity drinks. (And my iPad. What!? Don’t judge me.)
I finished two books this winter/spring. One I turned in reasonably close to deadline and it will be released next January by Carina. The other was a collaboration and was probably the best writing experience I’ve ever had, mostly because my co-writers rocked. No idea where that book will end up. Time will tell. So the past few months have been a long string of 18 hour days, but I feel good about what I’ve accomplished in the first half of 2013.
In unrelated news, I feel sad the Penguins are out of the running for the Stanley Cup but ecstatic that my son will now shave his playoff beard.
I’m working on a story for a friend that is becoming 20,000 words of yummy yummy dirty dirty spy/assassin porn. As it’s a gift and will never see publication, the process has felt incredibly liberating. Almost like fanfic. Its pinch of plot makes me laugh, but in a good way.
Time to finish packing and start tidying this place up for the house sitter, but before I go, I must pimp the
gorgeous cover for Bending the Iron, which I received a few days ago.
Michael feels trapped. In his conservative, poor hometown where he has to keep his sexuality hidden. In his dead-end job. In caring for his alcoholic grandfather. Everything changes when he meets Eric, the new curator for the railroad museum. His curiosity about the passionate man quickly gives way to an intense attraction—one that Eric happily returns.
Carefree and refreshingly confident, Eric guides Michael to places he's forgotten, reminding him that it may not be too late to follow his dreams for something more in life. But the truth is, Eric knows exactly how it feels to be stuck in a bad situation. A failed relationship has left him with personal demons that may hurt his connection with Michael.
To give their future a chance, they both must fight being trapped in the past.
Available from Carina Press August 2013
I finished two books this winter/spring. One I turned in reasonably close to deadline and it will be released next January by Carina. The other was a collaboration and was probably the best writing experience I’ve ever had, mostly because my co-writers rocked. No idea where that book will end up. Time will tell. So the past few months have been a long string of 18 hour days, but I feel good about what I’ve accomplished in the first half of 2013.
In unrelated news, I feel sad the Penguins are out of the running for the Stanley Cup but ecstatic that my son will now shave his playoff beard.
I’m working on a story for a friend that is becoming 20,000 words of yummy yummy dirty dirty spy/assassin porn. As it’s a gift and will never see publication, the process has felt incredibly liberating. Almost like fanfic. Its pinch of plot makes me laugh, but in a good way.
Time to finish packing and start tidying this place up for the house sitter, but before I go, I must pimp the
gorgeous cover for Bending the Iron, which I received a few days ago.
Michael feels trapped. In his conservative, poor hometown where he has to keep his sexuality hidden. In his dead-end job. In caring for his alcoholic grandfather. Everything changes when he meets Eric, the new curator for the railroad museum. His curiosity about the passionate man quickly gives way to an intense attraction—one that Eric happily returns.
Carefree and refreshingly confident, Eric guides Michael to places he's forgotten, reminding him that it may not be too late to follow his dreams for something more in life. But the truth is, Eric knows exactly how it feels to be stuck in a bad situation. A failed relationship has left him with personal demons that may hurt his connection with Michael.
To give their future a chance, they both must fight being trapped in the past.
Available from Carina Press August 2013
April 27, 2013
If I Ran the Circus
I totally already run a circus. Good thing it’s an awesome circus, cause, baby, it’s exhausting! I won’t bore you with all the
details, but here’s a funny anecdote from Friday.
With one child off playing softball and one working, and one—this is the not so funny part—being evaluated for a concussion, I run to pick up fourth child at his track meet invitational, where the following conversation takes place.
Gate Lady: It’s seven dollars admission.
Me: You’re kidding.
Gate Lady: No. Not kidding.
Me: I’m not here to watch the meet. I just need to pick up my son.
Gate Lady: Seven dollars.
Me: I don’t have seven dollars on me.
Gate Lady: There’s an ATM at the bottom of the hill.
Me: You mean down by the Target? That’s three miles away.
Gate Lady: What do you want me to do?
Me: Well, since you asked… I want you to let me in so I can get my kid and get back to my baby, who’s happens to be sitting in the ER one town over.
Gate Lady: I can’t let you in if you don’t pay. That’s against the rules.
