Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 15

A story, “Multiverse,” at Phoebe Journal

I submitted “Multiverse” to Phoebe Journal, the litmag of George Mason University, for their fiction contest, and while it didn’t win, apparently the contest readers liked it enough that they named it their Reader’s Choice entry. Here’s the first bit:

You learn about the multiverse theory from your Facebook feed, when a story about it appears above a photo someone posts of your best friend from high school. It’s unexpected, that photo. He’s in his forties, like you, and he looks almost the same as back then…and yet, not. It takes a moment to pinpoint: His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He used to smile with his whole body, his eyes most of all. Not now.

His sadness makes you wonder, and the multiverse theory makes you think about worlds in which you tried to kiss him….

[image error]

It’s not a long story at all. You can read the rest of it here. There’s more fabulous writing available there, too.

I’m not so much proud of this story as bemused by it, as it seemed to be one of those that emerged almost whole, unbidden, out of the ether. Mind you, I don’t really think writing works that way. A kernel of this idea has been in the back of my mind since—well, since high school, if you must know. It just needed the right spark to catch fire, and honestly, a friend’s Facebook post (back before I ditched my personal Facebook profile) provided the necessary catalyst.

I also need to thank my friend, fellow writer Ruth Daniell, for her valuable feedback on it before I sent it in. (Ruth is a fantastic writer, by the way; you should read anything she publishes.)

I hope you enjoy it.

A story, “Multiverse” at Phoebe Journal

I submitted the story “Multiverse” to Phoebe Journal, the litmag of George Mason University, for their fiction contest. While it didn’t win, apparently the contest readers liked it enough that they named it their Reader’s Choice entry. Here’s the first bit:

You learn about the multiverse theory from your Facebook feed, when a story about it appears above a photo someone posts of your best friend from high school. It’s unexpected, that photo. He’s in his forties, like you, and he looks almost the same as back then…and yet, not. It takes a moment to pinpoint: His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He used to smile with his whole body, his eyes most of all. Not now.

His sadness makes you wonder, and the multiverse theory makes you think about worlds in which you tried to kiss him….

[image error]

It’s not a long story at all. You can read the rest of it here. There’s more fabulous writing available there, too.

I’m not so much proud of this story as bemused by it. It seemed to be one of those that emerged almost whole, unbidden, out of the ether. Mind you, I don’t really think writing works that way. A kernel of this idea has been in the back of my mind since—well, since high school, if you must know. It just needed the right spark to catch fire, honestly. Lucky for me, a friend’s Facebook post (back before I ditched my personal Facebook profile) provided the necessary catalyst.

I also need to thank my friend, fellow writer Ruth Daniell, for her valuable feedback on it before I sent it in. (Ruth is a fantastic writer, by the way; you should read anything she publishes.)

I hope you enjoy it.

The post A story, “Multiverse” at Phoebe Journal appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

Want to get published more? Embrace rejection—an update

I got the nicest rejection letter recently.

No, I’m totally serious. I wanted to write them back and say thank you; thank you for rejecting my work!

Are they going to publish it? No. Did I win any sort of consolation prize (like, you know, money)? No. Is my name going to be on some list of notoriety as a result? Well, my name is probably on a list somewhere already, and not in the good way, but let’s not dwell on that.

So, you ask, what makes you so happy that they rejected your work? Well, this:

“Our readers thought your submission contained beautiful, smart, quick and impactful speculation on all the ways one love can go, both relatable and fresh. They called it a ‘beautifully compiled spectrum that pulls us to a bittersweet conclusion.’”

It may not have won, but they got it. They understood what I set out to do when I wrote the story, and judging from the response, it accomplished that. So what if I didn’t win?

You have to let others read—and potentially reject—your writing

The other reason this pleases me is because it’s an indication that I’ve been sending my work out. My goal in 2017 is to send out at least one story a month or apply for something writing-related, whether that’s a fellowship, a residency, a grant; some project or publication that, if I got it, would advance my writing in some way.

