Abigail Barnette's Blog, page 33

Jonathan Franzen’s 10 Super Privileged Rules For Looking Down On Every Other Novelist

Jonathan Franzen had some thoughts, I guess. Insufferable, pretentious thoughts that he felt like everyone else should hear. They were, unsurprisingly, on the topic of writing advice.

Now, when men who describe themselves as novelists have something to say, they have to say it in the most arrogant, pseudo-philosophical way they can possibly hope to achieve. Franzen, the poster boy for the mediocre white male novelist, employs that aesthetic heartily in his “10 Rules For Novelists”. And far be it from me to criticize a cis white male pissing commandments from his ivory tower and onto the worthless peasants below, but every damn item on his list is asinine.

1. The reader is a friend, not an adversary, not a spectator.

…no, the reader is a reader. It’s right there in the word. I agree that readers aren’t adversaries, despite the attitudes of many thin-skinned authors. But friendship is a two-way obligation that your readers are not committing to when they buy your books. They’re not looking to experience you, they’re wanting to experience your work. I would argue that they are spectators. There’s nothing wrong with being a spectator; most of the entertainment we consume, we consume passively, from baseball games to yes, even books. It’s still an exciting symbiotic relationship, but it’s one that doesn’t make the reader beholden to the author. Which is exactly as it should be.

2. Fiction that isn’t an author’s personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn’t worth writing for anything but money.

My first thought when I read this item was, “Bold of you to assume that writers are making money.” But the real issue with this statement is that a successful author with a rumored net worth in excess of ten million dollars has the luxury of looking down on money, a fact which Franzen has notoriously refused to acknowledge in the past. In 2015, Franzen declared that despite his wealth, “I spend my time connected to the poverty that’s fundamental to mankind, because I’m a fiction writer.” I don’t believe for a hot second that Franzen is actually connected to poverty in any way other than romanticizing the idea of it, but even if he did choose to spend his days thoughtfully listening to and sympathizing with residents of a tent city, he would still go home to warmth, shelter, and food stability. He can flirt with the notion of rejecting money because he has it.

I can practically hear Pulp’s “Common People” playing the background as Franzen obliviously penned this entry.

Plus, if every piece of fiction was “an author’s personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown,” then all of literature would be deeply boring. There would be no Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland, no A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for god’s sake, there would be no fucking Star Wars. In one sentence, Franzen somehow manages to sneer at writers who make money (as he does, in massive amounts) and implies that all books should be navel-gazing glimpses into the mind of the author.

And let’s not forget that the giant advances being handed to all those male authors so they can have their artistic adventures into the unknown are being paid by the sales of genre fiction authors, many of them women. If Franzen would rather not have the money, we’d gladly take it, rather than see it squandered on a demographic who spend eighty percent of their writing time trying to come up with the perfect adjective to describe just how sorrowful a female character’s breasts look at a cocktail party.

3. Never use the word then as a conjunction—we have and for this purpose. Substituting then is the lazy or tone-deaf writer’s non-solution to the problem of too many ands on the page.

I don’t know, Jon. Which sounds like a more pleasant afternoon: “We’ll eat pork chops and do the autopsy,” or “We’ll eat pork chops then do the autopsy?” Maybe it’s because I’m not a serious artist, but I can’t think of a way to employ “then” as a conjunction in the first place. It’s an adverb; if you put it in a sentence, it’s going to function as an adverb whether that’s your intention or not. Also, since when are “too many ands” a problem? “And” is a nearly invisible word unless it’s part of a run-on sentence.

4. Write in third person unless a really distinctive first-person voice offers itself irresistibly.

The fact that Franzen believes this is one of his writing rules belies just how little he thinks of every other writer on the planet. “Surely this a point I need to make to other novelists,” he thinks, tapping his pen against his lips. “There may be people out there writing in first-person who are doing so without even thinking that third-person might be an option. I must help them!”

Yes, Jonathan, dear. We already know that first-person narratives are only workable if the voice is distinct. The same can be said of third-person, however.

5. When information becomes free and universally accessible, voluminous research for a novel is devalued along with it.

I’m not sure what point he’s trying to make here. Is he suggesting that information should not be free and universally acceptable, lest it devalues the work of a novelist who is granted access to it? Or is his assertion that research is no longer valued, so fuck it? “People have way too much access to knowledge” is an odd stance for an author to take, especially if that author just recoiled at the idea of someone writing something that isn’t an adventure into the unknown. What would the point of such a journey be, if the author and reader aren’t expected to learn something from it? And what does it say about Franzen’s view of society–perhaps his view of the impoverished people with whom he feels so connected–if he endorses the gatekeeping of knowledge?

On the other hand, maybe he really is saying that it’s pointless to do research now that it’s been devalued. Maybe he’s super into badly researched, inaccurate books.

6. The most purely autobiographical fiction requires pure invention. Nobody ever wrote a more autobiographical story than The Metamorphosis.

As with number four, are we talking about Franzen’s personal rules or the rules of fiction entirely? Of course, fiction requires invention. It’s what fiction is. Although, I would argue that with the sheer volume of modern literary novels about privileged men having extramarital affairs with bewitching younger women is a strong counterpoint to the claim that all autobiographical fiction must contain elements of “pure invention.” Those narratives seem to sell well without anyone turning into a giant bug.

7. You see more sitting still than chasing after.

I’m 99.9% sure I’ve seen this as an inspirational quote on a poster in a dentist’s waiting room. If not, then it should absolutely be an inspirational quote on a poster in a dentist’s waiting room. But this feels like a subtle manipulation, tantalizing aspiring authors with the prospect that they will gain a deeper understanding of themselves and their craft by simply declining to pursue tangible goals. Coupled with Franzen’s other points disparaging authors who write for money and seemingly encouraging a state of mass of ignorance, I have to wonder about his motive for suggesting that inaction is preferable to forward momentum.

8. It’s doubtful that anyone with an Internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.

Sir, are you aware that you’ve posted this list to the Internet?

This one ties in so neatly to numbers five and two. Authors use the internet to publish, to network, and to publicize. For many working writers–you know, those dirty ones who put money ahead of the Dark Night of The Soul we’re supposed to be experiencing with every word we put on the page–the internet is a tool used in our work. Of course, therein lies the problem: Franzen has already stated that he apparently doesn’t want just anybody to have access to information with which to research their novels, lest it devalues…researching novels. It only makes sense, then, that he would oppose a medium that puts knowledge at the fingertips of anyone with an internet connection.

The internet also allows writers the opportunity to contact agents and submit manuscripts to publishers without paying for postage. New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon once described having to borrow three dollars from a neighbor so she could send a partial to an editor who’d requested it. She pilfered a stamp from her husband’s wallet: “For one twenty nine cent stamp, my entire life was forever changed.” For someone with Franzen’s money, three dollars is less than nothing. Twenty-nine cents is not existent. But for a writer actually living in, instead of comfortably adjacent to a nebulous concept of, poverty, that $3.29 was a near impossible hurdle. Access to the internet changes that. For many, it has blown open wide the numerous gates and checkpoints barring access to publication–obstacles that Franzen will never face again. His belief that authors who use the internet to work are are lesser or doing it wrong is simply the panicked raving of a man facing what he perceives as a threat to his once-guaranteed superiority. I can imagine him sitting up in the night, bathed in an icy sweat, gulping for air and gasping, “My god! Just anyone can be a writer!”