Me: Whose rules?
Gate Lady: Listen, ma’am. I don’t think for myself, okay? I just do what I’m told.
Me: O.O
Gate Lady: …
Me: Please tell me you’re not an educator.
Gate Lady: I teach science. Are you interested in the school district?
Me: Only in the most horrified kind of way.
These slice of life posts always crack me up when I go back and read them years later. By the way, no concussion for my youngest. Yay!
Oh, hey! My niece got into Notre Dame. Such an amazing girl. She totally deserves it. Also, today is my anniversary. Twenty years, baby. Feels like no time at all. Mostly because that guy I married is more awesome than ever.
And that’s the eleven o’clock news. Thanks for tuning in. ;)
April 15, 2013
When it's all said and done
Hey, my mind is mush. This book is going nowhere tonight. It feels like I can’t string two words together, so I’m not even going to try anymore. Instead I made an Irish coffee to accompany my Cadbury Cream Egg. Yum.
I have news! The collaboration I’ve been working on with Diana Copland and G.B. Lindsey is finished.
Three men with vastly different lives are called to Neverwood, the stately mansion of their youth. They have nothing in common. Just a promise to a woman they called mother—that upon her death, they would restore the house to its former glory, protect it from those who would destroy it, and preserve it as a home for lost boys.
But going home is never easy. One man faces the specter of first love, while another believes past failures will haunt him forever. The third fears honest emotion is beyond his reach. On the path to brotherhood, they discover the old mansion holds more than dusty furniture and secret passageways. A benevolent spirit walks its halls, intent on giving them each the greatest gift of all… true love.
Beware, all who enter here. Audrey Rasmussen’s ghost has come home to Neverwood, and she’s still a hopeless romantic .So exciting! And so looonnnggg. 140,000 words. I can honestly say, without any doubt, working with these two ladies was the most fun I’ve ever had. Creating this shared universe took hours and hours of emails, chats, and conference calls, and I loved every minute of it.
Diana Copland shipped the package to our agent yesterday, and while it’s nice to be able to shift my energy to my next project, I will miss Neverwood so, so much.
Until we start the sequel. ;-p
I’ve posted a snippet of my contribution below. Titled The Lost Year, it’s the third and final story in the anthology.
The Lost Year: When Nicholas Hardy shows up on the front steps of Neverwood looking for his runaway son, Robbie, Devon is skeptical the boy is even still alive. A teenager on the streets doesn’t have many options, and Robbie has been missing for a full year. But Nicholas won’t be deterred, and moved by his desperation, Devon agrees to help. Nicholas stirs up long-buried passions in Devon—emotions he thought lost long ago—but is it lust he’s feeling, or something far more permanent?
Back at home, the battle for Neverwood rages on. Their foe makes a desperate move, forcing Audrey and her sons to end the war once and for all…
Devon frowned as he padded barefoot back down the stairs, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt. Cal pointed as they reached the bottom. “I had him wait in the music room. It’s private and away from most of the noise.”
Devon nodded, though it looked like a lot of the contractors were wrapping up for the day. Was it that late? The possibility for a nap grew shorter by the minute. He glanced at his wrist before remembering he’d left his watch on the dresser upstairs. “Thanks.” He turned right, cutting through the corner of the cavernous living room into the game room. The music room lay beyond, but Devon was too busy avoiding piles of sawdust and stray nails to notice the man standing in the doorway until he was upon him.
Devon reared back, his ankle catching the edge of a cloth-draped table, but the man caught him before he stumbled. “Sorry,” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Devon’s first impression was of wrinkled khakis and a dress shirt that looked like it had come out of the same sad pile of laundry. A second look revealed the intensity Cal had mentioned. The man had a presence that had nothing to do with bluster. His loose posture exuded quiet confidence, though he looked badly shaken at the moment. Dark hair in need of a trim spilled over his ears and across his tanned face, which hadn’t seen a razor in several days. As a descriptor, “desperate” fit.
Devon gave a gentle pull, and the man released his arm immediately, stepping through the archway into the room that housed Audrey’s baby grand. Someone had covered the precious instrument in a heavy drop cloth. The harp was similarly protected, as were the upholstered window seat cushions. He looked around in vain for chairs before gesturing the man ahead of him to the built-in seats framing the turret. “No problem. Sorry I
took so long.”