So far, I’ve done a little bit better than one submission a month. I’ve sent out one story three times since January, and another story went out in January as well. So, four months, four story submissions. In addition, I’ve applied for a national fellowship that is so insanely competitive that my chances are probably less than the proverbial snowball’s, but I applied anyway. The application was free, so I had nothing to lose but my time. I’ve also applied for a residency at a crazy prestigious artists’ and writers’ colony. Holding my breath on that one? Not very likely.

Make collecting rejections a game

It’s entirely possible I will get rejected by all of these places. That’s okay. I’m collecting rejections this year. I want to get as many rejections as possible, more than I got last year, even. According to my records, I sent out 19 submissions last year. (I keep track of my submissions in a spreadsheet. Hello, I’m a nerd.) Three of those wound up being acceptances, which makes my acceptance rate about 15.8 percent, give or take.

If we go strictly by the numbers, the more I send out, the more I’ll get rejected, but the more I’ll get accepted, as well. At least, that’s the hope. So if I sent out 38 times this year? I’d get six acceptances. Seventy-six? Twelve acceptances. And so on.

If you never send your work out, if you never apply for anything, you’ll never get an acceptance.

At least, maybe. The math doesn’t lie, but it’s also no guarantee that my work will be accepted for publication more frequently. (Past performance does not necessarily predict future results, as mutual fund prospectuses like to remind us.) What is a guarantee, however, is that if you never send your work out, if you never apply for anything, you’ll never get an acceptance.

My biggest project this year is revising a novel in progress, and it’s actually not the novel I’ve been working on and talking about the most, which is the as-yet-untitled sequel to The Unwanted. This one, rather, is a novel I wrote in grad school as my master’s thesis. I started a revision on it last year before setting it aside, and I’ve moved it back to the front burner now. Why am I switching gears? Because I submitted that novel to an agent, and she’s asked for a revision. So, not a rejection, but rather a renewed opportunity for a rejection… or an acceptance.

Speaking of acceptances, let’s end things on a high note. I submitted a story to a contest in March, and I found out this month that, although it didn’t win, it’s getting published anyway. I almost didn’t submit it, for reasons I can’t even remember now. And where would that have gotten me?

Want to get published more? Embrace rejection — an update

[image error]

Image by Judith E. Bell/Flickr

I got the nicest rejection letter recently.

No, I’m totally serious. I wanted to write them back and say thank you; thank you for rejecting my work!

Are they going to publish it? No. Did I win any sort of consolation prize (like, you know, money)? No. Is my name going to be on some list of notoriety as a result? Well, my name is probably on a list somewhere already, and not in the good way, but let’s not dwell on that.

So, you ask, what makes you so happy that they rejected your work? Well, this:

“Our readers thought your submission contained beautiful, smart, quick and impactful speculation on all the ways one love can go, both relatable and fresh. They called it a ‘beautifully compiled spectrum that pulls us to a bittersweet conclusion.’”

It may not have won, but they got it. They understood what I set out to do when I wrote the story, and judging from the response, it accomplished that. So what if I didn’t win?

You have to let others read—and potentially reject—your writing

The other reason this pleases me is because it’s an indication that I’ve been sending my work out. My goal in 2017 is to send out at least one story a month or apply for something writing-related, whether that’s a fellowship, a residency, a grant; some project or publication that, if I got it, would advance my writing in some way.

So far, I’ve done a little bit better than one submission a month. I’ve sent out one story three times since January, and another story went out in January as well. So, four months, four story submissions. In addition, I’ve applied for a national fellowship that is so insanely competitive that my chances are probably less than the proverbial snowball’s, but I applied anyway. The application was free, so I had nothing to lose but my time. I’ve also applied for a residency at a crazy prestigious artists’ and writers’ colony. Holding my breath on that one? Not very likely.

Make collecting rejections a game

It’s entirely possible I will get rejected by all of these places. That’s okay. I’m collecting rejections this year. I want to get as many rejections as possible, more than I got last year, even. According to my records, I sent out 19 submissions last year. (I keep track of my submissions in a spreadsheet. Hello, I’m a nerd.) Three of those wound up being acceptances, which makes my acceptance rate about 15.8 percent, give or take.

