Dev Bentham's Blog, page 4

Learning from Isaac, free

Last month I participated in Jeff and Will's Big Gay Giveaway on Instafreebie and had a great time. I gave away over 1000 copies of Learning from Isaac. It was heartening to know that many people were interested in the story. Hopefully I've made a few new friends along the way.

Because the giveaway was so successful, I decided to leave it up. So Learning From Isaac is still free on Instafreebie and will be into the near future. If you haven't read it, this is your chance to pick up a copy and see what you think. Or to recommend the series to a friend. Learning from Isaac is the first in the Tarnished Souls Jewish Holiday gay romance series.

Click here to check it out

Gorgeous cover by Jordan Castillo Price

 

It’s hard to break out of a rut. For years, Nathan submerged himself into his job at St. Genevieve’s. He enjoys teaching, hates faculty meetings, loves his science and has committed himself to the cycle of college life. Along the way, he's become resigned to being a gay man in a straight culture, a Jew among Catholics, and single in a world of couples. Then the brilliant Isaac Wolf appears in his classroom. Isaac’s a few years older than his fellow students, gorgeous, self-composed and Jewish. 

Isaac has his own secrets, which Nathan finds out at the racy new club downtown where the boys who dance out front can be bought in the back room. Nathan thinks he’s about to get a lap dance, but behind the beaded curtain the man on his knees turns out to be Isaac. Nathan's mind isn't the only thing Isaac blows. Afterward, Nathan can't stop thinking about that night. The question is whether Nathan can let himself fall in love with a student, much less someone with Isaac’s checkered past. Is it too late for a student to teach his professor the true nature of love and respect?

This is a revised, author’s edition of the first Tarnished Souls story, originally published in 2012 by Loose Id.

Devy, Devy, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

I'm an avid vegetable gardener. Growing peas and beans and squash is a ridiculously frantic activity where I live. If I had any sense, I'd move south, somewhere where the growing season is longer than two months. 

The kind of gardening we do up here is to normal climate gardening as  high intensity exercising is to a stroll in the park. (You know what I mean, those 10 minute workouts, or 7 or I think I've even seen 2 - which is kind of my speed except I can't imaging working THAT HARD for 2 full minutes.) The gardening equivalent means putting seeds in the ground June 1 and praying that we don't have a frost before the end of August. 

Over the course of the last month, I've spent as much time as possible in the garden. But I have managed to get a bit of writing done in the meantime. Fortunately, the dreaded day job puts minimal demands on me in the summer. Otherwise I'd be seriously pressed for time, because unfortunately, I don't function well without sleep. 

This is what it looks like now - not too impressive but give it some time. Gardening is all about patience, which makes it a good lesson for me. Any gardeners out there? I'd love to see photos of gardens in warmer zones. Gives me hope for the future.

If you write it, they will come

So here's a cool thing that happened recently. I live way up in northern Wisconsin in a tiny rednecky town. Over the years we've had a few progressive actions here and there, nothing very big. Since January 2017 there's been a lot more activity. Three hundred people came out for the Women's March and 200 for the March for Science. That may not seem like a lot to those of you who live in bluer places, but we've been feeling pretty good about it.

Now to the cool thing. Last year I wrote a short story for the GRNW Anthology. It was set in Lacland, my fictional town that's sort of like this one. In it, a couple of guys meet at the local library during a planning meeting for the very first Lacland area Pride parade. So imagine how I felt when I found myself a year later at the local library participating in planning the very first Northwoods Pride event. It's a picnic, not a parade and as far as I know no one hooked up at the planning meeting. Details, details. Something I wrote about is actually happening tomorrow and while I really didn't do much to help it get going, I do feel like there's a little bit of magic at work. Happy Pride!

If you're in the northwoods, come on by tomorrow for our first annual Northwoods Pride Picnic!

I get by with a little help...

I just spent a wonderful weekend with dear friends. As a group, we've been friends for over twenty years. We've since scattered and now live all over the place, from Seattle to Belfast, and yet we try to get together once a year for some serious girlfriend time. It's a sweet time, funny, deep and delicious, filled with good food and better conversation.

All that got me thinking about the value of longtime friendships in real life and in fiction. Generally I'm drawn to the magic of falling in love with a stranger, although in Buyout I really enjoyed the sweet sadness of rediscovering the one that got away. But I'm a big fan of non-romantic friendships and I love it when a main character has a best friend they've known forever. Getting to know someone through the eyes of their friends is such a great way to see their hidden depths. I also think that our ability to maintain friendships is an indication of our capacity for intimacy. Too bad so many of my characters are loners. I guess I'm drawn to the strong, silent, complicated and unpredictable type.