“Please don’t apologize. Your… friend told me you were sleeping. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you seeing me immediately.” He thrust his hand at Devon’s chest as he walked backward. “My name’s Nicholas
Hardy.” The words had hardly left his mouth when his knees hit the bench seat, and he overbalanced onto the cushion. Devon took his hand and shook it before Nicholas did any more damage to himself.
The music room, like Devon’s room, was on the west side of the house, and even with tall, thick trees dotting
the property, sunlight poured in through the ten foot windows. It caught Nicholas’s eyes as he gazed upward. The blue of his irises were so pale they might as well have been glowing. The unusual color, along with the intense expression, set off a nervous tingle in Devon’s stomach.
“Um.” He released Nicholas’s hand and sat down, trying not to stare. “Devon McCade.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to track you down for over a week now.”
Devon blinked. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
The levity fell short. Nicholas hunched over his knees, knotting his fingers together. “I need your help. I’ll pay you, of course.”
Devon wasn’t so successful he turned down jobs out of hand. Still, the promise of a vacation had been the only thing keeping him going the past several days. “Is the project time-sensitive?”
Nicholas swallowed. “You could say that. Mr. McCade, I want you to help me find my son. He ran away a year ago, and I’ve been looking for him ever since.”
Again, Devon had to refocus his attention away from Nicholas’s eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“My son. He’s missing. I want you to help me find him.”
Short of breath, Devon leaned back against the warm window pane, deciding to blame his racing pulse on the surreal turn of the conversation. “I’m sorry, but I’m not a private investigator.”
“I know. And believe me, I’ve hired my share of P.I.’s this past year.” Nicholas dropped his head, breaking eye contact. “But it’s your help I need now.” He removed a sheaf of folded pages from his pocket. “I’d just about given up hope. I mean, it’s been a year, and Robbie’s only fourteen. Chances are… he’s dead, right?” Nicholas’s voice broke on the last word, and Devon’s hand twitched to reach out and comfort him.
“You don’t know that.”
A rueful smile passed over Nicholas’s face. “I didn’t, actually. But now, thanks to you, I’m sure he’s alive. At least he was two months ago.” He unfolded the pages and held them out.
Devon recognized the photographs immediately. “This is the spread on homeless kids I did for the Seattle Times.”
It was only by chance he’d seen the final product, the fruit of four weeks of effort. Devon’s pleasure came
from working in the field, the hunt for that perfect shot. Rarely did he seek out the magazine or periodical that purchased his pictures, but with Seattle so close, it had been hard to avoid the series. Especially when Danny had bought a dozen copies of each issue to show off to the kids in the group.
Nicholas flipped to the third page and pointed to a grainy picture of a group of children huddled beneath a freeway overpass. His fingertip settled on a boy in the left of the shot. “That’s Robbie. Right there.”
Devon pressed his lips together and took the proffered picture. “Mr. Hardy—”
“It’s Nicholas. And I know what you’re going to say. But I’m not seeing what I want to see. It’s him. I swear to God, it’s him.”
Devon didn’t see how he could be sure. The boy’s face was nothing but a blur. Of course, his own copy of the
picture was bound to of a higher resolution, but was it right to offer hope when it was probably going to end in heartbreak? “Nicholas.” Devon handed the picture back. “What is it exactly you want from me?”
Nicholas cocked his head. “Well… I want you to take me to this place.” He stabbed at the picture.
“Okay.” Devon ran his tongue over his teeth. “Except I’m not even one hundred percent sure where I was for this particular shoot. Did you read the article?” Did Nicholas believe he’d find these kids still hanging out
beneath the freeway? That had been the whole point of the piece. They lived a transient life, landing wherever they found shelter and a meal. Or a pimp. Devon closed his mouth before that fact came flying out.
“Of course I read the article,” Nicholas replied in a soft voice. “I have it memorized.”
There really wasn’t anything to say to that. At a loss, Devon looked down at the stack of pictures in his hand.
