S.P. Wayne's Blog: STUFF IS HAPPENING, page 7

and TOMORROW, stuff happens.

guys guys guys! tomorrow I have TWO different contributions to the internet going up at other websites! and an announcement about book 3. 

it’s a glorious time of year. 

catch you soon, babes. xoxo.

you guys, I just want to take a moment to say that the Publix...

you guys, I just want to take a moment to say that the Publix Halloween illustrations are super friggin cute this year. Look at adorable baby Dracula!

"Being human just made you restless and wordy and lonely"

“Being human just made you restless and wordy and lonely”

- Axton’s unoffical motto (as summarized in book 3, which i was just looking over—i laughed).

So it turns out my best friend didn't kill himself, OR: let me bribe you into reading this entry with cute dog pictures.

This is going to be long.

I’ve been putting this post off for a while. People—you guys!—have been incredibly understanding and compassionate and kind. I’ve gotten messages about how important self care is, and how you have to grieve at your own pace, and how I’m under no obligation to say anything at all.



And I’m really not, except that—I completely am under obligation to say something, for myself. I’m a writer and we writers process emotions by writing about them. Some of us can do this quietly and in private, and some of us sometimes have to yell from the rooftops for a while under we exhaust ourselves before we can get on with our lives.

But so, cute dogs!

Look at how fucking happy this dog is:





This is Ernie, and he is my dog, and he is THRILLED to be tethered to that bicycle. It’s the coolest thing ever. Trust me when I say that most of us have never been as thrilled about goddamn anything in our lives as that dog is about biking. I’m a pretty manically euphoric person, you guys, and even I can only think of a few things that thrill me that much.

So, this dog is tied to this bicycle because of my dead best friend, who will call Brad. 


Let me back up for a second. 


Make some rewind noises for me, okay? Cool.


So, my boyfriend and I met this dude a while back, and it was insta-love. It’s rare for most couples, I think, to have a friend that they BOTH feel an incredible individual bond with, but there we where. It happened. Brad was a personal trainer, and just the sort of jock/nerd type of person I love to hang out with. Leander is a jock/nerd. My boyfriend is a jock/nerd. Hell, I’m a jock/nerd, can you please finish your set so I can do deadlifts, please?


Brad was the kind of guy you could take anywhere. You could go to the gym—obviously—or to the library, or to the comic book shop, or to fancy dinner with the mayor speaking, or to the club. He was equally at home in all those places, so we took him everywhere with us. Frequently our nights ended with him crashed out at our place, on our concrete floor, because the dogs took the couch and everyone fell asleep watching shitty horror movies. 

The dogs!

Brad’s dog was like the teeny tiny version of my dog. My dog weighs about 70 pounds; Brad’s dog weighs about half that. Given that I’m five foot two on a good day while Brad was 200+ pounds of muscle, the distribution of dog to human was hilarious.

Here they are. Let’s call Brad’s dog Bert, since my dog is named Ernie. Aren’t they the fucking cutest?



For a brief, shining time in my life, I was in the best shape ever, I went clubbing every weekend, and my boyfriend and I shared a confidant. 

It was really bomb awesome. I’m being flippant and taking refuge in slang because I want to keep this casual, casual, casual, because in reality it’s anything but.

One day, my boyfriend and I—Karate Boyfriend, as he is mostly known, for he spends his entire life either in a suit or a karate gi—went on vacation. It wasn’t a long vacation. We met with Brad on Thursday morning, handed him our cat, gave them both hugs, and then we left.

As this sort of story usually goes: that was the last time I got to hug him goodbye.

We kept in contact with Brad through the weekend, because of course we did. It’s what close friends do. He sent us pictures of our cat, his dog, links to shit he’d found in etsy, pictures of the girls he was going on dates with, whatever, the usual.

Late Saturday night, so late that it was early Sunday, we exchanged some text messages. Totally normal. He stopped responding at some point, but hey. That’s how texting goes. And anyway, I was busy watching a UFC match, so I trailed off first. When I came back an hour later and he didn’t text back, I thought nothing—literally nothing—of it.