One of my favorite things we ate this weekend was a shaved asparagus salad. I'd never been served raw asparagus. It was surprisingly tender and tasty - the perfect spring salad. Here's a link to the recipe  Best with a glass of wine and a very good friend.

Happy Mother's Day

Or just plain happy beautiful weekend in May. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, here's to the gradual return of the sun. I'm so grateful to be warm!

 

 

Dev's News Flash

I'm seven months into my newsletter. You may not think seven straight months is a long time, but consistency has never been my strong suit, especially when it comes to things like newsletters or blog posts. Life just has a tendency to get in the way. You know how it is. 

But so far, I've been having a great time with my newsletter, Dev's News Flash. I think it's because it's low on News and big on Flash. Every month I write a piece of fiction and send it out to my subscribers. The pieces are short and often a bit experimental and I'm having a blast doing them.

If you're interested in subscribing, here's a link. 

I spent some time this month at the bedside of a friend who was in hospice. It was sad and sweet and real. I'm hoping that's also true of this month's flash. I call it Afterlife.

 

My grandmother is dying. Maybe if I say it enough, the magnitude of it all will sink in. Because sometimes it’s hard to keep track of what’s really happening when I’m caught up in the mundane details of fluffing her pillows or getting her some juice.

Having someone die in a hospital bed in the living room is chaotic and gut wrenchingly boring at the same time. Friends visit, offering her comfort and companionship along with conversation she can’t always follow and food she doesn’t want. An aide or a volunteer shows up nearly every day to help her and to give me a break. The chaplain comes by sometimes. Or a social worker. There’s probably a schedule they’re following but I haven’t figured it out, so I never know when to expect them.

Except the hospice nurse. He appears like an apparition every afternoon between five and six.

I owe Gran my life. It might sound melodramatic but it’s true. I was fifteen and had just survived my second suicide attempt when she took me in—a scrawny gay kid with a bad attitude that did a terrible job of hiding my fear that no one anywhere would ever love me. She drove a hundred miles through a snow storm to rescue me. At the hospital, she told my parents that they’d have to kill her first before she’d let them send me into another conversion therapy hell. They washed their hands of the both of us and that was that.

Twenty years later here I am, sitting by her bed in my best shirt, hoping that when he shows up, the hospice nurse will notice me. I know that sounds pathetic, and maybe it is. I like to think of it as a coping mechanism.

Gran opens her eyes. “I don’t want you to be alone, John.”

I pat her hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

My last relationship and my grandmother’s chemotherapy treatments ended the same week. Nothing dramatic, we just both realized we’d been trying too hard for too long and it was time to move on.

The hospice nurse’s name is Simon. He has dark hair and brown eyes that are so sincere you could drown in them. Before he touches my gran he always asks her permission in a voice that sounds like the proverbial healing cloud of amethyst light. It’s after four. He’ll be here soon.

Loving someone, even living with someone, shouldn’t be that difficult. We all have our quirks and no one is attractive all the time. But in the end, isn’t it enough to treat each other with kindness?

That’s what I tell the kids. I’m a high school guidance counselor. Most summers I take a second job just to earn some extra cash, but this summer I’m back sleeping in my old room so Gran can die at home. She didn’t get really bad until June and will be gone by the time school starts in the fall. Considerate as always.

Gran has had boyfriends over the years but none of them stuck around. She jokes that she passed her terrible taste in men down to me. As I watch Gran sleep, I think the problem is we’ve been focusing on the wrong traits. She looks old and shrunken but still beautiful to me. And I’m not sure I’ve ever loved her more. I want to know someone for a long time, so long that it doesn’t matter if my face wrinkles or I go through an unfortunate haircut phase or my carefully cultivated six-pack disappears.

I think it might be Simon’s hands that I find most attractive. They’re strong, confident hands. Often, after he checks on her medication and examines her for bed sores, he’ll linger for a while and we’ll talk. One afternoon, while I watched him massage her feet, I imagined how his hands would move while making dinner. Another day I fantasized we were building a house together and Simon was swinging his hammer with the regularity of a pendulum or the second hand of a watch—predictable, steady and strong.

Every day, Gran talks a little less and sleeps a lot more. She doesn’t want to watch television anymore and music only makes her anxious. The house echoes with a sad silence as I pad from room to room wondering what I’ll do without her.

I know Simon’s knock by now, two soft raps. Gran doesn’t stir. I only hear him because I’ve been listening. I cross the living room to the front door, my heart racing like it’s prom night. Maybe that’s okay. Pursuing new interests can help with depression. That’s what the advice columnists say.

It’s hot outside, but Simon looks cool in blue slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He rests a hand on the handle of his roller bag and for the umpteenth time I wish he was just coming to stay for the weekend. Gran could make her famous lasagna, and after dinner Simon and I could sit out on the lawn watching the stars and telling secrets.