“I’m not an idiot, Mr. McCade. I know how things work for these kids. The article didn’t pull any punches. But it’s a place to start.” He sat up straighter. “It’s more than I had a week ago.”
Devon gnawed his upper lip. This wasn’t the sort of heartache he needed right now. The chances of the situation ending well were slim. “Have you checked the local offices? Maybe he’s in state custody.”
“I tried. I’ve been to the Seattle police. I even contacted the FBI. I thought, since the case crosses state lines, they’d be obligated to at least investigate.”
Devon assumed not, judging by Nicholas’s tone.
“I’ve bombarded the Washington websites for missing and exploited children. Nothing. I’ve checked welfare,
juvenile justice… even the mental health systems. It’s crazy, but it feels like nobody wants to help.”
Yeah, that was par for the course. Devon knew the system intimately. Not surprising that Nicholas had got the runaround. His kid was fourteen, not four. The people who had the tools to help also had enough experience to know finding a child of that age—if he didn’t want to be found—would be close to impossible. “I might be able to lend a hand. I was a foster kid. So were my brothers. They’ve re-involved themselves recently with local troubled youth. Not the same demographic as your son.” At least Devon was assuming. “But they have connections. We can at least give you some names, places to call.”
Nicholas’s mouth fell open, as though it had been years since anyone had done him a kindness. He suddenly looked like a lost child himself. “Thank you.”
“I’ll help you find him,” Devon said, clamping his mouth shut as the last word left his lips. Where the hell had that come from?
Those bright eyes pinned him again, bringing an inappropriate flush to Devon’s face. “Thank you, Mr. McCade. And like I said, I’ll pay you for your time.”
Jesus, what had he gotten himself into? “That’s not necessary.” He cleared his throat, shoving the pictures back at Nicolas. “Listen, I just flew in from Columbia, and I’m not worth shit right now. If you want to come by
tomorrow morning, I’ll pull the files from this job, and we can make a plan.”
He stood as he said it, desperate to put some distance between them, and movement in the doorway caught his eye. Danny. Not even trying to be circumspect about his eavesdropping, the brat. Still, it was hard to get angry at Danny, and Devon’s irritation was still gaining momentum when his brother gave a very uncharacteristic wobbly smile and mouthed two words: Thank you.
They hit Devon like a shot of whisky might, stealing his breath and spreading warmth through his chest. Feeling better than he had in days, he shook Nick’s hand and saw him to the door.
I have news! The collaboration I’ve been working on with Diana Copland and G.B. Lindsey is finished.
Three men with vastly different lives are called to Neverwood, the stately mansion of their youth. They have nothing in common. Just a promise to a woman they called mother—that upon her death, they would restore the house to its former glory, protect it from those who would destroy it, and preserve it as a home for lost boys. But going home is never easy. One man faces the specter of first love, while another believes past failures will haunt him forever. The third fears honest emotion is beyond his reach. On the path to brotherhood, they discover the old mansion holds more than dusty furniture and secret passageways. A benevolent spirit walks its halls, intent on giving them each the greatest gift of all… true love.
Beware, all who enter here. Audrey Rasmussen’s ghost has come home to Neverwood, and she’s still a hopeless romantic .So exciting! And so looonnnggg. 140,000 words. I can honestly say, without any doubt, working with these two ladies was the most fun I’ve ever had. Creating this shared universe took hours and hours of emails, chats, and conference calls, and I loved every minute of it.
Diana Copland shipped the package to our agent yesterday, and while it’s nice to be able to shift my energy to my next project, I will miss Neverwood so, so much.
Until we start the sequel. ;-p
I’ve posted a snippet of my contribution below. Titled The Lost Year, it’s the third and final story in the anthology.
The Lost Year: When Nicholas Hardy shows up on the front steps of Neverwood looking for his runaway son, Robbie, Devon is skeptical the boy is even still alive. A teenager on the streets doesn’t have many options, and Robbie has been missing for a full year. But Nicholas won’t be deterred, and moved by his desperation, Devon agrees to help. Nicholas stirs up long-buried passions in Devon—emotions he thought lost long ago—but is it lust he’s feeling, or something far more permanent?
