Updatey post:

Mia: Decidedly has cancer. Biopsy came back with positive diagnosis of sarcoma. Dan and the vet are going round and round well over my head about what that is and what it means, but as far as I can understand right now, the growth should be removed, but it might well come back. We're doing an additional biopsy tomorrow. I'm hazy as to why; I think it's to make extra sure surgery is a good idea. I'm oddly calm about it. I think I had my big sad last week, and now every day is just an extra day with Mia. She's in very good spirits and appreciates the extra cuddling. I feel a bit like a very good friend will be leaving soon, but after a bit of cajoling has been talked into staying a few extra weeks. Just taking it as it comes. It will be hard no matter what, that's clear, but right now she's here and happy and loving the petting, so that's good. But if you're a Mia fan and want to say a goodbye, next week would be a good idea to come visit. If you know me well enough for that sort of thing, email/phone and we'll arrange something.

Copy edit: I got the copy edit for Double Blind done, right at the end of the deadline. It was a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. Much of it is the pressure of so many people enthusiastic for it. I'm not really looking forward to being nervous about that until April, so trying to find my Zen there. It is what it is. Dan sat with me and we read aloud the last card game to make sure the stakes made sense, and I made a special request that the editor look at it again as well. So I've done what I can. There's nothing else to do, so I will do my best to let it go.

Health: Pfffft. Best left unsaid. You'd be here all day, and you wouldn't leave uplifted, and neither would I. Happily, I don't think I have cancer, so that's a plus.

My house: We are living in a nuclear wasteland, I think. What I should do today is screw everything and clean, but between my shoulders and a project I need to switch gears into, this isn't going to happen. Soon, though. Soon. I do have plans, however, to take Anna's break next week and attack her room. She needs the wallpaper stripped and the walls painted. We also need to organize her drawers. I keep putting it off, and I'm learning that I can't wait for time to do anything; if it's important, I have to just wrench myself out of the stream and do it.

Projects: I haven't been writing. It's starting to really make me growly. At best in the past few weeks I've had a few sessions on the collab, but I've now managed to string myself out so far that I can't do that justice. So I'm going to take this week to finish a proposal which is related to the TSV submission, read a bit, and then I get to draft on my own stuff awhile until I get my groove back. I also have big plans to get myself to a spa. Maybe Friday.

Feels like there's more I should post about, but my brain has gone blank, so later for that, I guess. Shoulders are turning to glue here too, so I need to go sort that out. Think happy thoughts, that going and doing some rows will sort it. Ta!

On her Livejournal, m/m romance reviewer kassa_rvws  today asks two questions: Do you find one star reviews to be of any value? Do you think books submitted for review by the author are owed a review? She’s asking these questions because after being asked for a review and giving it honestly, she was verbally assaulted in email by the author of the work.

There are so many issues packed into this kerfluffle that I don’t even know where to begin. And it’s something I keep seeing and hearing all across the board, not even just in this genre.  So instead of answering Kassa’s questions, I want to reroute the discussion. The bottom line is this: authors need reviewers, and we need to treat them with dignity and respect at all times, no matter how we are reviewed. Here’s why.

Obscurity will get you nowhere, or, all ink is good ink. I would think that authors would figure this out as soon as they get their first quarter’s royalty numbers, but it doesn’t seem to work that way somehow, and I’m not sure what to blame. I think probably it’s because the myth of bestsellerdom is right up there next to Santa Claus and Jesus. Like SC and JC, the point isn’t even whether or not the myth exists or where the truth lies: the problem is that people want the myth to be true in the full tri-color vision of their dreams, and they will happily ignore reality to accommodate this fallacy. I get asked at least once a week if my husband has quit his job yet. People get upset when they hear my advances wouldn’t pay the monthly credit card bill and that my royalty checks so far might at best fund a modest weekend away. They aren’t upset because they feel my publisher owes me more money; they’re upset at the dent in their reality.

I think authors suffer from this too. I know I do. There’s this underlying sense that if I build it, they will come, and when they don’t come in the full horde of the Second Coming, it’s unsettling. There’s a sense of injustice at the idea that after killing myself to write the damn story, now I have to go and schlep it too? First I have to be so introverted and reclusive that I can make a whole world on paper, and now I have to go and pimp it? Seriously? It feels wrong on a moral level. And yet, especially in the e-book and small genre world, it’s reality. Its actually the reality for all authors who don’t have the push of a big publisher’s PR department, and the number who get that is lowering every single day. And when your main vehicle for promotion is the wilds of the Internet—yes, you’re screwed before you so much as step out the door.

This is where the reviewer comes in.

A reviewer is an aggregator. A reviewer is a maven. A reviewer is your effing best friend even if she hates your book. Because every instance of your cover and your blurb and every pixel of commentary about your work is advertising. Every. Single. One. Even a destructive commentary that designates your hard work as digital toilet paper is ink you didn’t have before they spoke your book’s name. Yes, we want positive reviews. Yes, we want the big love and the five star and the book of the week position. Yes, these are the crown jewels. But there really is value in every review, and authors need to cop to that, and quick.