Judging from his worry that access to knowledge might devalue his work, it’s fairly clear that Franzen is of the view that only certain people should be allowed into the hallowed halls of authordom. And after all, if poor people manage to succeed, who will he study for his frightening and unknown adventures?

9. Interesting verbs are seldom very interesting.

So far, this list has read as though it were written by a suddenly grammar-conscious Yoda hell-bent on eliminating the competition.

10. You have to love before you can be relentless.

When all else fails, start transcribing fortune cookies.

Can we please stop lauding white male authors with loads of privilege and archaic notions as the bar for intelligence, depth, and talent in fiction? Could we consider no longer hanging on their every self-indulgent word? Or, to put it more plainly, can we stop vigorously fellating any authors whose Wikipedia entries contain the word “Americana?” Franzen’s demographic is one that has never been denied a platform. It won’t hurt to hear from constructive voices every once in a while. Voices eager to share genuine advice, not smug, thinly veiled criticism of other authors. We can learn more from people who acknowledge their privilege than we can from those who cling to it like a liferaft, adrift in a sea of their own insecurity.

THE BOYFRIEND IS HERE!

I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who made The Boyfriend debut at #1 in BDSM and Romantic Erotica on Amazon this morning. It was the most incredible thing to wake up to!

Though life hasn’t turned out at all the way Sophie Scaife planned, things couldn’t be better. With her devoted husband and deliciously sadistic Dom, Neil Elwood, and their fiercely protective and passionate boyfriend, El-Mudad ibn Farid ibn Abdel Ati, Sophie is living a romantic, naughty fairytale she could never have imagined in her most wicked dreams.

But when El-Mudad wants to take things to the next level, the threesome find that keeping their serious commitment hidden won’t be possible forever. Blending two already unconventional families into one proves challenging, especially under the critical eye of disapproving loved ones—and not-so-loved ones.

Now, Sophie must juggle her roles as guardian to Neil’s granddaughter and sudden stepmother to two teenaged girls, her tenuous connection to her newly-discovered biological half-sisters, and the impending marriage of her mother to their former chauffeur, all while coming to terms with a dreaded milestone birthday. And thirty might be her most tumultuous year yet…

You can buy The Boyfriend on Amazon or Smashwords. Other platforms will follow. No word yet on foreign or audio. Thanks, everyone so much for your support. I’m having the best day I’ve had in a while!

Jealous Haters Book Club 2019 Selection

After a tight race that almost once again ended in a tie, the results are in. Your 2019 Jealous Haters Book Club selection is…

The new Abby Abernathy is a good girl. She doesn’t drink or swear, and she has the appropriate number of cardigans in her wardrobe. Abby believes she has enough distance from the darkness of her past, but when she arrives at college with her best friend, her path to a new beginning is quickly challenged by Eastern University’s Walking One-Night Stand.

Travis Maddox, lean, cut, and covered in tattoos, is exactly what Abby wants—and needs—to avoid. He spends his nights winning money in a floating fight ring, and his days as the ultimate college campus charmer. Intrigued by Abby’s resistance to his appeal, Travis tricks her into his daily life with a simple bet. If he loses, he must remain abstinent for a month. If Abby loses, she must live in Travis’s apartment for the same amount of time. Either way, Travis has no idea that he has met his match.

So, we’ll once again be tackling a Jamie McGuire novel. At least this time it was chosen democratically and not out of sheer spite like with Apolonia. In fact, it was a super tight race between this, Modelland, and City of Bones. So tight that even a week after announcing a three-way tie in the poll, the results between those three shook out like this:

Beautiful Disaster: 552
Modelland: 551
City of Bones: 542

Now, everyone knows I have a super big personal problem with this author after she publically celebrated a blogger getting slapped with a chilled speech lawsuit. I probably won’t be able to approach this book objectively, and I’m pretty sure that’s why it received so many votes. So, thank you for encouraging me to channel my inner Janis Ian through the power of democracy, which washes my hands clean in case of backlash or accusations of being petty. Which I often am, but in this case, it is you who are the petty ones!

After all, you guys picked it. Not me.

Recaps will begin in December to get the ho-ho-holidays rolling.

SNEAK PEEK: Chapter One of THE BOYFRIEND

It’s November! You know what that means…

IT’S TIME FOR ANOTHER SOPHIE SCAIFE BOOK!

There is no pre-order, which I know drives people batty, but way too many authors I know have had issues with KDP’s pre-order system. Smashwords, however, continues to be amazing. Keep up the good work.

The Boyfriend will be available on Tuesday, November 13th, from Amazon and Smashwords, with other platforms to follow. I do not have details on any foreign language or audio versions at this time.

Now, please, enjoy the part of this post that pretty much all of you skipped over the rest to get to. Here’s chapter one of The Boyfriend.

The morning I’d been dreading my entire adult life started with my husband leaping from the bed and screaming, “Jesus bloody Christ!”

I startled awake and clutched the sheet to my chest because the duvet had apparently sprinted across the room with Neil. I couldn’t see if that was the case because a giant store-bought birthday cake with rapidly melting candles in the shape of a three and a zero took up my entire field of vision.

Trying not to expose myself, I scrambled backward. “What the fuck, Mom?”

“Oh, calm down,” my mother said, blowing out the candles. “You’re gonna set the bed on fire.”

“Sophie!” Olivia, Neil’s three-year-old granddaughter, flung herself against the bed and struggled to climb up. When she failed, she settled for jumping and slapping the mattress. “Happy birthday!”

“Rebecca, get out!” Neil barked.

My mother made a tsk-ing sound. “Oh, come on, guys. I knew you were asleep. I listened at the door.”

“Gross!” I shouted over the top of Neil’s, “Leave!”

She shook her head. “Fine. I’ll take this to the kitchen. There’s coffee on.”

Olivia toddled to my side of the bed and raised her arms. “Help me, Sophie.”

“What on earth was she thinking?” Neil fumed, holding the duvet around his waist as he stalked to the walk-in closet.

I lifted Olivia up and patted the happy panda on the butt of her footie pajamas as she crawled over my legs and toward the center of the bed.

“Thank god we didn’t leave anything interesting out last night,” I called to him, retrieving his discarded t-shirt from beneath the sheets and maneuvering it on. The thought of my mom finding freshly used sex toys or bondage gear in our bedroom was…ugh. No thank you.

Neil emerged in sleep pants, which gave him more mobility to toss his arms around as he complained. “Sophie, I am sorry for shouting at your mother but— No. No, I am not sorry. It is not unreasonable to have a basic expectation of privacy in one’s own bedroom. If she and Tony are going to continue to live in the guesthouse, she has to respect the fact that I don’t want her walking through our door, let alone our bedroom door, whenever she wishes!”