That night I had bad dreams. This is unusual for me—my particular cross to bear is that I don’t sleep much, but usually, when the insomnia gives out and I finally snooze, I sleep very well.

So whatever, weekend getaway continued. We got back home late Sunday. 

Monday, Karate Boyfriend goes to the gym to lift weights.

"Have you seen Brad?" the gym owner asked.

Brad hadn’t come into work and no one could get a hold of him.

Karate Boyfriend called me to tell me the news.

"Fuck," we said in unison.

The rest of the day passes in a tense sort of blur, where everyone is trying to coordinate with other people to see who the last contact was.

It was me.

I had no fucking insight whatsoever, so it was a strange and, uh, pointless, really, sort of responsibility.

People started driving by his place. His truck was parked. His dog was barking. There was no answer at the door.

So it turns out it takes a while to get the cops to break down doors. By that night, there was no news. I calmly did not put on pajamas. I packed snacks, a flashlight, and the cat carrier in the car.

Everyone else had started nervously joking throughout the day, about increasingly outlandish scenarios—maybe Brad had run away with hookers and forgotten his dog. Maybe he was busily writing the next great American novel and couldn’t open the door. etc. Maybe he was passed out in there with Emma Watson after an exhausting night.

I didn’t really joke. Maybe I’m melodramatic or maybe I’m cynical or maybe I’m just paranoid, but I felt like I knew. I stayed quiet, because obviously that sounds fucking insane. But I felt no need to rush—I had no hope of a better outcome—it was done. 

So, 2 AM on Tuesday.

There’s some sort of snafu with the landlord. Apparently cops need his permission to break down the door.

Why aren’t the cops in more of a rush? Why didn’t someone call an ambulance?

Because of the smell. If you stood by the window, there was this smell.

I do not know how I knew what death smells like. I’ve read about it, but I don’t know what bizarre childhood memory I may have repressed or fuck knows what. Again, maybe I’m melodramatic. Who knows.

I know that I was very calm that night.

So, Karate Boyfriend and I aren’t allowed to be anywhere near, once the door kicking in finally happens. I was ready to argue my way forward—“BUT MY CAT, YOU SEE,” or whatever—but… I didn’t. We weren’t the only friends of Brad’s that were there, and it seemed rude—impossibly gauche—to make a scene.

Let’s just fast forward here. We don’t get our cat back until 4 or 5 AM. He is returned to us hungry and scared and with some sort of brown viscera on his nose that I wiped off without examining thoroughly.

I also took Bert, partly because I’m a crazy dog person, partly because I couldn’t think of anything else to dog, but mostly because I knew that Brad really loved that dog. Here he is, at my place, the morning after, chewing on a bone before my dog came over and took it away even though I gave each of them one.

So.

So.

So.

Without going into any more needlessly morbid and sensationalist detail than I already have, we only got two facts relayed to us, that sounded like this was a very cut and dry suicide. 

Imagine, if you will, a month of believing your best friend killed himself. Imagine how people look at you, how people ask you questions like, “did you guys have any idea?” 

No. No, we did not.

Imagine that the friend you saw literally every day is gone, and you cannot go to any of your usual places, because people ask you awkward questions.

"You two were his best friends! He must have told you guys he was depressed, right?"

The survivors gathered and tried to make sense of the shattered pieces left behind.

"I just keep telling myself that answers aren’t answers," one of Brad’s friends said regretfully.

This sat poorly with me then and it still does now.

To his credit, Karate Boyfriend maintained, for an entire month, that it probably wasn’t a suicide. He considered it dark emotional hours; he considered it when he was lucid and clear headed. He is very aware of mental health issues. It wasn’t that he can’t believe that some people do kill themselves, or even that one of our friends could have and caught us by surprise. It was that he did not believe, in this particular instance, that suicide was the answer to the mystery.

