Josh Lanyon's Blog, page 82

Making it Up as I Go

One of the best parts of sabbatical is (was) having time to think, and part of that thinking process is learning about yourself. Considering where you are, where you want to be, how you get there. That sounds like an ad for investing in a retirement fund, but I'm thinking more philosophically. Although in a way, that too is an investment in a kind of retirement fund.

Part of the learning takes place after sabbatical ends and you go back to the real world. Because sabbatical is a kind of lovely bubble. Even the sort of sabbatical I had where I was basically working but not writing. The writing is the hard part. The rest of it is tiring and time-consuming, but it's not like writing. Writing is brutal. Like any art. Like any craft. Like any serious grown up job.

So I ended sabbatical on a very positive note -- I mean, what could be better than winding up with Christmas! :-)  And I put together a very ambitious game plan for 2013. Eight projects, not counting all the print compliations and audio books I have planned.

The first thing I realized was attaching deadlines to ANYTHING creative immediately triggered that familiar response of racing heartbeat and churning thoughts. Can I speed this up, how will I make these dates, should I fit something else in, Why am I writing so slowly...?

Not good.

This is how I got into trouble in the first place.

Add to that the fact that all the sabbatical time in the world doesn't change that I still find a rough draft hard work. Understatement. I find it a brutal, bitter slog. I HATE writing first drafts. Hate them with a passion. They are drudgery and they are sloooowwwww going. If I do a thousand words a day on a rough draft, I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

But do the math. At a thousand words a day...well, never mind. Don't do the math because the slow pace is only on that first exhausting, wrenching lap. After that's over and I have a day or two to catch my breath, the edits and revisions start and that's when it all speeds up and the mess of halting words and clumsy phrases turns into a story that makes sense and flows along, carrying me (and eventually a reader) with it.

But the first lesson of sabbatical is to accept that the first draft is still as ugly and painful as ever. As it should be, frankly.  And the second lesson is to not attach deadlines to anything. I'm finding myself skipping around from project to project. Jotting down notes here, outlining a bit there, writing more on this monster in front of me (that would be Blood Red Butterfly at the moment). I haven't worked in this erratic fashion in years, but I'm going with it, allowing it to happen and seeing what it produces. Which I suppose is yet another result of taking a year off.

Anyway, if you haven't seen it yet, the full list of what I have planned for 2013 is here.

Happy New Year!

Christmas Coda 18

Adrien and Jake from THE ADRIEN ENGLISH SERIES     
 
 
 
 

A touch so light, so delicate, it was hardly more than a breath, a sigh tracing the length of my throat…bisecting my chest…and then, to my relief, diverging from the roadmap of scars, off-roading to flick the tip of my right nipple.

I arched off the bed. Not far, since my hands were tied to the headboard -- tied loosely and with something soft. Silk scarves? I could free myself in an instant, but it wasn’t about freedom, was it?

The teasing touch moved to the tip of my other nipple.

I gasped. “That tickles!”

“It’s a feather.” I could hear the smile in Jake’s voice.

“Ah.”

The feather ghosted its way over my ribcage…down to my abdomen. I sucked in a breath as the feather dusted and danced still lower…

“How’s that feel?”

I nodded. Everything felt lovely, from the cool, crisp linen sheets to Jake’s warm breath against my face. The feather teased and thrilled as it brushed across my thigh…groin…thigh…

I wriggled one of my hands free and pulled off the blindfold.

The hotel room was nearly dark in the fading afternoon light. Jake gazed down at me, his mouth quirking. “I wondered how long that would last.”

“I like to look at you,” I said. “I like to touch you.”

He nodded, pulled the other scarf off, freeing my wrist. He lowered himself beside me on the wide four poster bed, touched the tip of a drooping white peacock feather to my nose. I laughed and blew at the bobbing green-blue eye of the feather.

“How long before your mother’s knocking on the door again, do you think?”

“I’ve got the Do Not Disturb sign out.”

“Baby, you’re an optimist.”


“Maybe.” I smiled at him, looped my arm around his neck, pulling him down to me. He kissed me. I kissed him back. “Next year we’re staying home for Christmas. I don’t care who comes up with what plan.”

“Uh huh.”
He rested his head on my chest. For a time we lay there, breathing in soft unison, the muted sounds of Londontraffic providing a soundtrack to our thoughts.

“Regrets?” I asked at last.

Jake raised his head, studying me. He leaned back on his elbow. “No regrets.”

I smiled faintly.

He reached out, brushed the hair out of my eyes. “That’s not right. I have regrets. I regret the gutless, asinine things I did, the people I hurt. I regret hurting you. I regret the time I wasted. But if all those gutless, asinine things were somehow part of how I got to this moment, then no. I don’t regret anything.”