I do agree that reviewers should be respectable. I think snark has little place in a review. I think destroying a work simply because it’s fun is unprofessional—and I rarely see it done long term. Such things quickly become self-policing. But what authors seem to forget is that it’s not the reviewer we’re after: it’s their readers. The reviewer already has the book. We want the people who don’t know our names. We want the people who never would have picked us up had the reviewer not mentioned us.  Yes, it seems unlikely many will if it’s a low rating. But this, author, is the risk we have to take. And if all reviewers are positive, no reader will believe the reviewer and will look elsewhere. Which brings us to point number two.


The point of publishing a story is not to generate a fan club: it is to share your story. My goal as an author is to share my story with other people who love it. I don’t put out stories so that other people will tell me I’m brilliant and I can therefore feel good about myself. I also don’t suffer from the delusion that every single person on the planet will like everything I write. Yes, I’m always striving to cast the widest net, but I’m never going to achieve some nirvana state where everyone loves me or my work. I put a story out there to share it. And just like anything else shared, there are two points to consider: the giving of a story is a gift, and it must be given freely.

I have grave concerns over authors who publicly argue with readers and reviewers who don’t like their stories. It’s one thing to have hurt feelings and cry to a best friend or a partner; it’s another to shout back at the reviewer, and it’s horrifying to hear this happens to readers. It’s not just unprofessional: it’s rude. These people have paid money. They literally own this story now too. And once they read it, once those words pass into their brain, it interacts with their worldview instead of the author’s. This is the miracle we’re trying to achieve, right here. This is the magic of sharing, of our vision interacting with another mind. To not just believe but expect this to always be exactly as we imagine the interaction will be is beyond juvenile, though it is understandably human. However, to actively berate others for failing to join your personal vision, authors, is treasonous.

But perhaps there’s a sense that a reviewer who is given a book didn’t pay, and therefore the author is owed? Now it’s time for point number three.


Reviewing books is a lot of work, and reviewers don’t have to do it. I’d like any author who wants to argue me on this point to try to carry on their job and/or their writing  and then read the same amount of books and offer the same length and depth of feedback as reviewers give before they try to argue that reviewers “owe us” for free books. Writers better than anyone should know that to take the time to write anything down with any kind of cogency takes time and mental effort. To do this over and over again with books takes not just time and effort but devotion and probably love as well. Reviewers should never be mocked; they should only be loved. Once again, the focus here is not on the reviewer, but on the reader. They provide a service we cannot replicate in any other way. They become focal points by which our work is aggregated. Their readers come to them because they trust the reviewer and value the service they provide. If they dislike the reviewer, they will leave. They will also, believe it or not, frequently disagree with their reviewer. If even one person follows a link given on a post (which most reviewers give) and purchases the book despite the bad review, you have a sale you would not otherwise have had.

If these reviewers stop reviewing, we lose audience. We lose networks. We lose contacts. We lose sales. These people pay us in ways that would take me several blog posts to fully articulate. But they give us something else too: opportunities for growth.

Reviews are mirrors, and all of us could stand to lose or gain a few pounds. Even the most banal review is an insight into what our work looks like when reflected through the eyes of a reader. Not all reviews are helpful; sometimes all we learn is that the reviewer isn’t our reader. But if most or even many of our reviews are negative, we as authors should pay attention, because clearly our attempt at communicating our vision did not go as we had planned. This is not the reader’s fault, but our own. Of course, the real truth is that sometimes we have no choice: frequently, the work is what it is. But there is so much to be learned in reader response, and all reviewers are at heart readers with megaphones. It’s a hard lesson to hear what might have not worked in your story, yes, but that doesn’t mean the criticism doesn’t have value. And yes, very low reviews are hard. It’d very difficult to accept that anyone doesn’t like our work, because it feels like they’re attacking us. Sometimes the reader really did miss the point and simply isn’t our reader—but has a megaphone. But the truth is that any author who can’t manage that pain offscreen has no business being in the game.

This is your job, author. Act professional. I get very angry with my peers for coming all this way to publication and then being completely ignorant about business. I’d like to think that people who can imagine whole worlds would be better at seeing the broad net it takes to lure and retain readers, but perhaps that’s the problem: our imaginations have created a wider audience than our reality, and instead of meeting that vision we’re angry and lash out at those we’ve decided are at fault. But the truth is that when we submit for publication, there’s more than just the contract we sign with our house. We give a contract to a reader. We say, this is a story I have made and which I offer to you. Even when it’s on a blog or a website or given away free, it’s still a contract, but when there’s money involved, it’s even more serious.

Readers give money. Readers give time. Readers give trust and hope to us, and in exchange they want a good story. That’s it. We can’t always give it to them, and they know that. Yes, some are more adult about sharing their displeasure than others. But as the professionals in the room, it’s our job to maintain our grace and dignity at all times. Yes, sometimes we have to suck up some hurt feelings. Yes, sometimes good work will be unfairly reviewed. But not always, and not without penalty. Authors need to keep in mind the long vision, which is reaching as many readers as possible for as long as possible. Everything else is a distraction.

So, to answer Kassa: one star reviews are helpful, because all reviews are helpful, and all ink is good ink. No, you don’t owe us anything, even if we give you a free book. You are not our whore. You are not our servant. You and all reviewers are our allies in an effort which should at all times be undertaken out of love and mutual respect. You owe your readers (and ours) honesty and integrity. You owe us nothing, because if you do, then your review will be tainted, and the readers will know, and they will leave, and the real aim of the game is now dead.

