P.J. Fox's Blog, page 16

How To Live In A Tiny House

Ah, the inevitable backlash.  Screw those planet lovin’ do gooders, I bet they’re not happy anyway.  Pointless judgmentalism always gets me going, especially when there’s so much real harm in the world–I don’t notice people getting as fired up about child hunger–but this kind of article especially.  And before you disagree with me about the child hunger thing, when was the last time HuffPost shared an article slamming someone for buying a new car instead of donating that money to Oxfam?

On my Facebook author page, I wrote:

I’m sick of this judgmental bullshit. I don’t hold anything against people who live in enormous pads but just because some choose to, doesn’t mean that’s everyone’s goal or that everyone needs space to make them happy. Not everyone’s sense of contentment, or self worth, is tied to material things. We could live in a much larger house than we do (although ours is by no means tiny, especially not in the sense of this movement); moving here, and staying here, was (and is) an affirmative choice based on our personal beliefs. You all know I’m a dirty hippie; I care a lot about my carbon footprint and for me, personally–again, just me personally–that has to go beyond buying the meat with five cows on it at Whole Foods. I grow my own vegetables, have over 200 houseplants, and water them all with rainwater I collect in a gigantic barrel because dirty hippie; I do a lot of the stuff I do because dirty hippie. And, believe it or not, when you don’t own a lot of stuff–I have virtually no personal possessions and like it that way–your house doesn’t, in fact, get really messy.

Our world would be a much more harmonious place if we stopped judging each other over stuff like this. There are as many ways to be happy as there are people in the world and I personally think that the only reason anyone would waste valuable time that could be spent doing something else on, instead, judging the non-harmful lifestyle choices of another, indeed a complete stranger, is because they’re not happy with their own lives. Because maybe, just maybe, the writer of this article has been fed the lie that more stuff equals more happiness and yet still isn’t happy. And can’t figure out why.

But I wondered, after, if confusion about how to fit into a smaller space didn’t lie–at least in part–at the heart of this belief that one can’t.  At least not and be happy.  Of course, there are much broader questions here, both personal and ethical: how much do I need?  To what extent are my wants valid?  How do I determine which wants have what degree of validity?  How do I distinguish, indeed, between wants and needs?

But in practical terms, here are some suggestions.

First, be honest with yourself about what you really do need.  For me, that’s a garden.  I need green space to be happy, and not just a little postage stamp.  While neither our house nor our yard is huge, our yard is, in fact, larger than our house.  I also need dedicated space to create.  The other members of my family have different needs–as, I’m sure, will you.  Getting needs met isn’t an issue of adding more space but, when you’re trying to conserve, making trade-offs.  We don’t have a guest bedroom.  We don’t have any room that doesn’t serve at least two functions.  My son’s bedroom is also his playroom, although of course the whole house is his playroom too.  My writing area is also my crafting and designing area.  And…you get the idea.  This works, for us, in part because each room is a place we actually want to be.  Which brings me to my next point, that….

You have to purge.  We have no clutter.  Yes, really.  Our house isn’t completely sterile; we have tchotchkes like everyone else.  But we’re selective about what we buy, and save.  Anything we don’t use for six months, with a couple of notable exceptions (like Christmas decorations), we give away or, if it’s not in give away condition, toss.  That includes our fine china, which I really do use.  I mean, why not?  It’s there, we like it.

Organization is key, and that means using the walls.  Above our mantel, in the living room, I strung a DIGNITET from IKEA and that’s where we display our son’s recent art.  Instead of blank spaces with one or two pictures, our walls are covered with shelves and cabinets and curtain wire and all kinds of fun things.  I have a personal rule for organization that, when a room is clean, nothing can be “put away” on the floor or on a tabletop.  Obviously, furniture would be the exception!  But I don’t want anything just hanging out, because it doesn’t have a space.  In learning to utilize my walls better (and thus keep my surfaces cleaner), I’ve drawn quite a bit of inspiration from my Amish friends, who hang up just about everything.  Including spare chairs.  Which might sound strange, but you’d be surprised at the feeling of space it creates!

Buy furniture that fits your space.  Most American-made furniture seems really oversized, and too huge couches, beds, and etc can make even a reasonably sized home seem tiny.  Our furniture, for the most part, comes from IKEA precisely because it’s engineered to work in small spaces.  So we don’t feel like we’re sacrificing–because we aren’t.  My house is half the size of some of my friends’ and I have more storage space than they do, because I’ve made different furniture choices.