Considering what a painful journey he’d had to get to this moment, I thought that was a brave statement.

“You?” Jake asked. “Regrets?”

“Just the time we wasted.”

“We’re not wasting anymore time.” He reached around, found the feather.

I could feel my smile turning wry. “Is this going to be enough for you?”

He looked puzzled for an instant. Then his expression grew grave. “This? No. The feather and blindfold routine in an overpriced hotel? No. I need more. I admit it. I need entire nights and entire days. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. I need breakfast and lunch and dinner and every dessert we can squeeze in. I need every minute we can get.”

“For as long as we both shall live?”

“Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

I closed my eyes, smiling. “I guess that’ll work.”

His laugh was quiet. I felt him bent over me, felt his mouth graze mine… My eyes shot open at the soft tap-tap-tapping on our room door.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Best Laid Plans

Unfortunately between the flu and the holiday -- and then the recovery from the flu and the holiday -- I ended up unable to do quite as many of the Christmas Codas as I'd intended.

However, I've been persuaded to collect and publish this batch for next year, so I'll probably add to what I did write with the others that I planned but didn't have time for.

Meanwhile, I'm very pleased my little gift went over so well. I appreciate all the very kind comments and compliments. I'm happy I could add to your enjoyment of the season.

There will be one final coda tomorrow morning.

Thank you for a wonderful 2012 -- and wishing you all a healthy and happy New Year!

Christmas Coda 17

Will and Taylor from the DANGEROUS GROUND series.     

The walkie-talkie crackled and Taylorsaid, “Romeo to Base.”

Romeo?Will, who had been blowing on his hands to warm them, spluttered a laugh, and picked up his walkie-talkie. “Base.”

“Refresh my memory. Whose idea was this again? Over.”

Will grimaced, looked up at the stars burning bright and cold in the black night sky of the Mojave Desert. Not another light for miles out here. Nothing but Joshua trees and sand and the sharp cutout ridge of distant mountains. “Not sure now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Yours.”

“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”

Taylor’s wicked laugh rustled across the six chilly miles of empty airwaves and Will’s lips twitched in instinctive response. “That is one nasty laugh, buddy boy. I could get a search warrant based on that laugh.”

“Base, standby,” Taylorsaid, suddenly all business.

Will waited, his eyes scanning the darkness. Nothing moved in the sky or on the ground. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye. A shooting star. He smiled faintly. Taylorwas not much for the great outdoors.

At the same time Taylor, sounding relaxed again, said, “Go ahead, Base.”

“You were saying?” Will replied. It was only the two of them out here, after all.  

“I was saying, this is one hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve.”

Will was terse because he wasn’t enjoying freezing his ass off any more than Taylorwas, “We need the money.”

The following silence stretched long enough to start sweat prickling on Will’s hairline. They had left the DSSin October to start their own security consulting business. It was not a great time to start a business, even when you had the experience and qualifications. Taylorhad gone along with Will’s plan, but Will had the uneasy feeling his partner was still…withholding judgment.

“Copy that,” Taylorsaid at last. “Doesn’t change the fact that we’re currently one step up from snipers.”

Will started breathing again.  “Not if we don’t shoot anybody.”

Taylorsaid darkly, “That depends on how much longer we’re stuck out here.”

Will peered at the luminous dial of his watch. “I make it half an hour.”

He could feel Taylor’s sigh though the walkie-talkie remained silent. Taylorhated this op for a dozen reasons, starting with the fact that it was Christmas Eve and ending with the fact that any half awake civilian with a radio and a pair of binoculars could have handled this. They were simply providing backup for the backup.

“I’ll make it up to you, Romeo,” Will said suddenly, surprising himself.

“Roger so far.” There was a smile in Taylor’s voice. “Should we switch to a secure channel?”

Will was reminded of all those crazy phone calls Taylor had made to him while Will was posted in Paris. In fact, the memory of those calls warmed him now. Well, what the hell. Why not? It was just them and the coyotes, and any smart coyote was safely curled in his den dreaming of rabbits and the spring. “Affirmative,” he said.

“Yeah?” Taylorsounded alert and interested.

Will realized with blinding clarity that there was no going wrong with this, anything he said would, at the least, make Taylor laugh. But Taylorwouldn’t laugh. Will realized that too. Realized that however awkward he was at verbalizing…stuff…the very attempt would mean something to Taylor. Taylor, who spent more than his fair share of time putting it all on the line. Phone lines included.

“Yeah,” Will said boldly. “That’s right, Romeo. They don’t call me Roger Wilco for nothing.”
 