Any author who stoops to shouting back at reviewers or readers isn’t adult enough to play the game and needs to go home. Teenage girls belong in high school hallways, not the publishing industry. Unprofessional authors spoil the party for everyone, and like all bullies, they need to be dealt with. I took two hours I did not have to write this post because it’s that important to me to call out authors who bully reviewers and readers and demean my profession. Any author who wants to argue with me? Bring it.

Readers, reviewers: please never let the bad apples distract you from the party. I’m glad you’re here, and I will continue to work hard to give us all the best time possible when you chose to dance with me. I promise that when you find my dancing lacking, I will treat you with respect, even if you do, by accident or on purpose, hurt my feelings. Because like you, what I love is the dance, the wonder that reading and sharing gives us. That is why I am here. That is why I have come. They are not just my stories now. They are ours.

To Kassa and to all reviewers (and readers) who have been unjustly maligned by an author? I apologize for my peers and humbly ask you to continue to review, and to read, and to share our stories with each other. Thank you for all that you do.

I have less than 70 pages of the Double Blind copy edit to go, but I'm working myself into a tizzy because I'm more worried than ever about stepping on it. If only so many people didn't like Special Delivery, maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal. But now there's just so many ways to disappoint. Driving myself batshit with the possibilities, in fact. Logic dictates that doing well on the copy edit will help alleviate this, but the problem is that I always get to this point where I honestly can't tell if a story works or not. In fact, usually on the stories people like the best I stand there thinking, "Oh God, this really sucks. Or it's brilliant. But probably it sucks."

I try to tell myself that every time I am convinced I have finally fucked it up beyond recognition, it's a story people orgasm over. It's not working, but I'll just keep telling that to myself.

In the meantime, I'll just ask Ewan to hold me.

The fantabulous libby_drew  has a book out today.


I've read the first few chapters (thumbs way up!), but Dan galley proofed it for Dreamspinner; the whole time he was reading, whenever he was away from the book, he kept saying, "All I want to do is go finish that book." He kept quoting bits to me too, because he couldn't resist. He's going to be giving it a review on his blog soon, because he's making it one of the twenty-five books he's reading and reviewing for the year.

So I just ordered my copy in paperback, because clearly this will be going right on the keeper shelf. Go ahead and get yours now too.

Blurb:

Grier Crist works for the Organization—a group of Gifted “agents” who use their powers to keep peace, help those in need, and combat criminal influence around the globe. When a suspicious bombing drives Grier to break his ties with the group and go into hiding, the head of the Organization sends model agent Alec Devlin after him, claiming Grier is a murderer and traitor to their cause.

Grier manages to turn the tables and take Alec hostage long enough to convince him that the Organization is lying and hiding something sinister. The two strike a bargain: amidst enemies who want them dead, friends with their own agendas, and the growing passion between them, they'll work together to bring down the Organization in order to protect the world… and each other.

I don't have the full details, or at least a full understanding, and that's largely because my brain is a bit scattered at the moment. What I do know is that Elisa Rolle, who of her own free will and with a grace like no other reviews m/m fiction and gives commentary on publishing/reading in general, has had her referral program links hijacked. What I also know is that she has felt that her customer service in getting this situation resolved has been less than stellar. I understand that as of this moment, the winds of customer service are beginning to change, and things might actually work out.

The other thing I know is this: Elisa doesn't have to be here, and neither do I. I'm a paying member, and so is Elisa. I really, really love LJ for the userpics and the Friends list and so many other small things. And it used to be that this place was just my personal watercooler for my life. While it's still that, it's also now part of my professional arm. So yes, I take great interest in hearing that not only are links being hijacked but that when complaints are made, nothing is done or is done poorly. Personally, yes, I love many things about LJ. But if at any point LJ's poor business sense threatens me professionally, there's really no discussion. Me, my money, and my traffic will have to go elsewhere.

Hoping very much that this all turns out to be a Big Misunderstanding and we all live happily ever after.

Here's the official link, but I'll repeat the info below:

****

Chat with Heidi this Saturday at MANtastic Fiction!

The reader review and archival site MANtastic Fiction has made Special Delivery by Heidi Cullinan its book of the week. In addition, they will be hosting a reader chat on Saturday, March 6 from 5-7PM EST.

Heidi will be at the chat as well and would love to meet readers to talk about Sam & Mitch (or Randy)! Dreamspinner Press will also be giving away both a digital copy of Special Delivery and of Heidi's first novel, Hero, during the chat.

Hope to see you there!

Book of the week link to MANtastic Fiction

Chat site and details:

Link: http://www.ustream.tv/channel/mantastic-fiction
Password: Cullinan
Date: 03/06/10
Time: 5pm-7pm EST

***

Pleas come! The ladies hosting are lovely; we tried it out last night.

Thanks to everybody for the well-wishes and empathy for Mia. I have the thread in my email to remind me to comment, but right now I feel weary and unsettled, so I hope you forgive my silence a bit longer. I don't know anything further, because until we get the biopsy results back, we know nothing. And we may know nothing more then, either. Every time I descend into it, I start this nasty spiral of indecision, and I get sad and tired. So I've just tried to table it for now. Hopefully tomorrow (or maybe even later today) I have answers. In the meantime, she appears to be perfectly fine and happy. So I suppose there's that.