“How are you?” He cocks his head to one side, his eyes locked on mine in a look that’s probably just professional sympathy but that I decide to believe is real concern.

There’s no good answer to his question, so I shrug and open the door wider to let him in.

I gesture to the hospital bed that dominates the living room. “She was sleeping but she might wake up for you.”

Simon isn’t my type. I’ve always gone for the kind of men that I thought would make me look good. Tall, fit, musclebound guys that everyone can admire. I’ve always been on the lookout to trade up. It’s what one does.

That’s not a game Simon can play. Although, now that I look at him, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want him. He’s kind and patient, handsome with gorgeous eyes and those strong, competent hands that I dream about.

But he’s short. Really short. Little people short. And for some reason that doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore.

Gran’s eyes flutter open. She smiles at Simon. He smiles back, hits the button and Gran’s hospital bed descends until it’s even with his thighs. She nods when he asks if he can check her pulse. He goes through his routine, all the while talking with her in that soothing, calming voice. I watch from a distance. She’s happy with him. And that makes my heart swell. I imagine the three of us eating Thanksgiving dinner together or opening presents under the tree.

Gran catches my eye. She waves her hand vaguely in a gesture I interpret as a summons. I come over and stand on the other side of her bed. It’s as if Simon and I are her body guards.

She licks her lips and waves me closer. I lean down. She whispers, “I’m glad you’ve finally found a nice boy. He’ll be good to you.”

“No Gran. We’re not—” I glance at Simon. My face floods. I’m mortified that she’s voicing hallucinations that dovetail with my fantasies. “This is Simon. He’s your nurse, Gran.”

She waves her hand, dismissing the confusion and my embarrassment. “Ask him out.”

I look at Simon, who’s concentrating on fixing a wrinkle in her bed linens. I start to say I’m sorry, that Gran must be dreaming, but then I stop. Something about the way he’s not meeting my gaze tells me I might not be the only one who’s been looking forward to these visits.

When I stop talking mid-sentence, he looks up. I don’t know what to say.

Simon turns to Gran with a smile. “Not yet, Louise. We’re focused on you right now. There’ll be plenty of time for John and I to get to know each other better later.” He places his hand on hers and his gaze flicks to me. “That is, if he wants to.”

I stare at him as my heart does a somersault. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Gran’s words come out in a whisper. “You’ll keep coming by after work until then?”

Simon chuckles. “I thought the extra visits on my own time were our secret. Of course. I’ll be by every day for as long as it takes.”

After work? The first time Simon came to see Gran was in the morning. He didn’t come again until the next week. As I look from him to Gran and back again I try to remember when he started showing up every day after five. Was coming more often than he had to Gran’s idea or his? Either way she’s taking care of me right up until the end. And beyond.

I cover their hands with my own. It feels like a pledge. The promise of a future.

Gran smiles and closes her eyes.

It's hot in the kitchen chicken

Enough heavy stuff, it's time for a recipe. This is my very favorite, very easy, chicken recipe.

The ingredients are simple: chicken thighs and hot pepper sauce(I like Franks but any of those sauces made mostly from chili peppers and vinegar will do nicely).

Preheat the oven to 420.

Pat the chicken thighs dry.

Place them skin side up, in a single layer along the bottom of a roasting pan or cast iron skillet.

Sprinkle on some salt.

Bake for an hour and ten minutes, until the skin is nice and crispy.

Take them out of the oven, drizzle on the hot pepper sauce,  stir so that the hot sauce and the juice in the bottom of the pan mix together and coat the chicken.

That's it! I like to serve the chicken thighs with a baked potato and a nice salad. It's a super easy meal that always feels special to me. I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

 

 

March for Science

In my other life I'm a scientist and I'm speaking at our little rally for our satellite march to the DC March for Science. All the conventional wisdom says that politics are kryptonite for romance writers. That may be true, but I've never been particularly conventional.

I thought I'd share a bit of my speech with you. I won't bore you with the whole thing, but here's the ending just so you know where I stand. Cheers - Dev

Today as we march in support of science, it’s important to remember that science is simply an investigative tool with which we seek to figure out how the natural world works. Scientists are in search of the truth – which is complicated and nuanced and impossible to know completely -but which exists. I think we do ourselves and the world a disservice when we talk about your truth or my truth when what we mean is belief. Facts are real whether I believe in them or not. The earth was round before we discovered that. And think of where we’d be now if we still believed that the earth was flat and that monsters lived at the edges. I doubt we’d have made it to the moon and beyond.