If we go strictly by the numbers, the more I send out, the more I’ll get rejected, but the more I’ll get accepted, as well. At least, that’s the hope. So if I sent out 38 times this year? I’d get six acceptances. Seventy-six? Twelve acceptances. And so on.

If you never send your work out, if you never apply for anything, you’ll never get an acceptance.

At least, maybe. The math doesn’t lie, but it’s also no guarantee that my work will be accepted for publication more frequently. (Past performance does not necessarily predict future results, as mutual fund prospectuses like to remind us.) What is a guarantee, however, is that if you never send your work out, if you never apply for anything, you’ll never get an acceptance.

My biggest project this year is revising a novel in progress, and it’s actually not the novel I’ve been working on and talking about the most, which is the as-yet-untitled sequel to The Unwanted. This one, rather, is a novel I wrote in grad school as my master’s thesis. I started a revision on it last year before setting it aside, and I’ve moved it back to the front burner now. Why am I switching gears? Because I submitted that novel to an agent, and she’s asked for a revision. So, not a rejection, but rather a renewed opportunity for a rejection… or an acceptance.

Speaking of acceptances, let’s end things on a high note. I submitted a story to a contest in March, and I found out this month that, although it didn’t win, it’s getting published anyway. I almost didn’t submit it, for reasons I can’t even remember now. And where would that have gotten me?

The post Want to get published more? Embrace rejection — an update appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

A story: Scorned, from The Lavender Menace

Oh, this one was so much fun to write. I love writing bad guys as much as actors love playing villains, I think. I mean, admit it: Who do you think had more fun playing their character on Dynasty, Linda Evans or Joan Collins? Yeah, exactly.

The best part of this, though, was probably the editing process. Tom Cardamone really had great feedback that helped me improve the story and make it darker and “a little more Arkham,” as he put it. After I finished this, I considered revisiting the characters later, maybe a reunion of sorts between Marcus and the good doctor.

I’m still wondering who would come out on top in that confrontation….

(If you like the story, subscribe to my newsletter to read more like it.)

“Scorned” appeared in The Lavender Menace: Tales of Queer Villainy! published by Northwest Press. You can get a copy here. And check out the follow-up, Absolute Power: Tales of Queer Villainy!

“You’re new.”

Marcus Harris had never seen the woman standing in the visitor’s vestibule adjacent to his cell, but her white coat, worn over a charcoal business suit, blared “psychologist.” She wore glasses and kept her curly blonde hair shoulder length. Sitting in the plastic chair reserved for visitors (who never came), she crossed her legs and settled a clipboard over her knees. When she smiled at him, it was completely unconvincing.

“I’m Dr. Emily Wheeling,” she said. “The warden asked me to come see you this morning and ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, is it morning?” Marcus asked, sarcasm edging into his voice. “It’s so hard to tell in here since I don’t have ready access to a clock. Or sunlight. Where’s Dr. Mathis?”

Dr. Wheeling looked down at her clipboard. “He had an unfortunate encounter with a homemade knife in one of the other wings, but I’m told he’ll make a nearly complete recovery.”

“That’s a pity. So why does the warden want you to speak with me?” Marcus asked, even though he knew the answer.

Dr. Wheeling tilted her head so she was looking over her glasses. “I think we can both say we know why, so let’s not start off like that, shall we?”

Marcus smiled. He liked her directness. “Please convey my apologies about his badge.”

“He was a bit more displeased with the second-degree burns to his chest.”

“I know he was attached to that badge, though.”

“Well, fortunately the surgeons were able to remove it successfully.”

Marcus said nothing in response. She was tapping her pen against the clipboard, whether out of nervousness or boredom, he couldn’t be sure. It was a felt-tip pen, of course. They were taking no chances with him now, it seemed. It also seemed like she wasn’t going to speak again unless he did first. He held out as long as he could stand the silence, which wasn’t long.

“So,” Marcus said, painfully aware that she had succeeded in waiting him out, “aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How are you?”

“How do you think I am?” he asked, not even bothering to mask his anger with sarcasm.

She leaned forward, clasping her hands on top of the clipboard. “Not well, Mr. Harris.”