So now we get to report about the other fun thing in my life. (I sometimes wonder what people think who read Special Delivery and wander over here to see inside the head of the woman who made Mitch & Sam and find... this. Oh well.) As most of you know, lately I've been having a lot of chronic pain, which isn't news, but the cycles have become so short I barely get any rest at all. For double the fun, it's affecting my arms, which means it's affecting my work. And since even if I do get MacSpeech sussed out, I still can't dictate a sex scene while Anna is home, and I have NO idea how I'm supposed to enter comment bubbles in Word with it, so I need my arms. To this end, I am now seeing

• a chiropractor
• a reiki therapist
• a second chiropractor who does this reflexive whosis thing
• an acupuncturist
• an MD
• a regular PT
• a "pool therapy" PT

I'd like you to enjoy, for a moment, how little of that is covered by insurance. When I get down, I go look at Special Delivery on bestseller charts and tell myself Mitch is going to take care of me. Not sure how that translates, but it's a nice story and is getting me through.

The good news is that I think we have a diagnosis, and the best part is I keep hearing it across party lines. The trouble with my arms is not my arms: it's the muscles associated with my scapula.
That "subscapularis" stuff is what needs some serious talking to, because essentially it is out drinking and whoring and smoking and then coming home to bitch about its sorry lot in life. What it needs to be doing is holding up my entire neck and shoulders and supporting all arm functions. So I guess I need Mitch here too, because somebody has to Dom this bitch.

And speaking of bitching. Jesus, we've got whiners this morning. Yesterday the regular PT showed me how I was not engaging my subscapularis muscles while I did several of my key arm exercises, and we stood there and fine-tuned it until I had it right. He also showed me how the same thing was happening in my pelvic area. So I came home and did all the excercises very carefully. They take less than half an hour, and most grandmothers could do them while carrying on a phone conversation at maxmium power. Me? Holy shit, I hurt. The right side in particular is very upset. What, work? What, hold things up? And little does it know that later today we go to pool therapy.

I am actually very happy about this. What I hate most about my condition is the nebulousness of it. It just barely has a name, and it's fluid; last year the hips were my bugaboo, and then it was the neck, and now it's the scapula. In the fall it will be something else. And every time I go to somebody, especially a PT, they look me in the eye and say, "You will live with this. This is not going away. You will have good days and bad days." But they also praise my attitude and work ethic. Which is nice, but I just don't get why anybody wouldn't fight this. Who wants to live diminished? But then, I'm a Virgo. Work is a pleasure, it really is. Working feels good. So I guess it's just easier for me. But lately I've felt lost, because I was just punching blind in the dark. Now I know what I'm after: the scapula. I'm going to tough-love this little mother into functionality, and then we will all live happily ever after. Ish.

The end.

This is my baby girl Mia.



This is a photo from about ten years ago, but she pretty much looks the same. Except she's had a lump on her back for a while, and last week I noticed it had become quite pronounced. I'd noticed something not so nice on her spine in January or December, but I sort of did this denial thing where I just said it was her being old. Because I knew what was coming, and I didn't want to face it. Well, today I faced it.

We don't have the confirmed diagnosis, but Mia pretty much has cancer. They're testing the cells to see how bad and if surgery is a good idea on a sixteen year-old cat. She has some bony things that might be attached to the spine, and she has a big, big cist. If they can do the surgery, we will. If it's too malignant, we'll just make the last bit as good as we can.

I got Mia in the spring of 1996. She was either one or two years old then; I got her at the Iowa City shelter, where they'd already fallen in love with her. She came in pregnant and was so attached to her kittens that she had to be put in a kennel with them for a long time before they could be weaned. When I came to look at cats, she was the only one not meowing; she just rubbed the front of the cage in hopes that I'd pet her.

When her foster-brother Gulliver died suddenly in 2001, Mia mothered me. She took Gulliver's place beside my pillow, nuzzling me until I stopped crying, then waited until I was settled before going off to her own place. A few years ago she took to spending the whole night by my head, and she goes there now. Every night she comes to put me to bed; if I stay up too late, she looks at me sternly, then goes to the bathroom to hop on the toilet for her glass of water.

She loves to play with dental floss and always has. She is a little shy with guests until she knows them, but there are going to be a lot of people who cry when they read this post.

Me too. Bawling my head off as I type.

I have made it a point to be grateful for every day I've had with Mia for several years now. I try to take an extra moment to pet her when she asks for it because each day has been a gift for some time. I'm a lot more ready for her end than I was for Gulliver's, and yet I find as I realize it might be measured in weeks now, it really doesn't matter. She's my little princess, and whether it's this year or five from now, I will miss her terribly when she's gone.

The irony is that she's probably going to spend the rest of the day consoling me. When you cry, she comes to sit by you to tell you it will be okay.

So later this week we hear how the tests come out. After that is surgery or... I don't know. She doesn't seem to be in pain, and I'm not putting her down yet. So we don't need to have you all rush here for a wake. But if you want to think fondly of my little girl, I certainly won't mind.

Time to go have a good cry, make some tea, and get on with it so she doesn't scold me for being a mess.

So, I had this contest. Either it was too complicated or many people just don't need $25 in free books, but as it pleases you all. Seven people entered, though, and several of those seven people entered multiple times. I did NOT rig the contest, either—I couldn't have, because I love all the people who entered in different ways and couldn't even begin to root for anyone. But I did promise the name would be drawn out of a glitter cowboy hat.

That would be this one

(and yes, that is me.)

My daughter Anna did the honors, as it's her hat.


And the winner is...