 
 
 
 
 

I Spy Something Christmas - All Romance Ebooks

Now available I Spy Something Christmas - All Romance Ebooks

(And a sincere thank you to everyone involved in getting this out in time for the holiday!)

We interrupt this program

Ugh. The holiday flu thing is apparently more persistent than I first thought, so I'm giving myself a day to rest and recouperate. I think I'll be more disappointed than all of you if I'm not able to finish these codas up as planned!

Anyway, I'm drinking my OJ and staying warm and thinking healthy thoughts! You do the same -- we don't want anyone sick for the holidays.

Christmas Coda 16

Vic and Sean from UNTIL WE MEET ONCE MORE
 
 

“How’d it go?” Sean asked, opening the door to  Vic’s knock. He kept his voice down, so the old lady, Sean’s Aunt Miriam, was in bed. That was a relief. Vic had just about had his fill of female relations that night, though Aunt Miriam was practically another species from his own mother.

“It went the way you thought it would.” Vic removed his scarf, shrugged out of his wool coat. Sean took them, limping over to the coat closet and hanging them neatly. Aunt Miriam was as fussy as a Fleet Admiral about keeping things shipshape.

“You okay?” he asked over his shoulder.

Vic nodded. “I could use a drink.”

Sean nodded toward the sitting room and they moved silently down the hallway.

There was a fire going in the hearth and a decanter of whisky on the table next to the arrangement of holly and candles. Vic flung himself down on the horsehair sofa while Sean poured out a pair of stiff drinks.

Sean watched Vic toss his back and said, “So we’re right where we were before you went to see her. No harm, no foul.”

Vic threw him a dour look. “She actually asked me what the point of my military service was if I was just going to throw away my brilliant career in politics.”

Sean laughed. They both looked guiltily up at the ceiling with it’s broken ceiling medallion. But not a creature stirred. Not even a mouse. Though the old house probably had plenty of them.

Sean remarked, “I didn’t realize you had a brilliant career in politics.”

“Neither did I. Apparently I could have if I wanted it – provided I don’t throw it away.”

Sean snorted. Vic looked up out of his gloomy preoccupation long enough to be glad that Sean wasn’t taking this personally. It wasn’t personal, that was the weirdest thing about it. It should have been personal.  The question of who her only child intended to spend the rest of his life with should have been of personal interest and importance to Abigail Stone.

“She actually said she didn’t see the point of my military service if I wasn’t going to use it as a springboard for the future.”

Sean’s brows rose. He took a thoughtful mouthful of whisky. “Sort of missing the point, isn’t she?” he asked mildly. He had a right to ask, having nearly given his life, not to mention his leg, in the service of his country.

Vic shook his head and finished his drink. Sean leaned forward and refilled his glass.

“Look, Stoney,” he said crisply, “I know you’re angry and disappointed, but the fact is, we’re no worse off than we were.”

“That money is mine. She has no right to block me from my inheritance.”

Sean shook his head. “You’ll get it eventually. In the meantime I’ve got my savings and my disability. We’re not going to starve.”

Vic winced inwardly. His own retirement pay was negligible as he’d chosen to retire after a measly twelve years. At the time he’d made the decision he’d had plenty of options, though politics had not been one he’d seriously considered. “That money could make a big difference to us.”

“Yeah? Well I for one am relieved I won’t have the Manchurian Candidate’s mom for my mother-in-law.”

Their gazes met and after a long instant, Vic grinned. “True, right? Why the hell are you sitting over on the other side of the room?”

Sean rose and came around the low table to join Vic on the lumpy sofa. Vic put his arm around Sean’s broad shoulders and pulled him closer still. “Ah hell. I know we’ll be okay. I just wanted to…”

“Keep me in the style to which I've never been accustomed?” Sean was laughing at him now.

Vic grimaced. “Something like that.”

The clock on the bookshelf began to chime. Twelve lazy, silvery chimes. Midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” Sean said. He touched his glass to Vic’s.

“Cheers. Anyway, Mother made a point of saying she had nothing against you personally. She always thought you were a nice boy.”

“I am a nice boy.”

“And if we wanted to see each other on a regular basis, she couldn’t see why anyone would—could you stop laughing?” But Vic was laughing too now, reluctantly. His arm tightened around Sean. Maybe Sean was right. It was only money after all, and he’d gladly have given every cent he ever earned to have what he had at this very moment: Sean alive and well and in his arms.

Sean stopped laughing and said, “Hey, if it makes things easier for you, we don’t have to move in together right away. We could—”

“Shut up, you,” Vic growled.
“Make me.” Sean smiled, eyes glinting in invitation.