You don’t have to be beholden to certain decorating “rules,” such as that you must absolutely have a mahogany veneered dining room set worthy of King Charles II to have a formal dining room.  We have a formal dining room–although it’s not that formal–and when we swapped out the furniture I’d been given (by a relative, who told me she needed to get rid of it because it was hideous), gave that away, and purchased some more space-appropriate furniture from IKEA it literally felt like the room had doubled in size.

Do I lie awake at night, bumming because my house isn’t larger?  No, I actually sleep quite soundly most nights because I work so hard all day.  I don’t have time to worry about the size of my bedroom.  And, of course, if I wanted a larger bedroom I could purchase one.  I think it boils down to what you’re using your house for: yes, to live in, but is this space for you or for you to use in proving something to yourself?  Or to someone else?

My Top 10 Questions about Sofia the First

Ah, parenthood.  I haven’t watched an adult-appropriate show in years, at least not to its full conclusion, but I can tell you everything you’ve ever wanted to know about Disney’s lineup.  Except I can’t.  I have some questions.  About all the shows–although my son has answered some of them for me–but especially about Sofia the First.  Before I get to that, though: what questions has he answered, you may ask?  “Daddy Hook,” as he’s called, or Captain Hook to you philistines, had three different children by three different women and since he has full custody they all live on the island together with him.  Mr. Smee is their grandpa, and the two drunken sailors are their uncles.  Daddy Hook occasionally tries to date, and fails miserably.  He’s a good daddy, though, my son informs me, because he spends lots of time with his children and they do fun things together.

But on to the matter at hand.

Where is her father?  Did he just hit it and run?  Did the king kill him to get at her mom, King David-style?
How exactly did Sofia become “a princess overnight?”  This isn’t just a tagline; she refers, specifically, to her overnight transformation in several different episodes.  Did the king abscond with her and her mom?  Just ride into town, see a hot chick and steal her?
Come to think of it, why does the king wear such tight pants all the time and why does he appear to be an eunuch?
Where is his wife?  The one who produced bitchy Amber and wet blanket James?  Are they both so unhappy because they know she’s locked in the dungeons somewhere?  Or hidden in the attic, like in Jane Eyre?
Is the king just, like, in the habit of banging random women from his village?
If so, then why haven’t we met more of his children?
Why does he employ an evil sorcerer?
If he’s too stupid to notice that the evil sorcerer is evil, then why is he king?
What kind of kingdom is this, anyway?
Why does the king run a boarding school?  Why are the other princes and princesses from Disney’s pantheon all such absentee parents that they’d just dump their kids there so they can go off and–do what, exactly?  Where is Sofia’s mom, like, 99% of the day?  Locked in the dungeon with his first wife?  And why does she only get one dress?  Why do they all have only one outfit?

And I’m not even going to get into how Disney first stated that Sofia was their first Latina princess and then retracted that statement.  My husband says I only think about these things because I’m bent the books that I write, and I admit that if I were in charge of this script…it’d be different.  It certainly wouldn’t be for kids, although it hardly is now!  In any case, it would certainly make more sense.

So What About Predators In The Mist?

I’ve been really flattered by all the questions I’ve gotten, via email, Facebook, Amazon, etc about the next installment in The House of Light and Shadow.  The most, of course, is when the heck is it coming out?  Other questions include, will we ever meet Tristan’s family, or Aria’s family, or get answers to any of the other hundred mysteries the series has set up.  And the answer to all of that is yes.  Yes you will–and in a big way.  A lot happens in this series, which as of now is planned to be five installments.  Although more may appear.  Who knows.

As to when it’s coming out….

I’m hoping–keep your fingers crossed–that would be summer of 2016.  Here’s my writing schedule: after I finish The Black Prince, I’m writing a dark (really dark) gothic romance called The Book of Shadows.  I’ll be giving you more information on that soon.  And then, after I ship BOS off to the powers that be that turn my manuscripts into real books, it’s back to HOLS and the third installment, Predators in the Mist.  Which, in case you’re curious about where I get the titles (for this series, at least), they’re all Napoleon quotes.