Jason from Goodreads!

Thanks to everyone who entered. Jason, happy reading!

It's no secret* to anyone reading this blog long term that I feel the music in my stories is a vital part of their composition. In the past I've done bits and pieces of lists either as images grabbed from my iTunes or have just listed them, or I've gushed about particular artists. Well, for fun, I've made iMixes of the two published I've done, and you can either go and nose around, or you can buy them, or whatever. I'll make a playlist track too for those who can't access the same list because I'm US iTunes. (The whole country restriction thing is so fired.) Some of you in other countries might even be able to add songs I wanted on there but couldn't get my iTunes to export.

Hero
iMix link
Tracklist:

1. O... Saya from Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack (A.R. Rahman & M.I.A.)
2. The Miracle of Illusion by Jens Gad (La Spa Sonique)
3. Touchness by Enigma (Seven Lives Many Faces)
4. I'm Not A Hero from The Dark Knight soundtrack (Hans Zimmer & James Newton Howard)
5. Superficial (Instrumental) by Enigma (Seven Lives Many Faces)
6. Spiegel im Spiegel: 2 arranged by Arvo Pärt (performted by Alexander Malter, Dieter Schwalke, Sergej Bezrodny & Vladimir Spivakov)
7. Autumn Interlude by Amethystium (Aphelion)
8. Latkia's Theme from Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack (A.R. Rahman & Suzanne)
9. Love Don't Live Here by Ladyhawke (Ladyhawke)
10. Aggressive Expansion from The Dark Knight soundtrack (Hans Zimmer & James Newton Howard)
11. What Shall We Die For from Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End soundtrack (Hans Zimmer)
12. Hero by Enrique Iglesias (Escape)

 Missing tracks:

Crucial to this story was the entire soundtrack from The Promise by Klaus Badelt. It used to be on iTunes, but somehow is not there now. It's very lovely: technically it's Chinese, not Japanese, but "Love Theme" and "Princess Kite" gave me a lot of Morgan. There was also a lot of Lady Gaga, particularly "Love Game" back when people were still saying, "Lady who?" At different times I listened to the soundtrack from Coraline, Rhianna, and Moby's Wait for Me album. I got a lot out of "Gimme More" by Britney Spears during the scene where Hal is a Hunter and has to go rescue Morgan, but it didn't fit in the above soundtrack. I really, really wanted "This Is" by Grace Jones from Hurricane, but it's not available in the US. So sad.

If you want to try those out or purchase them and have access to US iTunes, click the iMix link beneath the cover art. If you don't live in the US, I don't know what happens when you clicky. Find out and report back!


Special Delivery


iMix link
Track list:

1. First Train Home (Instrumental Version) by Imogen Heap (Ellipse-Deluxe Version)
2. A&E (Maps Instrumental Mix) by Goldfrapp (A&E EP)
3. Love At First Sight by Kylie Minogue (Fever)
4. Tears of Joy from The Partition soundtrack (Brian Tyler)
5. Swoon by Imogen Heap (Ellipse)
6. Time Out From The World by Goldfrapp (Supernature)
7. All I See by Kylie Minogue (X)
8. Look On The Floor by Bananarama (Drama)
9. Canyon Dreams by Ah Nee Mah (Spirit of the Canyon)
10. A&E (Maps Remix) by Goldfrapp (A&E EP)
11. Home by Will Young (Keep On)
12. First Train Home by Imogen Heap (Ellipse)

Two gems are missing from this one: "Love Comes" by Bananarama from their latest album, Viva, and "This Is Who I Am" by Will Young from I don't know what album.

Mostly I listened to Imogen Heap while I wrote this story. Anytime it was Sam & Mitch in the truck, that was what was on, if not Ah Nee Mah. "Canyon Dreams" got put on repeat a lot, as did an instrumental playlist I made of the tracks from Ellipse that really worked. Ellipse came out while I was writing (on my birthday!!!), and it quickly became all I wanted to hear. It really felt like the sound I wanted for Sam's journey. The Maps remix of "A&E" was also key; anytime there was movement or a middle arc in a plot point, I went for that song. But when they were in Vegas, it was Bananarama and Kylie all the way. And back when this book was just a gleam in my eye, I listened to absolutely nothing but Kylie. She made Sam who he was more than anyone. So, Pop Princess, I thank you.

A special note: When Sam runs (limps?) down the road towards the truck stop, and when Old Blue goes racing down Main Street at the end, it was "First Train Home (Instrumental)" over and over and over and over. And over.

And those are my mixes. I hope you enjoy them.


*Anyone who had Kylie run through their head when I said that gets extra credit points and a big, big hug.

I suppose you could call this a "blog extra," though I'm going to post this feed manually onto twitter, so I suppose it's a tweet-extra as well. I've reported here a bit that I'm drafting a novel with DW Marchwell. Some of you have hedged and some of you have outright come out and said you want to see it.

Well, if you'd care to do so, here is a peek.

Please bear in mind this is raw stuff; we're only 20k in and still working and still drafting. Neither of these samples are full scenes, either, just enough to give you a flavor. I will say, I'm really enjoying it. It's like improv. You have a vague sense of where the story is going, but you never really know until it appears on the screen. And it's fun when you're not the dominant point-of-view, because you just sit back and read and occasionally provide dialog or stage directions. And are taught how to spell Saskatchewan, or are told that "Des Moines" means "some monks."