I understood where he was coming from, but I’d tried to explain, more than once, how hard that particular habit would die. My family didn’t have great boundaries when it came to stuff like not just bursting into each other’s homes. “You’re right. We’ve had more than a few close calls. But she knows how much I’m hating this birthday. She just wants to make me feel better.”

“She wants to make you feel better by sending your blood sugar through the roof?” he demanded. “Has she forgotten your diagnosis?”

I couldn’t blame her if she had. Sometimes, I forgot it. “Thanks for the reminder of my mortality. Is that my birthday present?”

Neil shook his head in frustration. “I still do not understand why thirty is such a terrible age.”

“Because that’s the age—” I began, preparing to repeat the reasoning I’d stated over and over for the past six weeks.

I didn’t have to, because Neil did it for me. “—‘when everything falls apart.’ Yes. I know. And as I’ve stated many, many times, that is ridiculous.”

“Is it really that ridiculous?” I asked, gesturing to my thighs. He couldn’t see them because the sheet covered them, but I’d had a massive crying jag just days before because I’d found the rising blue threat of a varicose vein on the outside of the left one. I didn’t want to bring it up too specifically in front of Olivia because she didn’t deserve to inherit the weird body hang-ups the women of my family had been passing down for generations.

“That’s not the issue here. The issue is your mother barging in whenever she pleases. If we’re going to continue discussing…” he hesitated, glancing at Olivia. “…What we’ve been discussing, then this must be addressed.”

That thing we’d been discussing was the possibility of our boyfriend, El-Mudad, moving in with us. We rarely talked about it when Olivia was around, but plans had hesitantly been forming over the past few visits. She loved El-Mudad, and we didn’t want her to become hopeful for something that might not happen.

She gave me a look copied directly from her late mother. It was eerie how many of Emma’s mannerisms the kid possessed, despite having been less than a year old when her parents died. “This is not in front of Olivia?”

Neil’s anger reluctantly faded to a fond smile. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t worry about not-in-front-of-Olivia. It’s Sophie’s birthday today. And I love that you helped wake her up with such a beautiful cake. Did you and Rebecca pick it out?”

Olivia’s preschooler mind still didn’t follow conversations well, despite how mature her phrasing could sometimes be. “You were funny, Afí.”

I tapped her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and find Rebecca, and we’ll be along in a minute, okay?”

“Okay!” She climbed down from the mattress and charged toward the door.

“No running!” Neil called after her. I had a feeling it fell on selectively deaf little ears. He got up and closed the door then leaned back on it with a long exhale. “Sophie. Really, now.”

“I know.” I dropped my head into my hands in frustration. “I’ve talked to her. I have. But she’s my mom. I can’t stand to hurt her feelings.”

“Her feelings shouldn’t be hurt over a request like, ‘please don’t barge in on my husband and I while we’re in our bedroom.’ And she of all people, considering what you—”

One hand shot out to shush him. “No. You don’t get to take me back there.”

Walking in on my mom having sex with our limo driver was not an experience I felt like reliving. Especially since he was about to become my stepfather.

“Look, I’ll talk to her again, okay? And I’ll be really firm about it, too,” I promised, rising up on my knees and shuffling toward the end of the bed. “But it’s only until June. After the wedding, they’re moving out.”

Neil came back to meet me, taking my hand to put it on his chest, over his heart. He covered my fingers with his and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I just…I so very much want this to work. I’m tired of one of us being missing.”

I leaned my head against him. “Yeah. Me, too.”

There was more keeping us from being the happy threesome that we wanted to be than just my mother’s lack of appropriate boundaries. El-Mudad had two children and joint custody with his ex-wife. We had yet to meet Amal and Rashida, not because he didn’t feel we were permanent enough to be a part of his daughters’ lives, but because we collectively had no idea how to approach explaining our relationship to them. We didn’t know if we even should.

It was difficult enough for us with Olivia. She knew El-Mudad was our good friend and that he visited us for long periods of time, but we were careful not to display any kind of romantic affection toward him when she was around. Neil had reasoned that unless we wanted to be out to everyone, we’d have to keep our relationship secret until Olivia was an adult, at which point she would be either unsurprised after having figured it out years before or scarred for life at the thought of her parental figures hooking up with a lifelong family friend.

In a perfect world, El-Mudad would be there for my birthday, to say some cornball thing that would sound meltingly romantic coming from him. We had second-best plans for that night. “Hey, at least we get Skype sex!”

“Mmm, and we have a surprise planned for you, as well.” Neil lifted my hand and kissed it.

I shivered at the thought of what that surprise might be. My Sir and Monsieur could be very inventive.

Neil opted for a quick shower while I dressed and headed to the kitchen. Mom was there at the kitchen island, plating slices of cake while Olivia clumsily added scoops of ice cream on the side. Our housekeeper, Julia, stood by giving sidelong glares and wiping up spills and crumbs. Mariposa, Olivia’s nanny, carefully tried to supervise the ice cream part of the operation.

She looked up, a spiraling black curl falling from her bun and into her tan face. She gave me an apologetic grimace, then came to my side to say quietly, “I’m so sorry. Your mother wanted—”

I waved my hand. “You’re not in trouble. What were you supposed to do, hold Olivia hostage?”

Mariposa’s shoulders visibly relaxed. I had a feeling everyone would be more at ease once my mom lived…elsewhere.

“Olivia?” I called, and she looked up, tangled blonde curls dipping into the ice cream. “You need to go with Mariposa to get ready for the day.”

“No, thank you, please,” she said breezily, depositing another chunk of ice cream on a plate and wiping it from the spoon with her finger. Then she licked her finger and the scoop.

The entire container was a vector for disease.

“Olivia,” Mariposa began, gentle and stern like Mary Poppins. “Sophie told you to do something. Do you want to get a dot this early in the morning?”

I didn’t exactly know how the dots system worked or what the consequences were if she got too many. I did know that the threat of getting one of the round stickers on her discipline chart was usually enough to motivate her. This time was no different. She held up both hands and said, “Okay, okay! I’m coming. Jeez.”

I covered my mouth and nose to try and contain my snort of laughter. As Mariposa led Olivia from the kitchen, I heard the former firmly scold the latter about her tone.

Mom shook her head fondly. “I remember when you were that age. You were a handful.”

“Julia, can you give us a minute?” I asked the housekeeper, who tossed her rag down as though I’d just ordered her away from helping bleeding accident victims on the site of a grisly crash. She left the kitchen door swinging vigorously in her wake.

Mom sighed. “Okay. Neil is pissed off at me.”

“No. We’re both pissed off at you.” I sat on one of the stools across the island from her. “We’ve already talked about this like six hundred times.”

“You’re my kid. It’s your birthday. I wanted to surprise you,” she said with a shrug, as though I were making way too big a deal about it.

“I’m not a kid, though. I’m a grown woman with a husband, and you might have been the one who got surprised. Need I remind you about the great Denim & Co. tragedy?” One of my mother’s QVC orders had accidentally been left at the main house. I’d walked it down to the guesthouse and let myself in, only to catch my mother mid-coitus with her now-fiancé. “And in my defense, I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend. You’re fully aware that you could be walking into your worst nightmare.”