So why the long wait?  And why am I writing yet another stand alone book in between?  The answer to both of those questions is that books take time, and are hard to produce, and getting the best and most satisfying reading experience possible from me, at least, means switching things up on occasion.  I never go directly from one installment in a series into another.  I need to stretch my mind in new directions, and keep doing that, otherwise I get stale and my writing suffers accordingly.

I’m hoping, quite passionately, that I’ll get the bulk of The Black Prince written before Christmas.  Which, trust me, only seems like a long way away if you’re waiting for something.  If you’re the one trying to produce it…the holidays seem entirely too close.  Getting any amount of writing done over the summer, at least on a reliable daily schedule, can be challenging when you’re a parent.  They’re not young forever and work has to take a backseat when school isn’t in session.  If you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, then you’ve probably seen some of what we’ve been up to: lots of farm visits, and beach visits, and spending time with friends.  I still work, of course, because we all still have to eat, but I never want to be one of those parents who works late for no particular reason when she could be outside in the backyard roasting marshmallows.

So there you have it: summer of 2016!  I will, of course, update everyone more specifically as anything more specific comes along.  But in the meantime, you’ll have to settle for a free preview of A Dictionary Of Fools, which I’ll be posting on this blog shortly.

Explaining Cats to Aliens

Imagine explaining this to someone from the 1950’s: we carry around, in our pockets, devices capable of accessing the sum total of human knowledge.  Everyone over about twelve has such a device, although many begin to carry them much younger.  And what do we use them for?

Gazing at pictures of cats.

Now imagine explaining that to an alien.  Or, better yet, imagine if you will how said hypothetical alien would explain that to itself.  Or don’t, because I’m here to tell you.  Clearly, any reasonable being would conclude, we as a species worship cats.  To support that theory, let’s review the facts:

We bring our compact knowledge devices everywhere, but gaze at them most longingly when in the presence of famous natural features, or other (often highly expensive and difficult to access) tourism destinations.  The Grand Canyon, any number of national forests, go there and you’ll see it.  Any rational being, seeing observing this phenomenon, would naturally conclude that we’ve brought our cat-accessing devices to these places as an act of worship.  Where some might build and enter beautiful temples, in order to feel closer to their gods, we’ve chosen to drive, trek, and in some cases fly halfway around the world just to immerse ourselves in our gods’ natural habitats while continuing to learn all we can about them.
We do this as a family activity.  Often, one will observe families making pilgrimage to these great places, studying cats all the while.  During their journey and, of course, especially on arrival.  Clearly cats play an important role in family life.
We, as a species, have always worshipped cats.  A pocket-sized device, capable of accessing as many different aspects of The Great Cat as there are individual felids, would seem to be the natural outgrowth of a bronze statue.  As technology has advanced, so have our forms of worship.  No alien would automatically assume–and a few would utterly reject the possibility–that technology, in fact, meaningless to the average human being’s religious consciousness and that advances in our understanding of our world, and of our place within it, have affected no major world religion in the slightest.  So, clearly…cats.
Cats and their human devotees are remarkably similar.  Both kill for fun.  Both teach their offspring to hunt, in order to acquire life skills but also as a vital aspect of parent-child bonding, at a very young age.  Cats, who are not pack animals but solitary hunters and who socialize with others only to the extent that they are not competing for food or resources, are the perfect metaphor for capitalism.  Our embracing of the idea that only the strongest of hunters deserve to survive is surely reflective of our devotion to our feline overlords.
The (as of this writing) 2 million or so cat videos on YouTube have collectively been watched over 25 billion times.  According to recent studies, 60% of respondents identified as cat lovers.  By contrast, only about 21% identify as Catholic.  And while the percentage of those who identify with any traditional organized religion is dropping, pet ownership is at its highest level ever.  Thirty percent or so of all American households own at least one cat: well over 36 million, well over twice the number (and according to some studies more like seven times the number) of Mormons worldwide.

So there you have it.

Did I miss anything?

Unwanted Advice

I’m amazed by…well, by a lot of things.  But one of them is how so many would-be authors at once tout their writing ability and then get pissy and offensive when it’s suggested that they, well, have some writing ability.  Our ability, as authors, is not in fact for us to decide.  As with all forms of communication, the proof is in the pudding.  We can’t fairly criticize people for not taking our meaning correctly, when it’s our job to communicate that meaning.  Of course, mistakes can and do happen but as a writer, your job is to communicate.  Via, of course, the written word.