For my part, I was of course super fucking anguished and decided to blame myself, as you do. Not everyone could immediately tell that I reacted at all.

I did not cry, not a single tear, until the funeral one week later. At the funeral—or, as it was euphemistically called, “the service,” because there was no body, because the body was in no state to be ceremoniously anywhere—I cried exactly one tear. One.

Then, a few days later, I was at the gym. One of Brad’s clients approached me, asked how I was doing, and said with infinite and slaying tenderness, “he talked about you two all the time—you were his best friends.”

After she left, I burst into tears. I burst into tears so spectacularly that were was no point trying to hide them, so I got my stuff, walked through the gym, and walked two blocks back home, with tears streaming wildly down my face.

No one said anything. For this I was grateful.

Flash back again.

Hours after the body had been removed, my boyfriend and I arrived to help Brad’s parents clean out the apartment. I am prone to morbid over-confession, so it’s my instinct to type details here. But it is wrong and rude and disrespectful to share some things, so I backspace, so I delete.

Anyway, Brad’s mom was so touched by our showing up that she offered me the pick of mementos. I started to politely decline anything at all, thinking to give her and the family first dibs, but—

"Actually," I said suddenly, "Uh. Do you mind if—can I have his jacket?"

"What jacket?"

"His Wolverine jacket," I said.

She looked blank.

"That one," I said instead, pointing at the closet.

So she gave me his jacket. It was in fact the jacket he used with his Wolverine costume. It was also just his favorite jacket. He would give it to me after late night dances, when I was cold and blood sugar crashed and wearing a short dress. I would steal it from him in cold restaurants. We had an ongoing dialogue about how I must not, and therefore how I was totally going to, steal that jacket.

So I asked for the jacket.

I have washed the fuck out of that jacket since, but when she first gave it to me, I buried my face deep in the inner collar and sucked in a strong breath. It still smelled like him. It smelled alive. It smelled like giving him a hug used to.

Flash forward again to this day at the gym, when I cry my eyes out all the way home. I come home. I sob wildly into that jacket. I reach out desperately—phone calls, e mails, text messages—to anyone who I think might be able to help, who might understand grief better than I do. I end up not returning most of those responses, because none of them helped, because I was too busy mourning to listen.

But what did eventually help a little was this: I cried until I was too exhausted to stay awake, and then I passed the fuck out.

The other thing that helped was this: a conversation I had with my boyfriend.

There is a controversial researcher in the field of grief psychology. He claims that the five stages of mourning are bullshit and that the industry of grieving encourages harmful reactions to loss.

"The most common reaction to tragedy is resilience," is how we summarized it.

And this is what set fire to me, what made me crawl out of bed after sobbing myself to sleep, what made me prop myself up on the kitchen counter to brew a cup of coffee.

Resilience.

It didn’t matter if this researcher was full of shit. What mattered was that I BELIEVED.

Resilience.

Goddamnit, I was going to HAVE it. If that was a common reaction, it was going to be MINE, and I was going to be FINE.

So basically, then I was. I had stopped sleeping and mostly stopped eating. I resumed these things.

I was not all fine all at once. But from that moment on, I was on my way to fine.

EXCEPT.

Then we found out it “probably” hadn’t been a suicide “at all.”

A lot of people reacted to this with, like—“it doesn’t matter.” Uh— “It’s not any less tragic, is it?” Well, no. “Knowing won’t bring him back.” No shit.

"Answers aren’t answers," someone repeated.

EXCUSE ME, YES THEY FUCKING ARE AND IT DOES MATTER. If I missed suicidal tendencies in someone that close to me, for that long? That matters, because I’d like to know what to look for next time. It’s no one’s fault. But it fucking matters.

AND IF INSTEAD I MISSED A DRUG HABIT IN SOMEONE THAT CLOSE TO ME FOR THAT LONG? 

you bet it fucking matters. 

It matters because the future is still the future; it matters because knowledge is power. It matters because I’d like to not go through this again.