For some reason, hearing her say his name—his regular name, not Megawatt, his alter ego—sent him over the edge. He launched himself at the barrier and slammed his palms against it. From past experience, he’d learned that open palms made much more noise than fists.

“What the hell do you expect?” he shouted.

To her credit, Dr. Wheeling didn’t flinch beyond a raised eyebrow. She made a note on her clipboard and said, “I expect you’ll want to have a seat now.”

His chair had fallen over. When Marcus reached to pick it up, he noticed the tiny arcs of electricity on his fingertips. Jaw clenched, he silently willed the charge to remain—a pointless effort, since it always faded no matter what he did. They made sure of that in this place.

He slumped in the chair—he wasn’t particularly interested in making a good impression with correct posture—and stared at Dr. Wheeling. All he wanted at the moment was for her to go away—odd, since the solitude of his cell was often unbearable.

“I don’t really feel like talking right now,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine. I can come back later.”

After she got up and walked toward the door, he said, “I still won’t feel like talking then.”

Without turning around, she replied, “Everyone feels like talking eventually, Mr. Harris. I’ve got time.”

 

(Psst. I have an e-mail newsletter. You should totally sign up for it. I might surprise you with stuff you don’t get to see here—like the rest of this story—or anywhere, for that matter.)

[image error] [image error]

A story: Scorned, from The Lavender Menace

Oh, this one was so much fun to write. I love writing bad guys as much as actors love playing villains, I think. I mean, admit it: Who do you think had more fun playing their character on Dynasty, Linda Evans or Joan Collins? Exactly. So, gay supervillains? Bonus!

The best part of this, though, was probably the editing process. Tom Cardamone really had great feedback that helped me improve the story and make it darker and “a little more Arkham,” as he put it. After I finished this, I considered revisiting the characters later, maybe a reunion of sorts between Marcus and the good doctor.

I’m still wondering who would come out on top in that confrontation….

(If you like the story, subscribe to my newsletter to read more like it.)

“Scorned” appeared in The Lavender Menace: Tales of Queer Villainy! published by Northwest Press. You can get a copy here. And check out the follow-up, Absolute Power: Tales of Queer Villainy!

“You’re new.”

Marcus Harris had never seen the woman standing in the visitor’s vestibule adjacent to his cell, but her white coat, worn over a charcoal business suit, blared “psychologist.” She wore glasses and kept her curly blonde hair shoulder length. Sitting in the plastic chair reserved for visitors (who never came), she crossed her legs and settled a clipboard over her knees. When she smiled at him, it was completely unconvincing.

“I’m Dr. Emily Wheeling,” she said. “The warden asked me to come see you this morning and ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, is it morning?” Marcus asked, sarcasm edging into his voice. “It’s so hard to tell in here since I don’t have ready access to a clock. Or sunlight. Where’s Dr. Mathis?”

Dr. Wheeling looked down at her clipboard. “He had an unfortunate encounter with a homemade knife in one of the other wings, but I’m told he’ll make a nearly complete recovery.”

“That’s a pity. So why does the warden want you to speak with me?” Marcus asked, even though he knew the answer.

Dr. Wheeling tilted her head so she was looking over her glasses. “I think we can both say we know why, so let’s not start off like that, shall we?”

Marcus smiled. He liked her directness. “Please convey my apologies about his badge.”

“He was a bit more displeased with the second-degree burns to his chest.”

“I know he was attached to that badge, though.”

“Well, fortunately the surgeons were able to remove it successfully.”

Marcus said nothing in response. She was tapping her pen against the clipboard, whether out of nervousness or boredom, he couldn’t be sure. It was a felt-tip pen, of course. They were taking no chances with him now, it seemed. It also seemed like she wasn’t going to speak again unless he did first. He held out as long as he could stand the silence, which wasn’t long.

“So,” Marcus said, painfully aware that she had succeeded in waiting him out, “aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How are you?”

“How do you think I am?” he asked, not even bothering to mask his anger with sarcasm.

She leaned forward, clasping her hands on top of the clipboard. “Not well, Mr. Harris.”