“I told you, I listened at the door—”

“Not better! Actually, way, way creepier!” I pinched the bridge of my nose and squinted my eyes shut. Wow, that really helps. No wonder Neil is doing that all the time. “Look, it’s not just that. It’s the fact that you come in here without knocking—”

“You gave me a key!” she protested.

“Yes. To use when we’re not home. When we’re here, please, just give us our privacy, okay?” As I finished the sentence, Neil came into the kitchen, his hair wet, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants to deliberately annoy my mother, who hated them.

Mom shook her head. “Back home, we always left our doors unlocked and came and went as we pleased. Have you ever once rung the doorbell at your grandma’s house?”

“We don’t live in Calumet, Rebecca, and some of us grew up far differently than you did,” Neil said tersely. “I appreciate that you wanted to surprise Sophie for her birthday, but privacy is essential to me and, frankly, being woken by my mother-in-law while I’m stark naked in bed isn’t something I should be expected to be comfortable with.”

She sighed like we were asking her to make the biggest sacrifice ever. “Fine. Do you want me to go?”

“No, I just don’t want you to see my genitals!” Neil snapped back.

Mom pushed the lid back on the ice cream container. “Then don’t wear sweatpants everywhere!”

“Oh my god, both of you, just stop!” I threw my hands up in the air. “This is my fucking birthday! And it’s starting out like this? With both of you screaming at each other about genitals?”

The house phone rang, and I went angrily to the handset on the wall. “Hello?”

“…is this a bad time?” El-Mudad’s voice instantly melted away my tension, replacing it with the butterflies that never stopped fluttering when he was with me, even over the phone.

“Not at all.” My gaze flicked to Neil. I mouthed, “Be nice,” gave my mother a warning look, and left the kitchen for somewhere more private.

If such a place existed.

“Do you know how much I treasure this day, my love?” El-Mudad asked.

I smiled to myself. “Thursday?”

He laughed softly. I could imagine his face, his fond smile, the endless depths of his warm brown eyes. My heart ached, reaching out to him over the thousands of miles between us. “Your birthday. The day you were born to be with me.”

“You’re going to make me cry.” I blinked back my tears. “Are you still in Paris?”

“With the girls, yes. We’ve been shopping. Enthusiastically.” He chuckled again. “But we will still be together…well, I suppose it will be tonight, for you, won’t it?”

“And almost morning for you,” I said, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. “Are you sure you won’t be too tired?”

“It’s the only way I’m guaranteed time alone,” he said. “Time when no one will be banging on my locked door.”

I snorted. “Yeah, we’ve got some of that going around here, too.”

“Rebecca?” he asked. I knew Neil had complained to him more than once.

“They’ll be moving after the wedding.” I took a deep breath. “And we were thinking maybe we could discuss our…arrangement more at that time?”

“Of course. And I thought I might bring the girls along. To Christmas. If that was all right with you?”

“Oh, um.” How did I respond to that? We’d planned to spend Christmas together at Langhurst Court the year before, but plans had fallen through when Olivia and Neil had both come down with a truly wretched case of the flu. “I’m sure Neil won’t mind. My family will be there, as well. Obviously, we’ll have to figure out some of the details—”

“And I wouldn’t wish to do that tonight, of course,” El-Mudad said quickly. His voice lowered to a deep, intense tone. “Tonight will be all about you. Your obedience. Your pleasure.”

My pussy went all silky and tingly, and a breathy, “Oui, Monsieur,” broke from my throat.

“I’ve been needing to hear those words for a long time.” His voice was almost a groan of relief.

“Can we just do this right now?” I wheedled, knowing I wouldn’t get what I wanted. Making me wait was part of the fun for him and Neil.

“Later, my love. Right now, I just wanted to hear your voice and remind you how thankful I am that you’re alive. And you’re mine.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” I answered automatically.

He laughed again. “Is Neil there? May I speak to him?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen. I’ll go get him,” I said. Then I remembered my mom was in there and I couldn’t say goodbye properly in front of her. “I love you.”

“And I love you. Don’t let Neil forget to give you the present I sent,” he said, adding, “As if you ever would forget a present.”

He was right. I loved presents.

There was a giddy skip in my step as I sprinted to the kitchen. Since I could still hear Mom and Neil talking, I knew they hadn’t killed each other. So, that was good.

I held the swinging door open with one hand. “Neil? It’s El-Mudad. He wants to talk to you.”

Neil had just taken a sip from his coffee mug. He set it down quickly and reached for the phone. “Thank you, I’ll take it in my study.” He shot a look at my mother. “Alone and undisturbed.”

I took a plate of cake and melting ice cream from the island and went to the kitchen table so I could face the big windows that overlooked the sea. I glanced over my shoulder at my mom. “Do me a favor and don’t ever mention that you can see my husband’s junk through his sweatpants ever again.”

“I admit, that was unfair.” She made a pained face. “And gross. And creepy. Sometimes, I have a hard time remembering he’s my son-in-law because he’s so much older than I am.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, he’s not ‘so much older’ than you are. He’s like six years older than you.”

The age gap between my husband and me was a big issue for my mom. He’d turned fifty-four in March, and I’d just hit my…thirties.

I choked on my cake.

“Sophie!” Mom ran over just as I coughed up a mouthful of crumbs.

I waved my hands in the air the way my grandma had taught both of us to do. When I could stop hacking, I gasped, “It just went down the wrong way!”

“I’ll get you some water,” she said, bustling toward the island, her silk caftan fluttering behind her.

Neil returned to the kitchen, phone in his hand. “Damned call cut out—” His eyebrows shot up in alarm, and he dropped the handset on the floor to run over to me, despite my frantic head shaking and attempts to explain. He’d nearly dragged me from my chair for a Heimlich before my mom managed to get through to him.

“She’s fine, she’s breathing.” Mom nudged him out of the way and handed me a tall glass of water.

The drink I took helped. When I was finished hacking, I gasped, “Oh my god. I could have died. I could have choked to death and died. On my birthday.” My eyes filled with tears as I looked up at Neil and bleated, “And I’m thirty.”

“Oh, honey,” my mom said.

Neil struggled to hold back a smile. That was wise of him.

“Sophie, you’re making Rebecca and me feel very old,” he said, petting my hair back from my forehead.

“I’m sorry!” I wailed. “How unfair of me to be freaked out about my mortality on a milestone birthday that has been nothing but one disaster after another when I haven’t even been awake for a full hour yet!”

“Sophie…” Neil began. Then with a heavy sigh, he asked, “Would a present make the morning any better?”

I sniffled. “I think it would.”

“Of course it would,” Mom said with a shake of her head. She’d dealt with my materialistic self for a lot longer than Neil had.

He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet. “Come along. Rebecca, could you excuse us a moment?”

I followed Neil out of the kitchen. “So, it’s something you can’t give me in front of my mother?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, it’s just in my study.”