Back at home, the battle for Neverwood rages on. Their foe makes a desperate move, forcing Audrey and her sons to end the war once and for all…
Devon frowned as he padded barefoot back down the stairs, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt. Cal pointed as they reached the bottom. “I had him wait in the music room. It’s private and away from most of the noise.”
Devon nodded, though it looked like a lot of the contractors were wrapping up for the day. Was it that late? The possibility for a nap grew shorter by the minute. He glanced at his wrist before remembering he’d left his watch on the dresser upstairs. “Thanks.” He turned right, cutting through the corner of the cavernous living room into the game room. The music room lay beyond, but Devon was too busy avoiding piles of sawdust and stray nails to notice the man standing in the doorway until he was upon him.
Devon reared back, his ankle catching the edge of a cloth-draped table, but the man caught him before he stumbled. “Sorry,” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Devon’s first impression was of wrinkled khakis and a dress shirt that looked like it had come out of the same sad pile of laundry. A second look revealed the intensity Cal had mentioned. The man had a presence that had nothing to do with bluster. His loose posture exuded quiet confidence, though he looked badly shaken at the moment. Dark hair in need of a trim spilled over his ears and across his tanned face, which hadn’t seen a razor in several days. As a descriptor, “desperate” fit.
Devon gave a gentle pull, and the man released his arm immediately, stepping through the archway into the room that housed Audrey’s baby grand. Someone had covered the precious instrument in a heavy drop cloth. The harp was similarly protected, as were the upholstered window seat cushions. He looked around in vain for chairs before gesturing the man ahead of him to the built-in seats framing the turret. “No problem. Sorry I
took so long.”
“Please don’t apologize. Your… friend told me you were sleeping. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you seeing me immediately.” He thrust his hand at Devon’s chest as he walked backward. “My name’s Nicholas
Hardy.” The words had hardly left his mouth when his knees hit the bench seat, and he overbalanced onto the cushion. Devon took his hand and shook it before Nicholas did any more damage to himself.
The music room, like Devon’s room, was on the west side of the house, and even with tall, thick trees dotting
the property, sunlight poured in through the ten foot windows. It caught Nicholas’s eyes as he gazed upward. The blue of his irises were so pale they might as well have been glowing. The unusual color, along with the intense expression, set off a nervous tingle in Devon’s stomach.
“Um.” He released Nicholas’s hand and sat down, trying not to stare. “Devon McCade.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to track you down for over a week now.”
Devon blinked. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
The levity fell short. Nicholas hunched over his knees, knotting his fingers together. “I need your help. I’ll pay you, of course.”
Devon wasn’t so successful he turned down jobs out of hand. Still, the promise of a vacation had been the only thing keeping him going the past several days. “Is the project time-sensitive?”
Nicholas swallowed. “You could say that. Mr. McCade, I want you to help me find my son. He ran away a year ago, and I’ve been looking for him ever since.”
Again, Devon had to refocus his attention away from Nicholas’s eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“My son. He’s missing. I want you to help me find him.”
Short of breath, Devon leaned back against the warm window pane, deciding to blame his racing pulse on the surreal turn of the conversation. “I’m sorry, but I’m not a private investigator.”
“I know. And believe me, I’ve hired my share of P.I.’s this past year.” Nicholas dropped his head, breaking eye contact. “But it’s your help I need now.” He removed a sheaf of folded pages from his pocket. “I’d just about given up hope. I mean, it’s been a year, and Robbie’s only fourteen. Chances are… he’s dead, right?” Nicholas’s voice broke on the last word, and Devon’s hand twitched to reach out and comfort him.
“You don’t know that.”
A rueful smile passed over Nicholas’s face. “I didn’t, actually. But now, thanks to you, I’m sure he’s alive. At least he was two months ago.” He unfolded the pages and held them out.
Devon recognized the photographs immediately. “This is the spread on homeless kids I did for the Seattle Times.”
It was only by chance he’d seen the final product, the fruit of four weeks of effort. Devon’s pleasure came
from working in the field, the hunt for that perfect shot. Rarely did he seek out the magazine or periodical that purchased his pictures, but with Seattle so close, it had been hard to avoid the series. Especially when Danny had bought a dozen copies of each issue to show off to the kids in the group.