So, spoiler alert—it was in the title; whatever—it wasn’t a suicide.

Like, even remotely.

Like, his mom gave me access to his journals—because of course Brad was the kind of sensitive dude that kept a meticulous journal about his feelings, which surprised some people because of the biceps or whatever. The journals detail his adventures in psychonautics. It’s absolutely his handwriting and his voice. I had read a lot of his writing, and I have no doubt whatsoever that the journals are real and honest.

So, how’d he die?

Without going into details—

My friend died in the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment. He died doing whippits. Fucking. Whippits.

I have a friend who is a recovered crack and heroin addict.

"Who dies doing whippits?" he asked, baffled.

I’M SORRY HE WASN’T HARDCORE ENOUGH FOR YOU, DUDE, BUT THAT’S JUST THE KIND OF FUCKING CAVALIER ATTITUDE THAT LEADS TO PEOPLE DYING FROM WHIPPITS, YOU ASSHOLE.

anyway.

So, that happened.

Let’s flashback. Again. I know.

Brad was a personal trainer. For the extra cash, he also taught a spin class.

"You should take spin," he told me innocently.

"Hahahah," I said dutifully, doing Arnold presses or bicep curls or kettlebell swings or whatever.

"Really," he said.

"The fuck would I do a thing like that for?" I said. "I fucking hate bikes."

"It’s not really a bike," he pointed out. "It’s stationary."

"Look, it’s bad enough that I’m not currently taking a martial art but I am taking yoga," I said, "And I’m just a powerlifter. I’m not going to be the kind of girl that takes yoga AND spin."

"What’s wrong with that?" he said, baiting me, because he knew I hate being caught being judgmental.

"Nothing," I snapped, "But that ain’t me."

"What, you’re afraid you’ll earn your complimentary lululemon pants to go with your soy latte?" he grinned.

"Seriously, WHY should I take spin?"

"Because you should take MY spin class," he said, confidant that this would be enough, but then laying it on thick with: "come keep me company."

Oh, ALL RIGHT, fine.

So: it turns out I really hate bikes.

And yet.

And yet.

I went a couple of times.

A couple of months after Brad died, I was perusing craigslist.

And the bike section caught my eye.

I formed a number of rationalizations. It would be good for my dog, probably. It was good for the environment, likely. I guess I could do some sort of cardio eventually sometimes, possibly.

A whirlwind of pawn shop/thrift shop adventures later—




Karate Boyfriend has one, too.

The dog loves biking. Karate Boyfriend loves biking. It turns out bikes are a really awesome way to get to places without the hassle of parking. It turns out bikes are easy and convenient.

Though, real talk: I still kind of fundamentally hate bikes.

And yet.

So this is for you, Brad, the biking, and it’s all your fucking fault. We miss you terribly, and will forever, and some days I’m still really fucking angry at you for dying, when we still had so much to go together. I tried to take your dog, dude, but your parents wanted him back so I gave him to them eventually. I don’t go out as much as I used to. I will again sometime soon. We love you and we miss you and you were amazing.

So.

That’s the end, I guess, of this particular round of over emotive confessionals.

I feel better.

I actually feel better.

It is my hope that by finally sharing this, in whatever limited way, I will loosen my tongue. I have been avoiding the internet, even my e mails, even when I try not to, because this has weighed on me. I wanted to say something; I wanted to say this—

I wanted to take a deep breath and let this go.

And why? Why not delete this right now? I’m not sure. For honesty, I suppose, for emotional veracity. For the satisfaction, for myself, of a public show of affection as a good bye, even if it’s embarrassing. For anyone else who is grieving or has grieved and might want to know that other people hurt, too, but that you get over it.

I don’t know. But here we are, together, if you’ve read this far.

Let’s see where we go.

heyguysguysguyscan we start putting up the pumpkins yet?

hey

guys

guys

guys

can we start putting up the pumpkins yet?