You’d think I’d made an obvious statement, now, wouldn’t you?

You’d think wrong.

It’s not uncommon for people to ask me for advice.  They don’t actually want advice, of course; most of them, if I’m being honest, want me to tell them what they want to hear.  Or how to be a millionaire.  Or whatever.  What they don’t want to hear is anything to do with hard work, making sacrifices, or examining areas–personally or professionally–where they could use some improvement.

Tonight, someone who’d repeatedly asked for my help with–not actually writing a book, or even learning how to write well enough to write a book but in getting a publishing contract–used me as a verbal punching bag.  Because I, you know, reached out to ask if she was okay.  Evil me.  No, this isn’t someone I know well; I’d classify her as a casual acquaintance, at best.  But some people don’t seem to need to know me very well before either a) asking me for material assistance or b) being abusive.  Which is okay, that says more about them than it does about me.  She, at one point, apropos of nothing, criticized her own communication skills via messaging.  To which I replied–after having, at this point, been sworn at a great deal as well as accused of a number of character deficiencies–that for writers (would be and otherwise) it’s important to practice that skill.  Communication by written word.

Some people seem to labor under the delusion that this is a problem they “only” have in speaking directly to others.  That their stories, unlike their conversations, are flawless.  Which…is an act of self-delusion, and one I’ve undertaken as well.  Listen, it’s easy to think you’re getting your point across when it’s just you.  Alone, writing, you’re basically just talking to yourself.

Showing your story to that first reader is another ballgame altogether.  I thought I was great at getting my point across, too.  Until–and this was years ago now, and I’ve only grown marginally better in the meantime–I showed my first manuscript to my husband and discovered that my cliffhangers were obvious, my “obvious” elements inscrutable and my chapter after chapter of exposition too dull to be borne.  So that was upsetting.

Listen, there’s no point in getting mad at someone when they don’t understand you.  Get frustrated at the problem, sure; but don’t take it out on others.  They’re flawed, imperfect beings, just like you.  I think the reason most writers are so introspective is that they’ve had to face down these challenges; so much of what makes communication challenging is, in the end, our own biases.  Like, take my creeper: my guess is that, based on being 31 years old and a mom and having been around the block a few times and all that jazz, her (married) boyfriend broke up with her.  Married boyfriends rarely end well.  And if she’d said, you know, for example, that that was the issue (or simply admitted that there was an issue, whether or not she chose to discuss it) then that’d be fine.  Everyone gets upset; everyone acts irrationally.  Instead, she unloaded on me–a perfect stranger, really–about how I was “provoking” her by asking her if everything was okay and affirming to her, over and over, that I wasn’t trying to upset her but just trying to be kind.

When we–and, again, I’ve been there–see others’ affirmations of kindness as an act of aggression, it’s us.  Plain and simple.  Maybe it takes a certain level of maturity to attain that realization, I don’t know.  But when I see my own efforts characterized thus, the other person’s assertions that “everyone is out to get them” take on a whole new meaning.

You can’t be a successful human being, let alone a writer, if you don’t understand your place in the world.  And that means, in part, understanding what reactions are and are not appropriate.  In others.  In yourself.  You have to have a firm set of boundaries to embark on a career in the arts.

And you have to, above all, know how to communicate.  There’s absolutely no difference between communicating to someone via Facebook and communicating to someone via their Kindle.  You can either do it, or you can’t.  The best feedback I’ve ever gotten, as far as honing my writing skills, has been feedback related to my other communication-related efforts.  You have to know how to communicate, to develop that skill into mastery (and that means, too, not just knowing how to get a point across but also knowing how to listen), before you can use that skill to make a living.

Or even, dare I say, to make your husband laugh.

BookBub Is Stupid

I’ve said this right along, and finally someone agrees with me.  It’s like finding out that someone has bought your same prom dress: a little weird, the recognition that you shared this uni-brain with another human being for a moment, but at least you know you’re wearing the right thing.  See, for the longest time, I did–if only on occasion–privately question whether my rejection of almost all forms of paid advertising was a good thing.  If my relentless analyses had, in fact, missed something.  Sure, I couldn’t make logical sense of why anyone would throw their money at a thing like BookBub but hundreds of people were doing it.

What did they know that I didn’t?