Our house is huge, so it took us a few rooms and a couple of hallways to reach his study. Though the former occupants had used the space as a second formal dining room, it was too far away from the kitchen to be practical, and the built-in bookshelves, all painted white, made more sense in a library. The gauzy drapes over the tall windows brushed the wood parquet floor. His desk stood in the center of the room, with a comfortable armchair and chaise, both of which Neil insisted were for long afternoons of reading, at the far end of the room. I’d only ever seen him nap or play on his phone on those, though. Today, a signature forest green Harrods box rested on the soft gray leather.

I hopped up on my toes to kiss him on the cheek. “You had help.”

“I did,” he admitted. “I called your personal shopper in London. She said this was a little out of season but that you’d love it, anyway.”

I hurried over to the box and wiggled the lid off. Multi-colored sequins sparkled through the paper.

“Is this…” I gasped, lifting the dress from the box. “It is!”

Jenny Packham’s amazing sheer white gown spattered with a rainbow of multi-colored sequins of different sizes and shapes that drifted down the nearly transparent skirt like confetti.

“I thought you might wear it for New Year’s Eve,” Neil suggested. “Though it’s a long way off.”

I held the gown awkwardly against my chest and twirled as much as I dared without stepping on it. “Do we have plans I don’t know about?”

“Not yet. But I’d like to make some soon. Some…grown-up plans. Maybe leave Olivia behind this time?” He sounded almost guilty.

“It’s perfectly fine to leave your kid—grandkid—at home on New Year’s Eve. That’s an adult holiday. But do you think you’d be okay to…” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. I didn’t like tiptoeing around his addiction issues, but he didn’t want me to treat him like a child, either. We’d rung in the past few New Year’s quietly at home.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been sober so long that I’ve honestly forgotten.”

“Liar,” I said with a sad smile.

“All right, perhaps I haven’t quite forgotten,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to lose control of myself. And I would have you and hopefully El-Mudad as a support system.”

I had an idea so good, I dropped my birthday present. I scrambled to pick it up. “Sorry. I just had a thought. What if we spent New Year’s…in Venice.”

“Oh.” Neil blinked.

“I’ve never been there,” I reminded him. “And how long has it been since you’ve even visited it? You’ve got an apartment in Venice, and you’ve been there, like, what? Twice?”

“Once. My honeymoon with Elizabeth,” he said, clearing his throat reflexively at the mention of his ex-wife.

“Then let’s make it like a new honeymoon!” We hadn’t had one with El-Mudad, yet, but there was no reason we couldn’t, just because we weren’t all officially married. Moving in together was pretty much the same when there wasn’t any way we could make our union official. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to go back there? The three of us together?”

“New Year’s tends to be very popular there,” Neil mused. “And I know El-Mudad is fond of the city.”

“Good. That’s settled.” I sighed happily. “He said he sent you a present for me?”

“He did,” Neil confirmed with his half-smile. “But I’m not to give it to you until this evening.”

I clucked my tongue. “Is it a sex thing? It’s a sex thing, isn’t it?”

“Not strictly. But he knows how you are about presents and told me to make you wait as long as I possibly could.” Neil gestured for me to come to him, and I obliged, leaving the dress on the longue. He wrapped his arms around me and leaned down for a kiss. A small moan mewling from my throat as his tongue traced the curve of my lower lip. He grabbed my butt and boosted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. I was just considering telling him to close and lock the door when I heard the slap of bare feet in the hallway. Neil heard it, too, and put me down just as Olivia burst into the room.

“Come on, Sophie! Cake!” She ran to me and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door.

“You’re not really going to hide in here from my mom, are you?” I asked Neil as Olivia dragged me along.

“Cake, Afi! Cake!” Olivia urged him, with a passion for sweets that only a toddler could summon. “Let’s go!”

He sighed. “All right. I’ll go. But Rebecca has to be nice to me.”

I turned and glanced down. “Maybe…go put on some real pants.”

* * * *

Because my birthday fell on a weekday—and because I so was not into the idea of an opulent celebration to remind me of my fading youth—the only plans we’d made had been for a quiet dinner at home with some of my friends.

“We can’t make it.”

I frowned at the phone on the counter and almost burned myself unwinding my hair from the curling rod. “Why not?”

“Teething.” My best friend Holli and her partner, Deja, had welcomed a gorgeous baby back in April, but that gorgeous baby always seemed to be a shrieking hellspawn of snot and fevers these days. Occasionally, I wondered if they used Piett—so named for the admiral, due to Deja’s total Star Wars nerdery as much as for gender neutrality—as an excuse to not see me. It had been weeks. Of course, just thinking that made me feel guilty. We had a full-time nanny, but we usually took care of Olivia when she was miserably ill. I’d canceled plans because of her more than once as a result.

“That sucks.” I was so glad we were past that nonsense with Olivia. “I’ll miss you guys. You know you’re always welcome to bring zir.”

“And dump zir on your nanny?” Holli said dryly.

“We’re not monsters. We’d call the agency and get another sitter.”

Holli sighed. “Thanks, but zie’s so miserable. It just wouldn’t feel fair. And it’s such a long car ride.”

I would have offered the helicopter, but I didn’t want to be too pushy. “I’ll miss you. But take care of that baby.”

“Nah, I thought I’d leave zir on the side of the road.” Holli sighed. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be!” I forced some cheer into my tone. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s your thirtieth birthday,” she protested. Just when I’d thought we’d had enough arguments over my lack of party, she launched into another. “I can’t believe we aren’t doing anything to celebrate it.”

“I am doing something. I’m having a perfectly lovely dinner with my family.” And my husband’s best friend. So…basically, we were having a regular old dinner with one of our occasional, ordinary guests.

I glanced at the clock. Yeah, five-thirty on the day of was the wrong time to decide I wanted to overhaul my plans and have some epic birthday blowout.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Aren’t you happier that you’re not missing out on an awesome rager?”

She scoffed. “Please, we haven’t had a real rager in years. Unless we count your bachelorette party. And even that was tame, by Vegas standards.”

“And Neil’s fiftieth doesn’t really count, does it? It was a little too…” I hated to say the word. “Posh?”

“Yeah, no, I’m talking the old days. I’m talking pushing furniture off the fire escape,” she said wistfully. “And I wasn’t at your husband’s fiftieth. The Dark Time, remember?”

My stomach clenched. Holli and I had been best friends since our second year of college, but a few years ago, we’d had a nearly friendship-ending fight over her wife’s involvement with the competition for one of Neil’s publications. Things had gotten considerably better, though, especially since Neil had retired, and work didn’t take up ninety percent of his life.

“Well, you didn’t really miss anything,” I lied.

“Prince Harry was there,” she responded dryly. “I could be the Duchess of Sussex right now.”

“But you’re the princess of my heart,” I consoled her.

I could hear her eye roll.

“Seriously, though, I’m sorry I’m missing your birthday. I’ll make it up to you by taking you out for dinner somewhere fancy that you pay for,” she said.

I laughed. “I love you. Kiss the baby.”

“Will do.”