Nicholas flipped to the third page and pointed to a grainy picture of a group of children huddled beneath a freeway overpass. His fingertip settled on a boy in the left of the shot. “That’s Robbie. Right there.”
Devon pressed his lips together and took the proffered picture. “Mr. Hardy—”
“It’s Nicholas. And I know what you’re going to say. But I’m not seeing what I want to see. It’s him. I swear to God, it’s him.”
Devon didn’t see how he could be sure. The boy’s face was nothing but a blur. Of course, his own copy of the
picture was bound to of a higher resolution, but was it right to offer hope when it was probably going to end in heartbreak? “Nicholas.” Devon handed the picture back. “What is it exactly you want from me?”
Nicholas cocked his head. “Well… I want you to take me to this place.” He stabbed at the picture.
“Okay.” Devon ran his tongue over his teeth. “Except I’m not even one hundred percent sure where I was for this particular shoot. Did you read the article?” Did Nicholas believe he’d find these kids still hanging out
beneath the freeway? That had been the whole point of the piece. They lived a transient life, landing wherever they found shelter and a meal. Or a pimp. Devon closed his mouth before that fact came flying out.
“Of course I read the article,” Nicholas replied in a soft voice. “I have it memorized.”
There really wasn’t anything to say to that. At a loss, Devon looked down at the stack of pictures in his hand.
“I’m not an idiot, Mr. McCade. I know how things work for these kids. The article didn’t pull any punches. But it’s a place to start.” He sat up straighter. “It’s more than I had a week ago.”
Devon gnawed his upper lip. This wasn’t the sort of heartache he needed right now. The chances of the situation ending well were slim. “Have you checked the local offices? Maybe he’s in state custody.”
“I tried. I’ve been to the Seattle police. I even contacted the FBI. I thought, since the case crosses state lines, they’d be obligated to at least investigate.”
Devon assumed not, judging by Nicholas’s tone.
“I’ve bombarded the Washington websites for missing and exploited children. Nothing. I’ve checked welfare,
juvenile justice… even the mental health systems. It’s crazy, but it feels like nobody wants to help.”
Yeah, that was par for the course. Devon knew the system intimately. Not surprising that Nicholas had got the runaround. His kid was fourteen, not four. The people who had the tools to help also had enough experience to know finding a child of that age—if he didn’t want to be found—would be close to impossible. “I might be able to lend a hand. I was a foster kid. So were my brothers. They’ve re-involved themselves recently with local troubled youth. Not the same demographic as your son.” At least Devon was assuming. “But they have connections. We can at least give you some names, places to call.”
Nicholas’s mouth fell open, as though it had been years since anyone had done him a kindness. He suddenly looked like a lost child himself. “Thank you.”
“I’ll help you find him,” Devon said, clamping his mouth shut as the last word left his lips. Where the hell had that come from?
Those bright eyes pinned him again, bringing an inappropriate flush to Devon’s face. “Thank you, Mr. McCade. And like I said, I’ll pay you for your time.”
Jesus, what had he gotten himself into? “That’s not necessary.” He cleared his throat, shoving the pictures back at Nicolas. “Listen, I just flew in from Columbia, and I’m not worth shit right now. If you want to come by
tomorrow morning, I’ll pull the files from this job, and we can make a plan.”
He stood as he said it, desperate to put some distance between them, and movement in the doorway caught his eye. Danny. Not even trying to be circumspect about his eavesdropping, the brat. Still, it was hard to get angry at Danny, and Devon’s irritation was still gaining momentum when his brother gave a very uncharacteristic wobbly smile and mouthed two words: Thank you.
They hit Devon like a shot of whisky might, stealing his breath and spreading warmth through his chest. Feeling better than he had in days, he shook Nick’s hand and saw him to the door.
March 18, 2013
Yay my life, or How to train your Dragon software
Let me introduce you to the awesomeness that is Dragon speech recognition software: seven thousand words written on an average day.
Let me show you the ridiculousness that is Dragon when you're so hoarse from coughing it doesn't recognize you as its client.
Me: Mic on. Mic on! MIC ON!*coughcough* Jesus.
Dragon types: heehaw
Me: *facepalm* Select heehaw. Delete.