For some reason, hearing her say his name—his regular name, not Megawatt, his alter ego—sent him over the edge. He launched himself at the barrier and slammed his palms against it. From past experience, he’d learned that open palms made much more noise than fists.

“What the hell do you expect?” he shouted.

To her credit, Dr. Wheeling didn’t flinch beyond a raised eyebrow. She made a note on her clipboard and said, “I expect you’ll want to have a seat now.”

His chair had fallen over. When Marcus reached to pick it up, he noticed the tiny arcs of electricity on his fingertips. Jaw clenched, he silently willed the charge to remain—a pointless effort, since it always faded no matter what he did. They made sure of that in this place.

He slumped in the chair—he wasn’t particularly interested in making a good impression with correct posture—and stared at Dr. Wheeling. All he wanted at the moment was for her to go away—odd, since the solitude of his cell was often unbearable.

“I don’t really feel like talking right now,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine. I can come back later.”

After she got up and walked toward the door, he said, “I still won’t feel like talking then.”

Without turning around, she replied, “Everyone feels like talking eventually, Mr. Harris. I’ve got time.”

 

(Psst. I have an e-mail newsletter. You should totally sign up for it. I might surprise you with stuff you don’t get to see here—like the rest of this story—or anywhere, for that matter.)

The post A story: Scorned, from The Lavender Menace appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

A cautionary social media tale

[TL;DR–social media delights in distracting you and wasting your time. Minutes/hours spent tweeting or posting are minutes/hours not spent writing. Is that how you want to be spending your time? Also, commenting on a trending hashtag brings out the crazies like you wouldn’t believe. Don’t feed them, whatever you do. Their appetite is bottomless.]

Hashtags on Twitter can be great, right? You can find a lot of information and links about a particular topic or event pretty quickly. Some of my favorites are #FridayReads, where people tell you about the books they’re reading as of (you guessed it) Friday. I also liked #SAS16 when I was at the Saints & SInners Literary Festival in New Orleans. And stumbling across #PitchWars got me some really useful feedback on a work in progress. (Thanks, Michael Mammay and Dan Kobold.)

So when I saw a hashtag that said #BoycottHawaii, I thought, “What’s that about?” and clicked on it.

That was, well, a mistake.

[image error]

Twitter? Just don’t do it.

I won’t bore you with the details except to say Muslim ban, court block, reactionary tweets, and use of the word “racist” (which I still stand by). My response was basically, “Guys, that sounds kinda racist, especially assuming that colonized native populations will have a problem with y’all staying away.”

Tweet sent, I turned off my phone, put it aside, and got back to important things, like catching up on DVR’d episodes of Supergirl. Because priorities, people.

When I looked at my phone the next day, lordy.

I don’t remember how many retweets it got, but it was a lot. Like, more than anything else I’ve ever tweeted. I also got a lot of replies and wow, a lot of people weren’t happy being called out for their prejudices. And I replied to a few of them.

That was mistake #2.

And then I got angry.

Mistake #3.

“OK, Jeff,” you say, “but what does any of this have to do with writing?”

Ding ding ding! You get a prize! (Well, the prize is just being right, so…)

You might recall I teach a workshop called Social Media for Writers. I’m fond of not-so-jokingly referring to my approach to the class as less best practices and more cautionary tale, as in “for heaven’s sake don’t do what I did!” The exchanges that took place over this topic would be a textbook example of what not to do:

Don’t feed the trolls. Let’s face it, no one ever convinced someone else to change their minds because of an exchange they had on Twitter.

Don’t tweet when you’re angry. As I’ve also mentioned, my father is a Marine and as a result I have a predilection for, as Spock might say, colorful metaphor. And while I’m not opposed to the occasional salty phrase, getting so mad that you’re willing to tell someone to go frak themselves is probably not good for your blood pressure. And let’s face it, it doesn’t make you (that is, me) look very good.

Stay focused. I do tell my students to be themselves, but they don’t necessarily have to put every aspect of themselves out there on their social media. Indeed, you should share your perspective, your background, your love of Hello Kitty kitchen appliances (I’m speaking purely hypothetically, now), but remember to ask yourself, why are you here? (As in, here being “on social media,” not the larger question of existence—although that might be an interesting focus, too.) Me, I want to talk about books, I want to talk about writing, and my own books and writing, and the things that influence them (and maybe sell a couple books, if I’m lucky). If I can make them laugh a little in the process, I call that winning.