Sometimes advocating my kind of marketing can feel like being a hijabi at a nudist colony.  The term “hopelessly out of place” doesn’t begin to cover the feelings of gross inadequacy and the creeping fear that, if you’re right, why is everyone looking at you strangely?  And if you’re right, why are you always so damn uncomfortable?  But, like I’ve learned from my hijabi friends, you can’t judge yourself according to others’ standards.  Right is often uncomfortable and, well, downright awful, but if being right were easy everyone would do it.  Right?

BookBub is a glorified listserv.  People are paying good money, really good money to “cash in” on something that was last new and exciting in 1997.  If the existence of BookBub and services like it is proof of anything, it’s proof of the fact that greed comes with its own special set of blinders.  Promise people enormous returns and they throw common sense out the window.  Charlatans like Bernie Madoff succeed on the same principle.  And no, I’m not directly comparing BookBub to Bernie Madoff but merely pointing out that if the promised gains are large enough, people will believe anything.  Like that if they throw enough money at BookBub, they’ll end up in The New York Times.

Has that ever happened to anyone before?  Does anyone care?  It’s the promised payout that’s exciting, not the logic of the process.  If anyone actually sat down to think about whether they’d heard of any of the other authors on BookBub, then it wouldn’t be quite so popular.  Another field where grandiose claims trump logic is multi level marketing.  Most of Mary Kay’s customers, as a for example, are also distributors.  The same is true of Amway of the ever changing name.  To advertise on BookBub, you have to subscribe.  Which is a great way of building a subscriber list.  Full of, not book lovers voracious for new and undiscovered talent (although a handful may also be that) but desperate would-be full time novelists each convinced they’ve written the next Twilight.  There’s a term for this, and it’s called preaching to the converted.

You can see the same “buy my book”-type action on Twitter, where authors extol the virtues of their latest effort to other authors.  Has this ever sold a book?  Has anyone ever asked this question?

Marketing is terrifying and so, of course, whenever anyone comes along promising to achieve great things for you for “only” a car payment or so, that’s going to be appealing.  And my understanding is that, indeed, BookBub exposure is usually accompanied by a brief spike in sales.  Which is great, except I think the majority of BookBub’s supporters may be confusing causation with correlation.

See, BookBub tells you about discounted books.  As in, books written by authors who who’ve chosen to take advantage of a Kindle Select promotion.  But what if I told you that you could enjoy that same spike without BookBub?  That BookBub was, in fact, taking advantage of you by drawing your attention to a preexisting phenomenon for which they then took credit?

I got the idea to draw attention to my catalogue by giving away certain books within it from Hugh Howey.  The basic idea being that if people can get The Demon of Darkling Reach, say, for free or at a steep discount, and they read it and actually like it, they’ll go on to purchase The White Queen.  And maybe since The Black Prince isn’t out yet, they’ll go on to purchase something else.  I’ve never paid to advertise that I’m doing this with BookBub, or anyone else.  I rarely even tweet about my promotions, because I’ve found that–for me–Twitter isn’t that effective of a marketing tool.  I usually just announce (on my own author page, and without the benefit of additional advertising) via Facebook that something is free and the dates during which interested parties can pick it up.  Once enough people have downloaded the book, you see, it appears on one or more of Amazon’s top 100 lists and then new people–people who’ve never heard of me before, which is precisely the demographic I’m hoping to attract–download it.  Or don’t.  At this point, the advertising is taking care of itself.

It’s like getting your book into a bookstore: the best you can hope for is that your cover design, and your blurb, are in front of people when they browse.  Give them time to look at the book, to decide for themselves.  Screeching at them to “buy the book” doesn’t work.  Indeed, usually has quite the opposite effect.  So really, once you’ve gotten yourself onto that first page or two of results, your work is done.  The rest is, as it were, up to the Gods.

In short, you might be able to pay people to look at your book (that, after all, is what an end cap is) but you can’t pay them to buy it.

Beware of anyone who, directly or indirectly, tries to tell you different.

The Only PSA You Need

Is this.