We would love to hear your feedback. Like our teamwork? Appetites whetted? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. Is Tom not the most romantic man you've ever met? (Okay, I'm leading you. I'll shut up now.)

It's becoming clear to me that I'm at one of those time-crux things where, despite the fact that I absolutely do not have any extra time whatsoever, period, end of discussion, I am going to have to take time out of the schedule to 1) exercise and 2) meditate, because if I don't... well, if I don't, I won't have time. If that makes sense.

Right now is a perfect example. I am up at 3AM not because I hurt (thankfully) but because my brain is convinced that I'm not going to slow down to listen to all its fabulous ideas, so once the body was rested just enough, it woke me up—just enough—and then chatted like a magpie. Wait, now I'm suddenly unsure of that metaphor. Chatted like a hyperactive chipmunk? It chatted. Lots. Let's leave it at that.

The irony is that mostly it chatted about something I can't act on. At this second I'm actively working on two novels, one with David, and one on my own. I am thirty-thousand some into the solo one; with David—whoah. I just went to the Scrivener document to check, and I'm a bit stunned. We have 20K! Damn. Well, actually, that makes sense, then. Because my brain wanted to chat—in depth—about where And All Was Said is going. I tried, groggily, to explain that this is a dual-driving deal, and it cannot make me go sit down and whip out ten thousand words in the middle of the night unless it wakes up David too, and good luck with that. So you know what my damn brain did? It partitioned the story. I lay there in bed, staring into the darkness with two humans and three cats snoring around me, and I watched my crazy plot brain branch out six or seven different ways the story could go, and I got the turning points for each way. It's either brilliant or fucking scary. I can't tell which. It did very little for the one I DO control, interestingly enough. So clearly part of my subconscious is having control issues. (And no one in the room is surprised.)

But I get this, because I have not been seeing to the care and feeding of my brain. Very little story that it didn't write itself. Very little simple meditation. Even today during a reiki session it ran story. And the exercise gig has been hampered by the odd arms, but I think I can suss that out tomorrow.

Well, today.

Feeling more than a bit like the head of a large committee who is looking out at a board room where things are currently working, but possibly soon will get out of hand. Orange juice and donuts (DEAR GOD those sound good right now) will just hype us all up on sugar. Not sure what the team needs. A plan? Maybe just leadership. But that's what the meditation is, I think. Meditation and exercise are space for everyone to be heard. For the house monitor to say, "Laundry! My god, woman, DO IT!" and the story keepers to point out what they've noticed. I think the fallacy is that I have to spreadsheet it all. More than anything, I think the whole boardroom needs to hear all the grievances, and my job is not to schedule, but to get everyone there to hear. And by hear I mean hear everyone else.

But maybe a few donuts and some orange juice. My god. I may have to run to Hy-Vee.

By the way, do you want to know more about David? Last night while we were writing (we kept getting off track), he kept referring to people or events I didn't know, and when I'd say, "What?" he said, "I talked about it at Bookwenches." And I said, "Book what?" and so my homework was to google them and go find his blog and his interview. Which I did. Would you like to fall in love with my writing partner? Click here and here.

I keep meaning to ask him if I can post a snippet so you can see. My god, but it's amazing. Whenever David has the wheel, I just sit there, collapsing into goo as I watch the words appear because he is THE most romantic man, ever, and then he'll finish and say, "How's that?" like, you know, it ISN'T so fucking brilliant that I ache. 

So that's me at now 4AM. I foresee a nap in my future. Also, donuts and orange juice.

Tomorrow I am heading to Ankeny to see some chiropractor/acupuncturist/general whosis of pain. Thursday I see my regular doctor as well as my energy/reiki therapist. Today I went to talk therapy. By Friday, I will be a new person.

Well, I doubt it. The arms, though, are out of control. I walked into Maura's office today and she recoiled at the sight of me, and I had to explain that I was not, in fact, in some horrible accident; I just had my arms wrapped in Ace bandages and my elbow in a support band because it felt better. I think for now I need to wear the bandages every day while I'm typing. Not sure about the elbow thing. The compression seems to help keep my tendons from locking up. At least I think they're tendons. What I can tell you is that despite that one day last week where there was no pain, every other day has at least one of my arms locking up above and/or below the elbow. The muscles are so tight they feel like I am made of hard plastic, and when Dan tries to massage them to release the tightness he bruises me on accident. Over the weekend I kept losing feeling in my right pinky, which was worrying. When it got cold, I got very nervous, so Dan started pinching my finger on occasion, digging in with his fingernail. When I felt it and said, "Ow!" He said, "Good." Then, "Sorry."

So, it's time to broaden the doctor pool. Yes, I resent this, if you were wondering. But as I said to Maura, while no, it isn't fair, and yes, it is annoying, and yes, it gets me down, none of this gets rid of the pain. Going to Ankeny to see a new dude and double checking with my usual one and having a little soothing energy therapy does. Of course, it's going to cost a lot of money. Win some, lose some.

But speaking of win. I keep getting comments, in email and reviews, about how people like Special Delivery, and several have made a point to praise my handling of BDSM. While I am very glad for and grateful to get all comments on this book, I am especially pleased to hear that comment in particular. I worried so much over that, because that was a researched point, not a personal experience. (You'll note, if you read it, that Sam specificially states he is not into pain. This is because while I respect the rights of others to feel otherwise, personally I can find pain sexy in no universe.) I know that bad handling of BDSM gets a lot of sharp negative attention, so I did my best and then got ready to hear I did it wrong, because I was sure I must have. Not so much so far. Which is nice to know.