Getting dragged into a politically motivated shouting match may be an aspect of you, but is that why you’re here? Are those the people you want paying attention to and interacting with you?

Time is finite. Don’t waste it. Keep on track.

Mute, block, move on. This circles back to not feeding trolls and not wasting your time. You don’t have to give anyone your time if you don’t want to. You don’t owe them any explanations.

But you might owe people a photo of your Hello Kitty kitchen.

A cautionary social media tale

[TL/DR: social media delights in distracting you and wasting your time. Minutes/hours spent tweeting or posting are minutes/hours not spent writing. Is that how you want to be spending your time? Also, commenting on a trending hashtag brings out the crazies like you wouldn’t believe. Don’t feed them, whatever you do. Their appetite is bottomless.]

Hashtags on Twitter can be great, right? You can find a lot of information and links about a particular topic or event pretty quickly. Some of my favorites are #FridayReads, where people tell you about the books they’re reading as of (you guessed it) Friday. I also liked #SAS16 when I was at the Saints & SInners Literary Festival in New Orleans. And stumbling across #PitchWars got me some really useful feedback on a work in progress. (Thanks, Michael Mammay and Dan Kobold.)

So when I saw a hashtag that said #BoycottHawaii, I thought, “What’s that about?” and clicked on it.

That was, well, a mistake.

[image error]

Twitter? Just don’t do it.

I won’t bore you with the details except to say Muslim ban, court block, reactionary tweets, and use of the word “racist” (which I still stand by). My response was basically, “Guys, that sounds kinda racist, especially assuming that colonized native populations will have a problem with y’all staying away.”

Tweet sent, I turned off my phone, put it aside, and got back to important things, like catching up on DVR’d episodes of Supergirl. Because priorities, people.

When I looked at my phone the next day, lordy.

I don’t remember how many retweets it got, but it was a lot. Like, more than anything else I’ve ever tweeted. I also got a lot of replies and wow, a lot of people weren’t happy being called out for their prejudices. And I replied to a few of them.

That was mistake #2.

And then I got angry.

Mistake #3.

“OK, Jeff,” you say, “but what does any of this have to do with writing?”

Ding ding ding! You get a prize! (Well, the prize is just being right, so…)

You might recall I teach a workshop called Social Media for Writers. I’m fond of not-so-jokingly referring to my approach to the class as less best practices and more cautionary tale, as in “for heaven’s sake don’t do what I did!” The exchanges that took place over this topic would be a textbook example of what not to do:

Don’t feed the trolls. Let’s face it, no one ever convinced someone else to change their minds because of an exchange they had on Twitter.

Don’t tweet when you’re angry. As I’ve also mentioned, my father is a Marine and as a result I have a predilection for, as Spock might say, colorful metaphor. And while I’m not opposed to the occasional salty phrase, getting so mad that you’re willing to tell someone to go frak themselves is probably not good for your blood pressure. And let’s face it, it doesn’t make you (that is, me) look very good.

Stay focused. I do tell my students to be themselves, but they don’t necessarily have to put every aspect of themselves out there on their social media. Indeed, you should share your perspective, your background, your love of Hello Kitty kitchen appliances (I’m speaking purely hypothetically, now), but remember to ask yourself, why are you here? (As in, here being “on social media,” not the larger question of existence—although that might be an interesting focus, too.) Me, I want to talk about books, I want to talk about writing, and my own books and writing, and the things that influence them (and maybe sell a couple books, if I’m lucky). If I can make them laugh a little in the process, I call that winning.

Getting dragged into a politically motivated shouting match may be an aspect of you, but is that why you’re here? Are those the people you want paying attention to and interacting with you?

Time is finite. Don’t waste it. Keep on track.

Mute, block, move on. This circles back to not feeding trolls and not wasting your time. You don’t have to give anyone your time if you don’t want to. You don’t owe them any explanations.

But you might owe people a photo of your Hello Kitty kitchen.