There’s really nothing I can add to the content of the video, because everything you need is there.  About why bullying is hurtful and just plain stupid.  All too often, I think, we worry so much about being offensive ourselves that we water down our opinions to the point where they aren’t opinions anymore.  Because gods forbid we offend someone by telling them they’re being hurtful.  Or mean.  Or spiteful.  We live in a world where judging wrong is considered, by many, to be a far greater evil than actually committing it.  So it’s really refreshing to see someone who has the courage to be themselves and, while being themselves, take a stand on an important issue.  Without butterflies, or flowers, or any of the “I’m okay, you’re okay” bullshit that so many of us use as protective coloration.  Some things are wrong, and it’s okay to say so.  You don’t need sparkly memes and you don’t need to hide behind scripture.  You can, in fact, go right ahead and assert boundaries because, you know, that’s your right.

Also, I really, really need that mug.

In The Price of Desire, which of course is free for Kindle this week, Aria tells people to go screw and those of you who read this blog regularly know that not everyone likes that.  This is one of those situations where life mirrors art because in the real world, real women are also labeled as “pushy,” “judgmental,” and “unlikeable” because they stand up for something.  Especially themselves.  And just about the worst insult some people feel like they can level is to label you as unlikable.  To point out that you “seem angry.”  That you’re–gasp–not being ladylike.  Well who cares?  Why are you a better woman for hiding in the corner, prioritizing your own popularity over having a moral compass, than for actually taking a position?

Anger in the face of injustice is nothing to be ashamed of.  Apathy in the face of injustice is.  Remember that the next time you find yourself involved in a debate.

PS: Some people like to make a big issue of vulgarity.  They tell me they can’t read my books, as a for instance, because I use “bad words.”  They aren’t offended by the war, famine, and social inequality, or the slavers, rapists, and pedophiles, just by the fact that one of my characters said “fuck.”  Well as my hero points out, above, anyone who fixates on one word, or set of words, to the exclusion of what those words actually signify has bigger problems.  I grew up in a conservative Christian, ahem, cult and I was shunned when I left.  Trust me, they really shun me now.  Except to occasionally reach out for the sole purpose of “lovingly” telling me that I must surely be miserable as I don’t have the spirit and am going to Hell.  But I digress.  You could–just like in my books–describe the worst acts of human depravity in loving detail and they’d be fine with it.  They’d drink it in.  Proof that they were superior!  Unless of course they were the ones committing the acts but again, I digress.  You could lie and cheat and steal.  You could tell people they were fat and ugly and stupid.  You could bully them to the point of tears on a regular basis and that was just dandy.  But if you said fuck, OH MY GOD.  And I remember thinking–and still do think–really?  That’s values?

Values aren’t in what you look like, or how you talk.  They’re not in your religion.  They’re in your actions and in whether, when it matters–not when it’s convenient for you but when it matters–you stand up and do the right thing.

Watch the video.

The Price of Desire: FREE July 7 through July 11

 

It’s the British Raj in space!  With war, politics, romance…really, this book is for M.M. Kaye fans.  And me.  There’s a lot of me in here.  I wrote this book during a very difficult time in my life, when I was bedridden and on death’s door.  It’s fabulous.  You should read it.

Facebook, Where Art Thou?

This post is a little dated, and possibly geared toward the same audience of people who think they need a professional to design a Facebook page, but it does have one gem of wisdom in regards to evaluating your own status updates.  This:

Here’s a quick test:

Take a look at your last 10 Facebook posts. Ask yourself:

1) Would I engage with that post if I saw it in my news feed?

2) Did I ask for or encourage action (like, share, comment)?

3) If there is a photo, would you want to share it if you saw it in your News Feed?

4) Does this post truly add value to my audience?

5) Does this post educate, entertain or empower?

How do yours do?

Except…maybe these aren’t such great questions after all, I wonder to myself now, since I think my status updates are all excellent.  And yet both of my pages (for writing and for art) are pretty, well…moribund.  I look at other pages that post absolute crap and think, what the heck?  And yes, I do have a sense of humor about myself.  Maybe my posts just aren’t awful enough!  Although I did recently create a meme combining cats and coffee, two of my favorite things.  I was quite proud of that.

Of course, some of the pages with tens, or even hundreds of thousands of followers have bought fans, either directly or indirectly (what else, after all, is advertising your page but a credit card-backed plea for popularity?) and some of them are simply more famous than I am.  I made an Edgar Allen Poe necklace, recently.  I’ll be selling it soon.

I think this is adorable.

This too.

What about you, fellow authors and readers and people of the earth?  What do you do to get your Facebook (page owning and page liking) jollies?  Should I have really captioned the above guinea pig with a Monty Python quote?