Dragon types: Celery yee haw. I'm late.
Me: *manually deletes text* Open quote. Let's call it a difference of opinion.
Dragon types: "Lettuce caws a different pine in.
Me: *snort* Close quote.
Dragon types: Chloe snows
Me: AHAHAHA CLOZE QUOTTTEH.
Dragon types: "
Me: Yay!
Dragon types: Eh?
Me: Exactly
Dragon types: I likes tea
Me: Me too. With whiskey.
Dragon types: He who with whiskers.
Me: My work here is done. Mic off.
Dragon types: My worry heats down fuck off
And now my fingers are sore from typing all day. I realize this is a trivial complaint in a world gone crazy. I'm just sharing.
*coughcough*
February 20, 2013
Updates and More Updates
Okay, I'm exhausted and stretched to the limit scheduling-wise, but it was still an amazing week. There was positive news for my father, who'd been facing some scary health issues. Things aren't as dire as feared, thank goodness. My daughter's essay won first place in her middle school. (So proud!) My kitty's off his anxiety meds, and I've managed to lose 6 lbs despite the arrival of this year's Girl Scout cookies. My treadmill is my best friend.On the writing front, I received an offer from Carina Press this week to purchase Paradox Lost. Now I just have to finish writing it. Eek! Scary deadline is scary. But the edits have been completed for Bending the Iron, due to be released in August, so I'll be able to throw all my energy into this new project.
Crazy busy, yes. But so far, 2013 is shaping up nicely.
Happy belated Valentine's Day!
US Soccer Player Robbie Rogers Opens Up About Being Gay. Gets Twitter Support.
The emotional pain described here is visceral. Yet it’s all too common a heartbreak for athletes and many others. When the news came in about Robbie Rogers, people held their breath, wondering if he would continue to play.
David Testo, a former professional soccer player, announced he was gay in 2011 shortly after his playing career ended. And as he paged through his messages from friends and family members, he quickly learned the news that stunned much of the global soccer community: Robbie Rogers, a former midfielder for the United States national team who most recently played in England, had revealed in a blog post that he was gay, too.
Testo’s first thought, he said, was pride. But then he wondered if Rogers, who is 25, would do what Testo, and many others, chose not to: become one of the rare openly gay male athletes to actively participate in a high-profile professional team sport.
“Deep down, that’s what I was hoping for,”Testo said. “It’s what we’re
all waiting for.”
If Rogers returns to the game, he almost surely would have “a target on his back,”Testo said, noting that soccer — like society at large, he added — has made progress, but is far from universal acceptance of homosexuality. Buzinksi agreed and said it was “absolutely depressing” that someone might feel pushed away from a sport he loves.
“It just shows that sports is the final closet in society,” Buzinksi said. “We’ve made huge strides in terms of support of gay athletes, and homophobia is no longer cool in sports. But the closet is very much in existence.”
[Full Article at The New York Times]
But here’s the uplifting part of the story. Some of Rogers’s teammates rallied behind him on Friday via Twitter.
Stuart Holden✔@stuholden Much love and respect to my boy @robbierogers ! Proud to be your friend bro
Oguchi Onyewu✔@OguchiOnyewu5 Extremely proud of the courage from @robbierogers . Truth is not always easy to display, but truly strong people always find a way #RESPECT
Sacha Kljestan✔@SachaKljestan 100 percent love and support for one of my best friends Robbie Rogers. You will be missed on the pitch. Amazing talent, amazing person.
Taylor Twellman✔@TaylorTwellman Fully support @robbierogers as he steps away from the game and comes out about being gay. #respect
Kasey Keller✔@KaseyKeller18 The bravery of Robbie Rogers in commendable, I hope he realizes that he doesn't need to retire. He will be more supported than he knows.
Brad Evans✔@brad_evans3 My dude @robbierogers much love and respect. Very proud to be your friend. Roomies/brothers for life.… http://instagr.am/p/VxBu0EM5FT/
And one very hopeful message from former U.S. defender Eddie Pope: Brave men like you will make it so that one day there's no need for an announcement. That day can't arrive soon enough.
No, it can’t.
February 16, 2013
GOP Becoming Obsolete?