We hung up, and I gave myself a second to feel bad before I went to the kitchen, where Neil was already working on dinner. I’d requested my favorite dish that he made, a standing rib roast with a béarnaise sauce that was like something out of a fancy renaissance painting. Even though we had a housekeeper, Neil preferred to cook most of our dinners. It gave him something to do, which was necessary for a guy who’d taken early retirement but still desperately needed to have something stressful going on. He’d always been a good cook, but now that it was a serious hobby, he’d really leveled up.

He pushed some buttons on the oven as I entered. “Now it just needs to rest for two hours…” He checked his watch. “Aha! Timed it just right.”

My mouth watered at the savory aroma coming from the slightly-open oven door. “That smells so good. Are you a witch?”

“No sorcery involved.” He glanced over at me and grinned.

“Holli and Deja aren’t going to make it,” I said with a sigh, joining him at the island. “Teething.”

Neil grimaced in sympathy.

“Yeah.” I leaned over the counter. “So, it looks like tonight is going to be just—”

“You, me, Rudy, Tony, and your mum,” Neil finished, looking up to the ceiling and blowing out a long breath. “Oh, Sophie. I’m so sorry your birthday is turning out this way.”

I traced spirals on the countertop. “It’s okay. Really, I didn’t want to make this a big thing.”

“Thirty is a milestone,” he protested. “It should be a ‘big thing.’ But joyfully. You’re ready to climb into a coffin and pull the dirt on top of yourself.”

“That’s kind of dramatic.” I was getting a little sick of being told how to feel about my own damn birthday. “Besides, it’s just not that important to me to celebrate.”

“It’s important to me. It’s the day you were born. I want to celebrate it because even though I didn’t know it at the time, it was one of the most important days of my life.” He reached for my hand and stroked his thumb along my knuckles. “I know you don’t want anyone to make a fuss over you because you view things differently. But I hope you understand that this day is better than Christmas and Le Mans to me.”

I dipped my head, my cheeks flooding with heat. “You know, it’s really unfair that you can come up with such romantic stuff. I’m totally defenseless.”

He lifted my hand and gave it a kiss, then released me to turn his back to take something from a utensil drawer. I watched him in silence, thinking about the first night we’d spent in this very kitchen, sitting on the hardwood floor and eating supermarket baguette. Neil was terrific at big, romantic gestures, but his ability to turn mundane moments into something wonderful often shocked me most of all.

He faced me again, bracing his hands wide on the edge of the counter and leaning slightly forward. One of his palms pinned a long-handled wooden spoon against the brown marble. He regarded me with a glint of amusement in his eyes for a long moment, the lights above us casting shadows on his face and gilding the silver edges of his hair.

I squeezed my thighs together.

“Come over here.”

My knees trembled a little as I obeyed.

“Bend over the counter.”

I glanced around, an uncertain sound sticking my throat. What if Olivia’s piano lesson wrapped up early and Mariposa brought her to the kitchen for a snack? What if my mom just busted into the house again? What if Julia had forgotten her purse and—

“Sophie, don’t make me ask you twice.” He kept his slow-blinking eyes on me.

I faced the island and leaned down, pressing the side of my face against the cold marble. “I thought I wasn’t going to get my birthday spankings until later.”

“Which is why I will not be giving you the full thirty right now.” He and El-Mudad had apparently been planning my birthday sex for weeks. It had been the only bright spot to look forward to. Neil gave the seat of my jeans a little pat. “Pull them down.”

I reached between the counter and my body and unfastened my fly, then wriggled the pants down my legs. I hoped he hadn’t been expecting something devastatingly sexy beneath; I wouldn’t be wearing anything special until I changed after dinner.

He ran his fingers along the seam where the black cotton brief cupped my bottom. “These, too.”

I complied with a giggle. “Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“I’d like you to keep that smart mouth shut,” he said, and the spoon hit my ass with a loud slap.

I stifled my purr of pleasure and arched my back. He jerked the shoulder of my scoop-neck t-shirt down and palmed my breast, grinding against me briefly before giving me another solid smack with the spoon. He cupped me from behind, two fingers gliding effortlessly into my wet, anticipating cunt. I moaned and rocked against his hand.

“That’s the enthusiasm I want to hear tonight,” he whispered in my ear, his body trapping me against the countertop.

Then he released me, leaving me unsatisfied, on shaking legs with my pants around my knees.

I straightened and fixed my clothes. “Well, I’ll have to change my panties, now.”

He shrugged. “Or, you could skip them all together.”

“Tempting.” Except it wasn’t. The last place I wanted to do sexy, no-underwear things was at a family dinner with my mom.

“Our date tonight is at ten o’clock sharp. We need to be sure to be there on time,” he warned.

“Be there? Are we leaving the property?” I’d thought we’d be spending the night in our secluded recreation Pavillon Français, a ridiculous folly built by the previous owners and refurbished into a tiny palace of depravity by my husband. We never used the space for anything but our games of domination and submission; just stepping through the doors could instantly arouse me.

“No, but we have specific plans.” He kissed me on the nose. “Don’t bother dressing to impress tonight. We’re just going to ruin it.”

My birthday was looking way up.

STATE OF THE TROUT: Patron appreciation and JHBC voting

Salutations, Trout Nation, on this my country’s voting day!

There. I acknowledged it. Let us never speak of it again.

But speaking of voting (again), I’d like to turn your attention ever so briefly toward the Jealous Haters Book Club final voting round, which has been open for…what, a week? Two weeks? Doesn’t matter. Time is made up. Jeremy Bearimy.

Anyway, the voting has taken an interesting turn. There is currently a three-way tie, and every time I check for new votes, it will have still somehow evened itself out to a three-way tie. Since I never put a definite cap on when the voting was going to end, let’s say that it’ll be this Friday, and that if there’s still, somehow, a three-way tie, I’m going to eeny-meeny-miney this one. Or draw names out of a hat. If you haven’t voted, you can do so at this link. 

Now, onto my favorite part of this post. THE APPRECIATION! LET ME APPRECIATE YOU!

Lots of wonderful people send me donations through Ko-fi and Patreon to keep me doing the weird shit I do on the internet, but my $5 and up patrons on Patreon (and this month, a Ko-fi supporter) get a special mention in a video every month. Super fun, right?!

Well, this month, it’s about funerals. YOU’RE ALL WELCOME.

This is a great time to remind everyone that The Boyfriend comes out next Tuesday, but Patreon patrons at any level can read the first three chapters right. now. Everyone else has to wait for a much smaller sneak peek on Friday. When I’ll also announce what book we’ll be hating on in 2019. Until then, keep smiling, keep shining, and cross your fingers that my country isn’t a fully fascist state by then.

The Jealous Haters Book Club 2019 Selection Final Voting!

Hey there, everybody! Nominations are closed and voting is open! But before we get to the poll, let’s talk about which books didn’t make the cut despite receiving a high number of nominations. I disqualified three of the nominations for reasons I hope everyone understands. Those books were Faleena Hopkins’s Cocky Roomie, Tiger’s Curse by Colleen Houck, and Save The Pearls by Victoria Foyt.