And Vic did.
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

Christmas Coda 15

Colin and Septimus from THE DARKLING THRUSH

 
 
Septimus invited me to his home for the Yule Feast. I thought perhaps there would be a party, and I told myself I wouldn’t mind that. This would be my first and only Yule spent across the Great Big Seaand I might as well see how a traditional feast was properly done.

But I can’t deny I was pleased to discover that Septimus and I were spending the afternoon alone. I was tired of being looked at and whispered about by my colleagues at Leslie’s Lexicons. There was no need to pretend with Septimus.

Besides. Septimus was…Septimus. I was happy to spend every moment I could with him.

“I brought you this,” I told him, handing over a bottle of mulled wine.

Septimus smiled and kissed me – right there in front of his butler. “We’ll have it after our dinner.”

I smiled too because I knew that meant we would be spend the night together.

The meal was indeed a feast. We started with raw oysters, supped right out of the shell. Then bouillon that tasted of wild herbs and venison. Champagnewas next, served cold and dry, and pâtés made from veal and goose livers.

I knew roasted boar was the most traditional of Yule suppers, but I was relieved when the brownies carried in a large platter with roasted goose.  The goose was golden brown and tender, stuffed with sage and onion and pine nuts. There were small potatoes in a white sauce, exotic roots and vegetables, and cranberry and orange sauce.

“I can’t eat another bite,” I told Septimus, pushing my plate away at last.

He laughed as though this were nonsense, and I suppose it was since after that I consumed my fair share of plum pudding, chocolate truffles, cheese and nuts and biscuits.

When we finally pushed away from the table, I was convinced I wouldn’t need to eat for a week.
“I expect you’ll be hungry enough by breakfast,” Septimus said slyly, and I felt my face warm.

He led the way to his library. I had been in that wonderful room several times, but that afternoon, he reached behind one of the old, rich tapestries, and one of the towering shelves slid soundlessly away to reveal the entrance to another smaller room. I followed Septimus through that low doorway. There were two brocade chairs, a small round table, an old-fashioned lamp, and all four walls lined with books. Very old, very valuable books.

Septimus chose several volumes while I gazed around myself in awe.

“I’ve never heard of half these books!”

“No.” He smiled faintly.

“Do you keep them for the texts or Perusing their previous owners?”

“It depends. On the text and the owner.” He handed me a gilt-edged volume. “Go ahead and Peruse to your heart’s content.”

“Truly? You don’t mind?”

Septimus nodded. “We’ll spend all day here if you like.”

There followed one of the happiest afternoons I can ever recall. The books in that secret library were a treasure chest of fabulous sights and sounds and smells…sometimes the jewel was the text. Sometimes the rush came from the imprint of a powerful previous personality.
 

Necile gathered the softest moss in all the forest for Claus to lie

upon, and she made his bed in her own bower.  Of food the infant had no

lack.  The nymphs searched the forest for bell-udders, which grow upon

the goa-tree and when opened are found to be filled with sweet milk.

And the soft-eyed does willingly gave a share of their milk to support

the little stranger, while Shiegra, the lioness, often crept stealthily

into Necile's bower and purred softly as she lay beside the babe and

fed it.

 

“That’s sweet,” I murmured, turning the browned page. I could feel many small ghostly hands turning the pages with me. Their smiles and laughter were like sunlight.

“Try this one,” Septimus said.

I closed my eyes and rested my hand on the cover. This one had lain forgotten many years in a dusty attic. The imprint of previous readers was very faint. Twin sisters…an elderly collector…

 


The young man came swinging along, debonairly; he was whistling under his

breath. He was a dapper figure in a long coat and a silk hat, under which

the candles lighted a rather silly face. When he reached the spot in the

sidewalk where the Flanton Dog lay, he paused a moment looking down. Then

he poked the object with his stick. On the other side of the street a

mother and her little boy were passing at the time. The child's eyes caught

sight of the dog on the sidewalk, and he hung back, watching to see what

the young man would do to it. But his mother drew him after her. Just then

an automobile came panting through the snow. With a quick movement Cooper

picked up the dog on the end of his stick and tossed it into the street,
under the wheels of the machine.
 

I shook my head. It was growing late and I was tired from perusing so many books. I looked across at Septimus and he was watching me, smiling.

“Overwhelming after a time, isn’t it?”

“A little. They’re nearly unspoiled they’ve been so little touched since their last reading.”

“One more then.” He handed the final book. The cover was of faded blue and amethyst silk, patterned with lotus and lilies. When I took the book in my hands I felt a faint and funny tingling. I looked at Septimus in surprise.

His smile was almost rueful.

I turned the pages gently, but the book fell open to the place where it had been most read.