Climate change, which really should be called climate chaos since that’s what it is—unpredictable and uncontrollable —will continue whether I believe in it or not. No matter how much I may wish that I’ could float above the ground, the truth is that gravity doesn’t care if I believe in it or not. I can’t wish away cancer or invasive species or the threats to our drinking water that the crisis in Flint made clear. But I can study how those things work and develop strategies for coping with them, and then test those strategies against actual data and improve the plan and make a real difference. We’ve solved impossible problems in the past, from curing small pox to making heavy airplanes fly through the air. But we need money and training and skeptical minds to make that happen.

Thank you for coming out to support science on this forty-seventh earth day. Here are a few things you can do to keep this momentum going in the coming days:

Stay informed.

Fight for your constitutional right to vote and the right of every other citizen. And vote in each and every election, no matter how small. Think globally but act locally.

Write and call your representatives, even if you know they don’t agree with you. Let them know your thoughts.

Work on your own ecological footprint – recycle, reduce your energy use, clean your boat so you don’t carry invasive species from lake to lake and pick up trash (let’s leave this place cleaner than when we came).

Stay active. We can work together to end the war on science.

Ask questions. If science is about anything, it’s that. Don’t just believe. Look for the evidence.

And make noise. Science not silence.

Slothful conflict

Ah, the pitfalls of being a writer in the Midwest, where we avoid conflict at all costs. Fortunately I'm not originally from here, although I did grow up in a conflict-adverse household. And that was actually strange since my family has always been very political, which is inherently adversarial. I guess it was a matter of keeping all conflict outside the house. That was an interesting goal. And an utter failure.

There's no such thing as a meaningful relationship without conflict. We tussle with our friends and family because we care. It isn't comfortable, but the fact we're willing to engage is a measure of how much it all matters. Learning to "live and let live" makes our relationships run more smoothly, but it takes some detachment to accomplish.

Both internal and external conflict are critical to good fiction. It's relatively easy to create external conflict for a character. Just drop him in an impossible situation then add more stress. Nothing like starting a character out broke, cold and lonely and having him go downhill from there. 

Internal conflict is a little harder to convey. We all have internal conflicts. I'm afraid of sloths and yet I'm strangely drawn to them. I can't keep my mouth shut about the state of the world, which messes with my need for approval. You get the idea. The difficulty in writing internal conflict isn't thinking up the conflict, it's figuring out a way to telegraph it to the reader without having the character think, "That sloth is terrifying. And yet, I can't stop looking at it. Should I turn away? If I do, will the image still haunt me? Is there something about that sloth that I need to know? Maybe I should become a sloth biologist... or a hunter."

I think this is what's meant by "show, don't tell." Showing the internal conflict at work builds tension and makes us unsure about the final outcome of the story. Telling us what that internal conflict is might be interesting, but not compelling. You're not on the edge of your seat wondering if I'm going to start killing sloths. But you might be if all you had was me shuddering at the image of a sloth, looking away, then looking back, staring hard and maybe fingering my gun.

External and internal conflicts drive the interpersonal conflict necessary for a romance novel. Here in the Midwest we don't do interpersonal conflict. Except, of course, we do. Because otherwise life wouldn't be interesting. Maybe not wearing our conflicts on our sleeves is actually good practice for Midwestern writers, though. Learning to decipher internal conflict body language might be a very useful skill after all.

Now I just have to figure out what my neighbor means by that photo of a sloth that she slid into my mailbox. Does she know about my fears? Or did she think it just another cute pic? I can't ask her, that would be too direct. I'll just have to watch and wait. And plan my revenge.

Holiday love stories

Passover starts next week, which got me thinking about writing holiday stories. As far as I know, with Learning From Isaac, I wrote the only Passover romance out there - certainly the only gay one. And that's what started the whole Tarnished Souls series. 

 

I found writing holiday stories very challenging, maybe because I was writing a year's worth of Jewish holiday stories and  I couldn't write fast enough to keep up with all the holidays. I had to skip a few. Even so, my Purim story came out a few months late. Which didn't really matter because most people don't even know about our party-hardy religious observance day (on Purim you're supposed to drink until you can't tell the difference between right and wrong. I've never understood why more people don't get behind that kind of celebration.)

Writing holiday stories is hard, not just because of the calendar, although it's not easy to get into the Christmas spirit in May. It's also hard to find the right balance between the religious meaning of the holiday and the story needs. It's pretty easy to offend people or to get heavy handed and pedantic. Maybe in the future I should stick to secular holidays, like the 4th of July and Thanksgiving.

Although who knows, maybe this is the year I'll get excited about another Hanukkah story. I guess it's about time to start thinking that through. Outside my office window, the lake ice is just breaking up. Should I be daydreaming about snow?

Anyway, happy Passover to all. I don't have a new Passover story coming out, but I will be celebrating with family and friends. So if you need me over the next few days, I'd try the kitchen.  Happy spring everyone!