The other thing I am doing right now is editing the hell out of TSV. (That would be The Seventh Veil for those of you just joining the blog.) I'm on my last seventy pages of copy edit, and then I need to prepare the stuff I need to submit it. I want to submit it as a series, so I'm going to outline what I know of all seven books. I hope to god I will only be going over this story two more times, once in copy edit and once in galleys. And I hope to all heaven it is through DSP.

That's the state of me. Off to send Anna to piano and sort dinner, and then back to edits before more writing with DW tonight. Work, work, work, work....

I've been using Kelly icons all over this weekend (because I just found them, and how do you resist?), but I'm trying to decided if I ever posted the Liam Kyle Sullivan videos here before. I don't think I have. Even if I did, I'm sure it's time to do so again.

genetic_drift , this one's for you.

The Goodreads giveaway of two paperback copies of Special Delivery ends tonight at midnight. I have to say, the fact that 800 people clicked on Sam & Mitch warms the cockles of my heart. I am, however, baffled that all you have to do is tweet to possibly get $25 and only one man has entered. As you like it, people.

In other news, the incredibly-glorious-and-I-am-gonna-kiss-her-on-the-mouth ooshiny  emailed me today to tell me we were going to see Ingrid Micahelson in April.

In OTHER news, it is still snowing here. Or again. Or something. Or we're in hell. It's breached the basement windows. It's covered the stumps in the yard. The swing set is going next. It's beautiful. But it's stealing my soul. I don't even know why, because I like snow. Its just feels so malevolent this year, like it wants to snuff me out. GODDAMN IT, NO. I have things to do here.

Today is a day which so far has been absolutely clear of pain. I mean, nothing. Thank you, universe.

And finally: I've blogged about him before, but I'm going to do it again. This is DW Marchwell. He writes lovely books. Here is his latest.

It is a fantastic, sweet (but sexy!) story. You should be reading it. I told D I looked forward to duking it out with him on the bestseller page. After less than twenty-four hours, he's already on the paperback and novel page. Go make it even harder for me and buy his book.

The other reason you should read D is because later this year, hopefully, you will be reading something by the pair of us. We started in earnest this week, and last night we met on Google Documents and discovered that we liked this gig a lot. I also learned how to spell Saskatchewan. I haven't put it on my WIP page on my website yet because we barely know what it's about, but you, dear reader, can get a tiny preview here. My character, Jamie, goes up to Yellowknife, Canada, to surprise his boyfriend on his ice fishing trip only to find that his boyfriend lied and is actually in the Florida Keys. There he meets Tom, D's character, and they get snowed in. I don't know what else happens yet, because we haven't gotten that far. I do know that Jamie needs to quit smoking. Other than that, it's hard to say. Stay tuned!

Because I am involved, you knew there was a Curio page without me having to tell you.


I "met" D after I emailed him to tell him how much I liked Good to Know, his first novel; how we went from from that to co-authoring, I don't remember. I find it fun and intellectually stimulating, and I feel good about it. But if you want to wish us well, we won't turn good thoughts away!

So that's the story. Contests. Concerts. Snow. David's book. Our book. No pain.

Good day.

In honor of Special Delivery's release, I'm having a promotional contest. Full details are here.

Essentially the goal is to widen my exposure as much as possible. If you've already done some of the things listed in the contest, send me the links and I'll put you down for an entry.

The winning prize is $25 to the bookstore of your choice. International entries welcome, but you get the prize in US Dollars, not your own currency. 

Questions? Email me.

This is going to be one of those meta writing post things, but it's probably one of those deals where it applies to life in general as well. So if you're a writer, you can take it literally, and if you're not, you can take it metaphorically or however it pleases you.

I'm writing this because of a conversation on twitter with @Asrion. He was getting stuck with writing, and I suggested he just keep writing because that's how you get through it, by just writing so you get better and more confident. And he said:


It's not the writing it's the voice in my head that says this isn't good enough which degrades my confidence
And I said, yeah. That reply is longer than 140 characters.

It's also going to take a tich of backstory. If you have been here since last year about this time, you know that it was then when I started to melt down. I had thought I'd melted down a bit prior to that, but life in its way said, "No, THIS will be the time when you nearly come unglued," and yessir, that was so. For a good eight months I'd been careening slowly towards chronic pain, and then for Christmas I landed smack-dab in it. At this time last year I was standing in the doorway of my office, pressing my forehead to the wood and screaming. And then I thought, "Hey, now would be a good time for therapy!" So off I went. And I also went to every doctor I could find, and by March I was well on my way to where I am now, which is holding hands with pain and living with it. But back then I wasn't, and so I went to see Maura, and we talked. A lot.

The thing with pain is that it's a bitch in its own right, but the side effect is that if you have any other issues, when the pain hits, so do the other issues. I didn't realize how much I had packed away, not just saying but believing I was fine until I needed every reserve crevice for storing resolve for arms that ached and hips that screamed and necks that swelled and made my head feel like it was going to snap off. So therapy quickly became not just talking about how do I live with this not-well-named pain thing and the uncertainty of the treatment (which still remains, "I dunno, whatever works"), but we also quickly moved to "Okay, so this writing thing is getting me down," and we even got to social stuff too. Right now we're talking a lot about when I was twelve. We also talk about when I was eight, and six, and sixteen, and twenty.