Though a large number of you had hoped I would tackle Cocky Roomie for its sheer badness and the fuckery perpetrated by its author, I decided that whatever attention she’s seeking, she won’t get more of it from Trout Nation. If Cocky Roomie had become our 2019 selection, she could have easily spun that into her victim narrative, driving herself back into the spotlight and furthering her sales and support from the “Be Nice” crowd. Since I don’t care to feed her pockets or give her more publicity for her undoubtedly horrible indie movie she’s been working on, I had to take a hard pass.

When I looked into the issues present in Save The Pearls and Tiger’s Curse, I simply didn’t feel like I, a white person, am the right person for the job of recapping them and pointing out their problematic elements. Save The Pearls is apparently like if the Proud Boys decided to try their hand at YA, and Tiger’s Curse is rife with orientalism and poor representation of a variety of Asian cultures. While many of the racist themes in these books are totally obvious, there are probably a lot of subtle issues I would miss as a white reader. I don’t want to swerve out of my lane, speak on behalf of black people or Asian people, or create a situation in which glossing past issues I don’t understand would make the books seem less horrible than they are.

I know that those of you who nominated these books are probably disappointed, but I hope you can understand where I’m coming from on these titles.

Now, onto the books that made the cut.

 

Modelland, Tyra Banks

No one gets in without being asked. And with her untamable hair, large forehead, and gawky body, Tookie De La Crème isn’t expecting an invitation. Modelland—the exclusive, mysterious place on top of the mountain—never dares to make an appearance in her dreams.

But someone has plans for Tookie. Before she can blink her mismatched eyes, Tookie finds herself in the very place every girl in the world obsesses about. And three unlikely girls have joined her.

Only seven extraordinary young women become Intoxibellas each year. Famous. Worshipped. Magical. What happens to those who don’t make it? Well, no one really speaks of that. Some things are better left unsaid.

Thrown into a world where she doesn’t seem to belong, Tookie glimpses a future that could be hers—if she survives the beastly Catwalk Corridor and terrifying Thigh-High Boot Camp. Along the way, she learns all about friendship, courage, laughter and what it feels like to start to believe in yourself.

When you enter the fantastical world of Modelland, you’ll see that Tookie was inspired by Tyra’s life as a supermodel. All those crazy and wild adventures Tookie has with her friends? Some of them were ripped straight from the headlines of Tyra’s life! Tyra knows all about beauty and fashion and fierceness, and she shares everything here in MODELLAND. It’s fun, zany, and 100 bazillion-percent Tyra. 

Nominator comments: 

“1. It’s got so many *different* flaws and plot holes that the review won’t get repetitive and you’ll have lots of material to work with. 2. It discusses beauty norms and tries (and fails) to be progressive. 3. It was very clearly written by the actual Tyra Banks and not a ghostwriter. 4. Tyra’s super rich–you won’t be punching downwards if you get super-scathing. 5. Finally: It’s the kind of incoherent novel that only makes sense to its writer.”

“It’s just….such a trip. And the names are worse than in handbook for mortals.”

 

Ready Player One, Ernest Cline

In the year 2045, reality is an ugly place. The only time teenage Wade Watts really feels alive is when he’s jacked into the virtual utopia known as the OASIS. Wade’s devoted his life to studying the puzzles hidden within this world’s digital confines—puzzles that are based on their creator’s obsession with the pop culture of decades past and that promise massive power and fortune to whoever can unlock them. 

But when Wade stumbles upon the first clue, he finds himself beset by players willing to kill to take this ultimate prize. The race is on, and if Wade’s going to survive, he’ll have to win—and confront the real world he’s always been so desperate to escape.

Nominator comments: 

“It’s boring, overhyped trash produced by an asshole who thinks he’s God’s underappreciated gift to the world without realizing that he’s exactly like thousands of other smug assholes.”

“Some really problematic content, mixed with some really crappy writing. Author does not seem to grasp concepts like “time”. Would love to see you tear apart a book written by a Nice Guy.”

 

A Court of Thorns and Roses, Sarah J. Maas

When nineteen-year-old huntress Feyre kills a wolf in the woods, a beast-like creature arrives to demand retribution for it. Dragged to a treacherous magical land she only knows about from legends, Feyre discovers that her captor is not an animal, but Tamlin–one of the lethal, immortal faeries who once ruled their world.

As she dwells on his estate, her feelings for Tamlin transform from icy hostility into a fiery passion that burns through every lie and warning she’s been told about the beautiful, dangerous world of the Fae. But an ancient, wicked shadow over the faerie lands is growing, and Feyre must find a way to stop it . . . or doom Tamlin–and his world–forever.

Nominator Comments:

“Because it’s a ‘why is this so popular when it’s so bad’ trashfire and I think you would have fun!”

“There’s pretty words and an ostensibly strong heroine, but somehow it manages to pack an unbelievable amount of rape culture into itself.”

 

Beautiful Disaster, Jamie McGuire

 

The new Abby Abernathy is a good girl. She doesn’t drink or swear, and she has the appropriate number of cardigans in her wardrobe. Abby believes she has enough distance from the darkness of her past, but when she arrives at college with her best friend, her path to a new beginning is quickly challenged by Eastern University’s Walking One-Night Stand.

Travis Maddox, lean, cut, and covered in tattoos, is exactly what Abby wants—and needs—to avoid. He spends his nights winning money in a floating fight ring, and his days as the ultimate college campus charmer. Intrigued by Abby’s resistance to his appeal, Travis tricks her into his daily life with a simple bet. If he loses, he must remain abstinent for a month. If Abby loses, she must live in Travis’s apartment for the same amount of time. Either way, Travis has no idea that he has met his match.

Nominator Comments:

“Look. You hate her. We hate her. Everyone who doesn’t love her hates her. I read this book at the VERY beginning of getting into indie romance because my friend said it was a must-read, and I think an official record of this book’s horribleness is needed (and also the horribleness of Jamie Mcguire. IDGAF that she’s also from Oklahoma and we should ‘support our own’ or whatever bullshit. She’s shitty AF). I read it and when I told my friend I didn’t love it, she was shocked. People think there is NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. THEY THINK IT IS WONDERFUL. It’s got moments where I actually thought, ‘Wow, this is worse than 50 Shades of Grey.’ And FSOG is probably the worst thing I’ve ever read.”

“It is like 50 Shades of Grey. But written by Jamie McGuire, which SOMEHOW makes it so much worse. So so much worse. If an editor had a nervous breakdown while working on this book, I would understand. Also it would explain a lot.”

 

City Of Bones, Cassandra Clare

When fifteen-year-old Clary Fray heads out to the Pandemonium Club in New York City, she hardly expects to witness a murder — much less a murder committed by three teenagers covered with strange tattoos and brandishing bizarre weapons. Then the body disappears into thin air. It’s hard to call the police when the murderers are invisible to everyone else and when there is nothing — not even a smear of blood — to show that a boy has died. Or was he a boy?