Amazon.com: PrismBookAlliance "Celebrating Diversity Through Literature"'s review of City Wolf: Werewolf Romance Goes to Town (...

Amazon.com: PrismBookAlliance "Celebrating Diversity Through Literature"'s review of City Wolf: Werewolf Romance Goes to Town (...:

Emotionally driven physical descriptions

Boom! New contender for review that made me fist pump the hardest. Emotionally driven physical descriptions! Can I put that on my business cards?

…do I even have business cards? whoops.

Seriously though, it’s one of those reviews that’s a treat to read all by itself. Thanks, Prism Book Alliance!

COMING UP SOON ON TUMBLR: someone made me fanart. That’s right. It’s the most glorious thing ever.

My current FAVORITE thing about being an author

…are the passionate, passionate demands that [character xyz] should just up and murder [character abc] because it’s totally righteous and justified. I’m serious! It makes my day. I get e mails about this! It’s awesome. It delights me each time.

I like to imagine that somewhere out there, someone has gotten impatient and just straight up written fan fiction/fix it fic that possibly does in fact involve said murder. 

Then I go chortle to myself over my cup of coffee, rubbing my hands together like an evil little mosquito. All storytellers chortle evilly to themselves when they feel smug and self satisfied about inflicting misery on their creations. FACT.

Back home and recovered (mostly) from the con. Getting shit done. Have like 23092 blog posts written and ready to go. AMPING UP.

Love you all.

URGENT NEWS BECAUSE I AM JUST THAT AWESOME AT SELF...

URGENT NEWS BECAUSE I AM JUST THAT AWESOME AT SELF PROMOTION

ONE: Winter Wolf will be free this weekend! City Wolf will be on sale! I will be active on social media!

TWO: I AM DRAGON CON BOUND. Holla at my twitter account @writethiswayne if you want to meet up! We can buy each other coffees and talk about gay werewolves and cosplay. I will give you one of these beautiful glossy fliers i have a box of. We will hug if you’re cool with that. I am a hugger.

THREE: i love you allllll!

xoxo,

Wayne

I LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE MY COFFEE: FIRST IN THE MORNING OR LAST...

I LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE MY COFFEE: 
FIRST IN THE MORNING 
OR LAST AT NIGHT 
DARK OR SWEET OR BOTH, 
RIGHT NOW & LATER & 
ALWAYS & CONSTANTLY

look at this perfect mug, oh my god.

It is the official Leander and Axton twee internet mug.

SOMEONE PLEASE BUY THIS FOR ME.

I’m currently busy mourning/brooding/being unavailable because my best friend died, and I mean...

I’m currently busy mourning/brooding/being unavailable because my best friend died, and I mean to write about it soon because it’s one of those things that has a cascading sort of impact and changes everything, at least a little. But I am finding it difficult to take that step and write that post and make it public—to whatever limited extent—and real…

The point is, I’m still sad about it. I am functioning totally fine and life is otherwise lovely and I’m generally happy and productive, but I am sad about this, and therefore avoiding talking about it, except that I feel like I have to talk about it…conflicting spiral of emotions, etc.

So instead I’m here to tell you about how sometimes I browse the craigslist missed connections male/male section while I drink my morning coffee, because like:

HUNK at the Amelia Island Xpress Lube - m4m 

Had oil changed today at Xpress Lube on 8th street. HOT fucking Dude there had my mouth watering and my cock hard. Wanted to get on my knees at blow him right there. He’s 6ft, salt and pepper hair, tattoos great body and ass with a package to kill for. Anyone know this stud? Does he like cock? Does he love to get head?

DOES HE LIKE COCK? I mean, important questions. DOES HE??

(you know Dana browses CL for hook ups in between random acts of werewolf fanaticism, obviously.)

(also, whatever, Xpress Lube tattoo guy sounds hot.)

Anyway, useful things soon, probably, book 3 is just about wrapped and I’m continuity checking before edits, etc etc, hello all you beautiful wonderful people who send me e mails. I love you all.