 
Juventius, if I could play at kissing

your honeyed eyes as often as I wished to,

300,000 games would not exhaust me;

never could I be satisfied or sated,

although the total of our osculations

were greater than the ears of grain at harvest.

 

I looked at Septimus and he cleared his throat a little self-consciously. “I knew you would have no difficulty Perusing that one.”

I smiled and turned out the lamp.

Christmas Coda 14

Christopher and J.X. from the HOLMES & MORIARITY series

 
 
**This holiday scene takes place between Somebody Killed His Editor and All She Wrote

 
 
 

It rained Christmas day.

It had rained every day since I arrived in San Francisco. It’s not that I particularly minded the rain, but the wet, gray weather didn’t do a lot for my mood – or for the headache I’d had ever since the plane had touched down on the tarmac at San Francisco International Airport.

“It’s the shift in barometric pressure,” I told J.X.  “It’s giving me a migraine.”

He looked sympathetic – he had been looking sympathetic for three days, so he was probably starting to run low on milk of human kindness, though you’d never guess from the soft look in his dark eyes. “Maybe you should call your doctor? Ask for a prescription for your migraine medicine.”

I waved that idea off. “No, no. I’ll be fine.”

“We could stop and fill the prescription on the way.”

“It’ll be impossible to get hold of anyone today.”

“You should try at least. You don’t want to have the day spoiled by a migraine.”

“Ha. No fear of that!”

I felt a little guilty at the white, relieved smile that greeted my words. Of course, what I was thinking was that nothing, not even a raging migraine, could make this disaster of a day worse than it was. Or would be.

It was my own fault. I’d wanted to see J.X.  We’d only had one chance to get together since the murderous events at Blue Heron Lodge, but picking Christmas weekend was a bad move. Our relationship – could you even call something this new, this tentative a relationship? – was not ready for the weight of all those expectations and comparisons that inevitably came with the holiday season.

Not that our beginning romance – could you call something this new, this tentative a romance? – would necessarily fare badly by comparisons to what holidays had been like with David, my ex.

If it had just been me and J.X. it might have worked out all right. But no. We were spending the day with his family. His parents and his nephew and his ex-wife. J.X.’s ex-wife, not the nephew’s. The nephew was just a kid. Six or seven or something. And the ex-wife was because J.X. had felt duty bound to marry his dead brother’s pregnant girlfriend in order to give the kid a name. It just didn’t get more soap opera-ish than that.  

He was a real idealist, J.X.

That’s what worried me. I’d already disappointed him once. You only got so many chances with idealists.

    * * * * *

“At least let me drive you back,” J.X. said in an under voice.

“That would make me feel even worse!” I looked past him to where his four year old nephew was peeking around the hall corner. The kid looked like a miniature J.X. minus the van dyke beard. Gage stuck his tongue out at me. I took the high road and ignored him, saying to J.X., “I don’t want to take you away from your family.”

The family that hated me on sight.

“Yeah, but the idea is for you and me to spend the weekend together.”
“We did. We have.”

J.X.’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth.

“Julian? Oh.” J.X.’s mother – “call me Mrs. Moriarity” – stopped at the end of the hall. “We were just about to serve pie.”

Laura Dolores Moriarity was of Castilian Spanish descent, an icy blue-eyed blond. In looks, J.X. took after his father who was what they used to call “black Irish.” Mr. Moriarity was pleasantly distant. Then there was Nina, who was both pretty and pained. Maybe J.X. thought that marriage had all been platonic on her side, but he was the only one who did.

The only comfort was that they probably would have hated me just as much if I’d been female. But I don’t think being the gay boyfriend helped.

“Be right there,” J.X. said over his shoulder.

Laura raised an eyebrow and departed.

“Kit, are you going to be there when I get home?” J.X. asked bluntly.

“The thing is,” I hedged apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m coming down with the flu. I think maybe the best thing I could do is grab a red-eye flight and go home.”

“Kit.” I felt that dark, hurt look right in my solar plexus.

“Julian? Gage is hoping you’ll help him put his train se—oh.” Nina hastily backed up and disappeared around the hall corner.

The door bell rang. “That’s my taxi,” I said, and I don’t think I could quite hide my relief.

“To hell with the taxi,” J.X. said. “Don’t go like this, Kit. Let me drive you back to my place. Maybe you’ll feel better if you lie down. At least we can talk.”

Oh God. Not that. Not The Talk.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” I said honestly. I dragged on my coat and fumbled with the door handle almost shaking it to get it open. “I’ll call you!”

“Kit!” I closed the door on his protest and ran down the rain slick steps to the waiting taxi.