The post A cautionary social media tale appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

A story: “At the End of the Leash”

[image error]You never forget your first, right? This story was the first one I ever published. It still holds a special place in my heart, but when I looked at it now, it struck me that I didn’t realize at the time how long it was. Over 8,000 words? Seems excessive to me now. I’m a more concise writer, I think.

This story originally appeared in the anthology Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction edited by R.D. Cochrane and Timothy J. Lambert and published by Cleis Press. A lot of the authors in here have become friends of mine, as have the editors.

This story may have established a pattern for a lot of my future stories, in that they too revolve around love and somehow manage to work dogs into the equation.

Brian had a soft spot for the big dogs. It seemed the larger the breed, the gentler the demeanor. Some of his favorite clients were Great Danes with their regal profiles, mastiffs with their sturdy dependability, Newfoundlands with their gentle stoicism. Every so often he would walk a dachshund or a Pekingese who would prove to be an exception to the rule, but in general, the bigger the better.

Casey, one of his favorites, was kind of in between. Not huge, but not small. Brian had been walking Casey, a weimaraner, for three weeks, every Monday through Wednesday at 3 pm, long enough for him to steal a bit of Brian’s heart. With his ice gray eyes and smooth sage coat, he had an otherworldly look that made people stop and take notice. Then he’d lick your face, and break the spell.

Brian had never met Casey’s owner. The agency had supplied Brian with a key to the tenth-floor apartment overlooking the park and instructions to feed Casey and take him for a brisk walk, at least half an hour, Monday through Wednesday. His owner commuted to Chicago three days a week, and the housekeeper took Casey out briefly in the morning, while a friend in the building took him out before bedtime. That left just the afternoon, which Brian covered.

Although Brian had never met Casey’s owner—C. Jacobs, according to the agency—there were photos on the console table in the front hall, next to Casey’s leash. Vacation snapshots mostly, they showed a dark-haired man who apparently liked sunny places and sunny blonds. There were photos of beaches, waterfalls, and a couple of cruise ships. In most of them the dark-haired man stood next to a blond man, who sometimes had his arm slung over the dark-haired man’s shoulders. Brian assumed the dark-haired man was C. Jacobs since he was in most of the pictures, and perhaps because of a little wishful thinking. In one, C. Jacobs was shirtless and wearing a Speedo. Brian knelt by the table to get a better look—picking up the framed picture would have been a violation of the service’s rules—and noted that, even though he didn’t particularly care for Speedos, C. Jacobs had the sort of body that could get away with wearing one.

Suddenly, Brian found himself knocked to the floor with a lapful of Casey. The dog must have taken Brian’s kneeling on the floor as an open invitation to play and had leaped on him, bumping the table and sending the pictures scattering.

“Shit,” he muttered, and quickly began gathering up the photos, then wondered if he should leave them where they lay and let Casey take the blame. It was mostly his fault, anyway. For his part, Casey sat at a distance, looking cowed and waiting patiently while Brian rearranged the pictures. Since he had to touch them anyway, he took a closer look at the Speedo picture—the man really was gorgeous. The blond man was undeniably handsome too, but—whether Brian was imagining it or not—had a fake look about him. His tan, his hair color, his smile seemed fake.

And his chest was obviously shaved.

Eventually, Brian returned the photo to the table. Casey wagged his tail when Brian looked his way. How long had he been lost in that photo? He really needed to start dating again, or at least forget about the last failed attempt.

Of course, there were a lot of those to forget—and none of them lately. The last ten months had been a drought of unprecedented duration for him. The time of year reminded him of it. It was the end of February, the Christmas holidays seemed so long ago that he couldn’t even remember what he’d been given, and there were no other holidays to color the gray monotony until Easter. There was nothing to do but duck his head, hunch his shoulders, and look forward to sunlight again.

He treated his dating drought similarly. He wasn’t really doing anything about it, so much as waiting for the cloud cover to lift.

The weather outside matched his mood. It was chilly and overcast, but the clouds held no promise of rain. Casey, oblivious to the weather, led Brian down the sidewalk.