Let me know in the comments.

The Black Prince: Chapter Eight

Surprise!  If you haven’t read the first seven chapters, get caught up here.

The series begins with The Demon of Darkling Reach and continues with The White Queen, both available for purchase (AND Kindle Unlimited!) on Amazon.

EIGHT

Tristan knew what Asher was asking.

And what he wasn’t.

The time for discussing more…refined punishments for irritants such as John would come later. As would Asher’s understanding that certain men, the kind of man that John would grow up to be, had their uses. Bullies weren’t true leaders but, rather, rudderless men looking for leaders. Tristan suspected that John would soon become one of Asher’s most devoted followers. Would leap at the chance to be his footstool, should Asher need one.

He’d have to learn not to abuse that power, as intoxicating as it was. And how, too, to play with his toys without breaking them. These things, if not others, Tristan could teach. And there were numerous fathers, he knew, perfectly human fathers, who knew as little of love as Tristan. Still, Tristan knew how to treat a woman. He had that much to teach.

In this, he regarded his lack of emotion as an asset. He’d schooled himself in the arts of love through observation, both of other men and the responses they provoked and of women, themselves. He knew what pleased Isla, now, because he knew her thoughts but even before he’d been able to watch her with a cool detachment and thus understand her more profoundly than the most ardent lover.

And his need for her had been—was—real.

That she’d cared for him even a little was expedient, as he’d known shortly after meeting her that he’d have had to possess her regardless. That she’d grown to love him, he regarded as nothing short of a miracle. He knew he wasn’t capable of giving her what a true man could, but he’d promised himself that she’d never notice the lack.

Himself, and her.

“This is not a conversation for a child,” he said.

Asher waited.

“If you are to enter this world, you can no longer be a child. No longer have the luxury of ignorance, that is due to all children.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

After a minute, Asher nodded.

Some children enjoyed being children. Asher did not. He was eager to grow up, as eager as Tristan had been. He’d have to learn, for himself, that the fruit he sought was filled with poison.

He studied his son.

The child wasn’t his, of course. Not in the simple sense that feeble-minded fools like his in-laws would understand. Tristan couldn’t reproduce as other men could. There was no true life within this form, and thus no life to pass on. But Asher was his in the only sense that counted. And he’d fight for him as fiercely as any creature fought for its offspring.

When he spoke of siblings, he did so in the abstract sense. Perhaps he and Isla might adopt another. Or another might come to them, as Asher had. Tristan found the reticence that some men felt toward adoption illogical. Provenance was no guarantee of acceptance, and one had only to see Hart interact with his supposed father to understand that.

Hart, or indeed Isla.

Sometimes, around Asher, he caught himself experiencing a glimmer of…perhaps the correct term was a stirring. Not an awakening but not a memory, either. Not quite that removed. He felt, somewhere deep within, the lost mind of his host. And he knew that the original Tristan, the man he’d become, had imagined himself having a son like Asher. Had dreamed of such, in his fondest dreams.

And Tristan, the man he was now, agreed.

Asher was quiet. Not timid but reserved. He’d grow into himself in time, those traits suiting ill a child but well a man.

“A formal acknowledgment, should you wish it, can be made soon enough. But,” he continued, framing his words carefully and with some deliberation, allowing them time to sink in, “would necessarily involve Isla.”

Morvish law was strange. To formally adopt Asher as his heir meant acknowledging his current wife as the boy’s mother. A fiction, of course. But the kind of fiction important to Southrons: that he have a mother and a father, and that the two be married at the time of the acknowledgment.

To Northerners, the whole thing was foolish. Clearly the boy had a mother. He was here. And since no woman ever looked at the child she’d just given birth to and wondered if it was hers, the father’s acknowledgment was all that was required. Surely he knew whether he’d been present at the crucial moment and, more importantly, whether a bond was felt.

Asher nodded. He was hunched over the first real adult beverage he’d ever been served, having the first truly adult conversation of his life. After Brandon had died, they’d talked. And honestly. But not as equals.

“She thinks of you as her own.”

Something flashed in Asher’s eyes and was gone. Hope. He’d never had much of a mother.

Isla, being scarce older, was more of an older sister than a mother. Or should have been. But her warmth had helped Asher come alive. It was all the things Asher needed: steady, predictable. Something on which he could rely.