This article pins down one of the major problems facing the GOP. There’s supposedly some soul-searching going on in Republican circles these days, or so we’re led to believe, specifically in regards to abortion rights and marriage equality. Since the GOP's agenda reminds me more of a tired soap opera than a relevant social platform, I'm skeptical anything positive will come of it.
From Gay Marriage Hate Handicaps GOP's Tech Growth:
From Gay Marriage Hate Handicaps GOP's Tech Growth: We already know that the Republican Party's dogged commitment to fighting abortion rights and marriage equality are hurting them with the American voters. But, as the New York Times reports this weekend, the GOP's politics are also hindering their already slow technological growth. Turns out a bunch of techies are repulsed by their politics, too.[Full Article Here]
Several G.O.P. digital specialists told me that ... they found it difficult to recruit talent because of the values
espoused by the party. "I know a lot of people who do technology for a living," [Republican digital guru Michael] Turk said. "And almost universally, there's a libertarian streak that runs through them — information should be free, do your own thing and leave me alone, that sort of mind-set. That's very much what the Internet is. And almost to a person that I've talked to, they say, 'Yeah, I would probably vote for Republicans, but I can't get past the gay-marriage ban, the abortion stance, all of these social causes.'
February 7, 2013
The Modern Internet Writer as Performance Artist
It’s been said (by whom, I’ve yet to ascertain, but it’s a cool quote so I’m using it) the Internet is a mixed bag of enlightenment and oppression. However it revolutionized society, it certainly changed the writing community. In fact, “community” may be an optimistic term if we’re referring to the thousands of people who a handful of years ago were penning stories in their spare time, alone at their kitchen tables, without a chance in hell of having anyone read their masterpieces.There’s no lack of people to read those stories now, or places for authors to share them. Just ask Google—it knows all. (Except who said “The Internet is a mixed bag of enlightenment and oppression.”)
Industry gurus claim the Internet has ushered in a new era of whimsical genres and that cyberspace will never be a place for serious fiction. Whatever that means. Although I suspect it implies many of the communities once considered“niche” and “small” and, by association, “insignificant,” have gained enough ground and popularity to make those entrenched in the status quo squirm over their three-martini lunches. It’s about time. But I personally don’t believe that what we’re writing has changed, only how we share it. The Internet hasn’t created new fascinations, only exposed them. (I totally typed that last sentence with a straight face.)
It’s in the review and critique process that everything has changed. Today we can write a poem, a blog post, a story, or a chapter of a novel, post it, wait for a very short time, sometimes minutes, and get a response. Instant feedback. Instant gratification.
This is the phenomenon that is changing how we write—and think about writing. We are, more than ever before, performance artists. We are creating something less solitary than traditional fiction. The Internet hasn’t just shrunk the distance between writer and reader; it’s annihilated it. And lack of distance is what defines performance art: the artist and audience enmeshed in something complex and multilayered. Here’s an example from performance artist Helge Meyer I thought strongly analogous to online writing in
this day and age:
“I invited the audience to exchange cloth with me, piece by piece. I brought cloth with me that had a deep personal relationship to my life, and I told each story of that piece, one after another, to the audience. In exchange for one of my belongings, they offered me a piece of their cloth and the story of their relationship with that piece.”
Lots of us write serials or post free fiction in regular time intervals, giving readers the opportunity to discuss the story with us as it’s being forged. This leads to a fair bit of interactive creating and changes to the original plan based on feedback. Not always. Some of us never deviate from our outlines and ideas. No one way is best. It’s all about creating. Some stories live close to our hearts, others we’re more willing to bend and twist. Regardless, the reader is always there, at times quite verbal and opinionated, a part of the process.
It’s not strictly a technological revolution. Neither it is a moral revolution, because let’s face it, morals have stayed mostly static. Rather it’s a revolution in means, a way to carry shared life experiences the next step up the ladder, into fiction. For entertainment, for guidance, for advice, and for emotional connections that in the past were rare or nonexistent.
The word “writer” has never implied so much before. Nor have we ever inferred so much from the idea. To say the Internet has changed publishing only scratches the tip of the iceberg. Storytelling itself has evolved. Hate it or celebrate it, there’s no going back.