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A story: “At the End of the Leash”

[image error]You never forget your first, right? This story was the first one I ever published. It still holds a special place in my heart, but when I looked at it now, it struck me that I didn’t realize at the time how long it was. Over 8,000 words? Seems excessive to me now. I’m a more concise writer, I think.

This story originally appeared in the anthology Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction edited by R.D. Cochrane and Timothy J. Lambert and published by Cleis Press. A lot of the authors in here have become friends of mine, as have the editors.

This story may have established a pattern for a lot of my future stories, in that they too revolve around love and somehow manage to work dogs into the equation.

At the End of the Leash

Brian had a soft spot for the big dogs. It seemed the larger the breed, the gentler the demeanor. Some of his favorite clients were Great Danes with their regal profiles, mastiffs with their sturdy dependability, Newfoundlands with their gentle stoicism. Every so often he would walk a dachshund or a Pekingese who would prove to be an exception to the rule, but in general, the bigger the better.

Casey, one of his favorites, was kind of in between. Not huge, but not small. Brian had been walking Casey, a weimaraner, for three weeks, every Monday through Wednesday at 3 pm, long enough for him to steal a bit of Brian’s heart. With his ice gray eyes and smooth sage coat, he had an otherworldly look that made people stop and take notice. Then he’d lick your face, and break the spell.

Brian had never met Casey’s owner. The agency had supplied Brian with a key to the tenth-floor apartment overlooking the park and instructions to feed Casey and take him for a brisk walk, at least half an hour, Monday through Wednesday. His owner commuted to Chicago three days a week, and the housekeeper took Casey out briefly in the morning, while a friend in the building took him out before bedtime. That left just the afternoon, which Brian covered.

Although Brian had never met Casey’s owner—C. Jacobs, according to the agency—there were photos on the console table in the front hall, next to Casey’s leash. Vacation snapshots mostly, they showed a dark-haired man who apparently liked sunny places and sunny blonds. There were photos of beaches, waterfalls, and a couple of cruise ships. In most of them the dark-haired man stood next to a blond man, who sometimes had his arm slung over the dark-haired man’s shoulders. Brian assumed the dark-haired man was C. Jacobs since he was in most of the pictures, and perhaps because of a little wishful thinking. In one, C. Jacobs was shirtless and wearing a Speedo. Brian knelt by the table to get a better look—picking up the framed picture would have been a violation of the service’s rules—and noted that, even though he didn’t particularly care for Speedos, C. Jacobs had the sort of body that could get away with wearing one.

Suddenly, Brian found himself knocked to the floor with a lapful of Casey. The dog must have taken Brian’s kneeling on the floor as an open invitation to play and had leaped on him, bumping the table and sending the pictures scattering.

“Shit,” he muttered, and quickly began gathering up the photos, then wondered if he should leave them where they lay and let Casey take the blame. It was mostly his fault, anyway. For his part, Casey sat at a distance, looking cowed and waiting patiently while Brian rearranged the pictures. Since he had to touch them anyway, he took a closer look at the Speedo picture—the man really was gorgeous. The blond man was undeniably handsome too, but—whether Brian was imagining it or not—had a fake look about him. His tan, his hair color, his smile seemed fake.

And his chest was obviously shaved.

Eventually, Brian returned the photo to the table. Casey wagged his tail when Brian looked his way. How long had he been lost in that photo? He really needed to start dating again, or at least forget about the last failed attempt.

Of course, there were a lot of those to forget—and none of them lately. The last ten months had been a drought of unprecedented duration for him. The time of year reminded him of it. It was the end of February, the Christmas holidays seemed so long ago that he couldn’t even remember what he’d been given, and there were no other holidays to color the gray monotony until Easter. There was nothing to do but duck his head, hunch his shoulders, and look forward to sunlight again.

He treated his dating drought similarly. He wasn’t really doing anything about it, so much as waiting for the cloud cover to lift.

The weather outside matched his mood. It was chilly and overcast, but the clouds held no promise of rain. Casey, oblivious to the weather, led Brian down the sidewalk.

Want to read the rest of it? You’ll have to sign up for my newsletter, which is easy. Just click here.

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