But still, she wasn’t his mother. And Tristan suspected that Asher himself wasn’t entirely sure of how he felt about Maeve. The glamorous, captivating woman who’d first sold and then abandoned him. Who even now was working to reclaim the throne.

This time, for herself.

And he hadn’t yet answered Asher’s question.

“Maeve was married to Brandon.”

Asher waited, his large eyes solemn. For this transition into adulthood. For Tristan had only spoken the truth: there could be no going back. Recognition as Tristan’s son would mean new responsibilities. New difficulties. Difficulties that Asher couldn’t even yet imagine.

Asher had long possessed a gravitas beyond his years. The result of too much pain. Tristan understood. There were those in the castle who mistook this gravitas for a sharing of Tristan’s nature. Which Asher did not. But their twin expressions, solemn and still, made them look even more alike than their snow-pale skin and raven’s wing hair.

Tristan supposed that Asher got his looks from Maeve. She had ever been a beauty. And intelligent, too. Unlike her husband.

“She came to me, at court. I was there to petition for increased funds, to guard the northern borders. Funds which were not granted, as our then-king disagreed that there was a threat. He’d long adopted a policy that reality never extended past the limit of his vision. If he couldn’t see it, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see the devastation wreaked in the North; ergo, I was a fool and a liar.

“After an unsatisfying interview followed by an equally unsatisfying dinner, I’d taken to the cloisters. To walk in the night air, and to be alone. Maeve came to me there.”

He remembered the night well. She’d been a vision in gray, a color that lent her the illusion of innocence. He’d turned, hearing her footstep. Moonlight spilled through the arches. There was nothing but the sound of crickets, chirping in the warm and fragrance-laden air. Honeysuckle, hanging heavy on the vine. Roses. A beautiful woman, as yet young.

Her hand, resting on his chest as her lips curved into a smile.

“She thought herself seducing me. I was not married at that time and, I suspect, even at that time Maeve had her doubts. About Brandon. About the world. I would have been a conquest.” He paused. “I tell you this not to brag but to teach. There are women—and men—who love for pure and selfless reasons. And then there are those who do not.”

Asher nodded.

Asher, himself, would encounter such women. Perhaps even men. Who sought to beguile him with false promises. To ensnare him. Whose interest extended no further than his title. Tristan was wiser now, but there had been a time when he too had fallen victim to such a ploy. He never spoke of her now, but he remembered Brenna.

For Asher to survive, he would have to guard his heart.

Tristan had a man’s form, and a man’s needs. He’d taken Maeve and made her scream in an ecstasy that wasn’t feigned. No doubt surprising her, as there had certainly been nothing of chance in her chance arrival. He was certain that, had he been the world’s biggest boor and impotent to boot, she’d have writhed in his arms and praised him for being a superlative lover. That she’d married Brandon proved that Maeve was the sort who could put up with anything.

He, himself, had felt nothing. He’d banished her from his room after the act, astonishing her. And he’d never spoken to her again. But he could tell Asher in total truth that yes, he had lain with Asher’s mother. And thus the parentage was possible.

The silence returned.

“Envy,” he said, after a long moment, “is a strange thing.”

“But John….”

“Has no reason to be envious of you?” Tristan arched an eyebrow. “But he does. That you might think of yourself as less is no guarantor of John’s agreement.” Or anyone else’s. “John is afraid. What his treatment of you is intended to accomplish is to make you afraid, too. So afraid that you crumble inward and cease to be a threat.”

“A threat?” Asher’s eyes widened slightly. “To what?”

Ah, so young. Still so young. “Child,” he said patiently, “you have all that he does not. Title or no title. Intelligence. Skill. A handsome face. Opportunities that John, for all that he is a castellan’s son, could never dream to have. John,” he continued, “was not asked to serve as a page.” And castellans’ sons often did. John’s older brothers had both served, although in minor houses. One was now a knight.

“You, even with a cloud over your parentage, are more.”

“Oh.” The sound was a small one.

“Gideon the Conqueror was his father’s natural child.”

Something flickered in Asher’s eyes and was gone.

“But,” Tristan said, adopting a more sinister tone, “if you’re going to be the son of a duke, then you must learn to control yourself. And on that score, before I send you out to apologize to John for robbing him of his teeth, we have much to discuss.”