This is Clary’s first meeting with the Shadowhunters, warriors dedicated to ridding the earth of demons. It’s also her first encounter with Jace, a Shadowhunter who looks a little like an angel and acts a lot like a jerk. Within twenty-four hours Clary is pulled into Jace’s world with a vengeance, when her mother disappears and Clary herself is attacked by a demon. But why would demons be interested in ordinary mundanes like Clary and her mother? And how did Clary suddenly get the Sight? The Shadowhunters would like to know…

Exotic and gritty, exhilarating and utterly gripping, Cassandra Clare’s ferociously entertaining fantasy takes readers on a wild ride that they will never want to end.

Narrator Comments:

“Because it’s thinly veiled Harry Potter fanfic with an incestuous twist and a shitty male hero with piss poor writing heralded as one of the greatest things ever.”

“The author has a long history in the fanfiction circles, and has gotten into some epic fights with readers, reviewers, and professional authors themselves. She’s been accused of plagiarism, abuse against other fanfiction writers, stealing money from well-meaning fans, and I believe she’s been sued at least twice. Because she was a fanfic writer first, the book is HEAVILY influenced by Harry Potter and Buffy, so much so even those who didn’t watch/read those saw similarities. The author has also given birth to the trope ‘Draco In Leather Pants’.”

 

So, there you have it. Now, it’s time to cast your votes. I would super appreciate it if we kept things honest and democratic since I live in a place where there is no democracy and it would be awesome to see what that feels like. Vote, get your friends to vote, but it would be rad if nobody voted more than once.

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COVER REVEAL AND RELEASE DATE: The Boyfriend

Hey everybody! A lot of you have been waiting for this, so here it is!

I bet you’re also wondering when this book is going to be out?

NOVEMBER 13

Obviously, I’ll be posting a teaser here before then, but if you become a patron of my Patreon at any level, you’ll get the first three chapters of the book early!

That’s all the news that’s fit to print today!

Don’t @#%& With Mom’s Love, Apparently

I love Ed Sheeran. There. I said it. I mean, maybe I’m a fan? But also, I kind of want to bully him? I’m fairly sure that if I saw him on the street carrying a cup of coffee, I would slap it out of his hand and yell, “NERD!” in his face. Or maybe I find him sexually attractive? I guess? Maybe I want to be his mom? I can’t tell. But I do know that I am drawn to him like a moth to a delicious, ginger porchlight. I open my arms wide for your shock, disappointment, bewilderment, and horror. Heap your recriminations upon me and my alleged bad taste. But I guarantee you will never be as angry with me–or with Ed Sheeran–as my nine-year-old.

For some reason, my daughter, Wednesday, is convinced that Ed Sheeran poses not only a very real and serious threat to my marriage but to Beyoncé’s as well:

FADE IN

INT: CAR – EVENING. JENNY drives while WEDNESDAY rides in the backseat. Ed Sheeran and Beyoncé’s duet of “Perfect” plays on the radio.

BEYONCÉ [v.o.]

Baby, I’m dancing in the dark

WEDNESDAY

Don’t dance with him!

BEYONCÉ [v.o.]

With you between my arms

WEDNESDAY

Don’t put your arms around him!

JENNY

Wait, do you think Beyoncé is like, actually in love with Ed Sheeran?

BEYONCÉ and ED [v.o.]

I have faith in what I see

WEDNESDAY

Don’t have faith in him, Beyoncé, he’ll write a mean song about you!

BEYONCÉ and ED [v.o.]

I don’t deserve this

WEDNESDAY

Of course, you don’t deserve her! Nobody deserves Beyoncé! And you don’t deserve love, Ed!

JENNY

Whoa, harsh! And I think his wife probably disagrees.

WEDNESDAY

His wife can do better!

The song ends. “Don’t” begins.

WEDNESDAY

Oh good, another Ed Sheeran song I can make fun of. “Don’t fuck with my love,” how about you don’t fuck with my mom’s love, Ed?

JENNY

Wait, what?

WEDNESDAY

Because she’s married to my dad!

JENNY

I am one hundred percent sure that I’m not going to leave your dad for Ed Sheeran.

WEDNESDAY

That’s not what you sound like. You feel more romantic for him than you do for dad!

JENNY

I love Ed Sheeran from afar. It’s not the same thing.

WEDNESDAY

Well, he’s going to write a mean song about you because you broke his heart.

JENNY

You hate him, so wouldn’t you be happy if I broke his heart?

WEDNESDAY

Not if he breaks your marriage.

FIN

So, apparently, my relationship of sixteen years is on the brink of collapse due to Ed Sheeran’s relentless pursuit of my affection. Please respect my family’s privacy at this time.

STATE OF THE TROUT: Nightmare Born cover reveal and release date, Snark Squad, and another Sims Let’s Play.

Hey everyone! I finally, finally got the second draft of The Boyfriend off for another round of edits, so I can blog again! And I have a cover reveal!

But not for The Boyfriend. See, that cover reveal (and a sneak peek) will be headed your way on Friday. Today, though, I’m revealing the cover of Nightmare Born, my Young Adult Urban Fantasy serial that will be debuting on the Radish app on October 23rd, just in time for Halloween!

If you don’t remember or I haven’t talked about it before, Nightmare Born is the magical school trope we’ve seen before in YA, but with a twist: the magical girl is autistic. It was very important to me to write a story where a girl who stims, gets overwhelmed, has some stumbles socially, still gets to be the three-dimensional hero of her own story. There are vampires, ghosts, magic, witchcraft, and the Nightmare Born, creatures who look appear human and will steal your heart…literally. I’m so thrilled to be partnering with Radish on this. Keep an eye out for a promotional giveaway that will include one of a kind, original art by me!

So…you can see why I’ve been pretty busy lately!

I’m also super excited to announce that I’ll be a guest on the Snark Squad podcast this Halloween, talking about (what else) Buffy The Vampire Slayer Halloween episodes! More information will be available on that as we get closer to air date.

Now, before I leave, here’s another Sims Let’s Play, this one featuring translations from Simlish and my new neighbor, Bearded Chris Evans:

  I uploaded the wrong file. I’ll fix it later.

PS. Nominations for the Jealous Haters Book Club 2019 Selection will close on Friday, so get your nominations in now! Also, please submit only one nomination per title. I can see the timestamps and some of you have been tricky. Naughty, naughty.

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Wednesday Meets The Doctor

So, remember last year when my daughter was all over the internet for screaming “THE NEW DOCTOR IS A GIRL!” during Jodie Whittaker’s reveal? And remember how any time anyone even mentions Doctor Who since that video seems to pop up? Well, they finally got a chance to meet, thanks to BBC America! You can watch a small portion of the call here (Jodie was incredibly generous with her time and spoke with Wednesday a lot longer than I anticipated). I love everyone who made this happen for my kid, who has literally never been this shy with anyone before.

 

Jodie is The Doctor; she absolutely embodied Eleven’s quote, “You know, nine hundred years of time and space and I’ve never met anybody who wasn’t important before.” She made my daughter feel important and valued and I am ridiculously grateful. This is a moment Wednesday will never, ever forget.