(If you are sitting there thinking, how the hell does this have to do with writing? just hold on. I promise, I come around.)

In these conversations we talk a lot about what happened then, or rather, I talk and Maura finds my landmines. I tell a story for twenty minutes, and then she yanks out a word or a phrase. Like, "stupid." In Special Delivery, Sam got a spanking from Mitch for saying he was stupid, and I get Looked At Sternly by Maura. Sam has more fun. But Maura's right. I'm a bit too liberal in calling myself "stupid." I am also, as she says, way too hard on myself. This is because, I have learned, that in my youth and childhood there were A Series of Unfortuante Events, and I had to make some choices, and my choice was that I decided I was going to be really fucking competent. Except I was about six and didn't know the word "fuck" even existed, so I decided it with G-rated vocabulary. But competent was the word. Life was scary and unpredictable, and it hurt, so I decided I was going to be so strong it couldn't hurt. Everybody else had Lee jeans and I had hand-me-downs? No problem. I don't need those. They don't matter. Nobody wants to be my friend? That's fine. I don't need them. We lose our family farm, where I have all my secret hideaways in the forest and talk to the faries and imagine alternate worlds? Okay, that one smarted. But I kept on. We move eight zillion times and I have to make new friends all over the place? Can-do. Parents divorce as I go to college? All over it, babe. Nothing can touch us. Strong as fuck here. (I know the word by college.)

The problem—and here's where we arc back to writing, if you're skimming—is that this all came at a cost. Oh, it worked. We don't call this joint Amazon Iowan for nothing. But the price for that BOO-YAH was one fuck of an inner critic. That voice inside that nags. And that one, I think, knew the word fuck before it was fucking invented. You want to be strong with no one to show you how but yourself? Well, if you're going to do that, you have to be hard on yourself. Really, really hard. If you want to be strong, and more importantly, if you want to be safe, you have to get to yourself before the other people do. You have to be good, you have to be right, and you have to guess how they're going to hit you before they even wind up to swing. So you develop that part of you that looks out all the time, the part of you which never sleeps, which doesn't smile, which just keeps an eagle eye so that NOBODY gets the jump on you. Except sometimes they still do. And heaven fucking help you when that happens, because it will. Those are bad days. Those are the days that voice gets sharper, harsher, and a little more panicked. You can see where this is going, right? Pretty soon you're sharp and panicked all the time. Pretty soon a fucking ice cube is threatening. Pretty soon you're locked in your bedroom closet with a collander on your head with a toasting fork in one hand and a ham radio in the other, murmuring war mantras to yourself.

Well, not really. But I'm betting a whole hell of a lot of you know exactly what I'm talking about. This voice? This collander-head with the fork? A lot of people have that voice. And damn near every writer does.

I didn't need Maura to figure that one out. The how and the why it got there I hadn't cottoned to, but the ID on that baby came awhile ago. I used to call it "the bitch in my head" on this journal, in fact. I thought the only way to fight that voice was to scream back, to brace against the toasting fork and insist that I can fucking do this, damn it, leave me alone!

Would you believe that this, actually, is the worst thing you can do? Maybe you do, because that's the standard delivery line advice people give, and what I used to give, when people are talking to that voice. And while the backstory is really long, the real way to deal with it is very short.

Love it. Love that voice. A fucking lot.

This isn't some cute self-help thing, so stop rolling your eyes. The reason you got that TMI up there about me and My Poor Life is because it's key to understanding, and that's why therapy is always a walk down memory lane. Because that voice was created to survive. That voice showed up because life is really, really fucking hard. It's hard, and it's lonely, and they fill you full of this bullshit that there's An Answer and A Way, and you try it because you want it to be true, but it doesn't work. LIfe is a movie with bad plot and worse pacing. It's got good moments too, but mostly it's really hard, and if you think too much on it, you end up in the closet with the collander. Which is why we get that voice. The voice says, "You live. You go be a person. I will watch for you and keep you safe." And then it gets overdeveloped and the collander happens. (Yes, I'm in love with that image. Sue me. Aren't you laughing? You should be laughing. The collander is green and plastic, by the way.)

So you try to write, or you try to live, and the voice happens. Basically, you take a risk, and that voice goes on alert. Because risks are bad. Bad things happen when we take risks. Better to just go stroke the toasting fork and check the ham radio for new action. Don't write that novel. For god's sake, don't show it to anybody. Don't try for that new job. Don't, don't, don't. And when we try to rebel and do it anyway, it primes the pump. "They will laugh at you. It won't work. It won't be what you think it will. Bad, bad, bad, bad. Try the collander. It's so comfy." The voice says no, because this is what the voice does.

But there's a point where that voice needs to step down or at least step back, and a kick is not going to make that happen. This voice is a guardian. Telling it to fuck off will work about as well as it did with your parents. The voice will step down when it perceives safety, or when it perceives competence. It will absolutely test you. It will say, "Are you sure?" And the correct answer, for the record, is not always yes. The correct answer is, "I will be okay." Or, better, "We will be okay. You and me, voice, guaridan, baby, we're gonna be okay."

You say, "You have done such a good job caring for me. Thank you. Thank you so much. You made me so strong. Thank you so much. You have made me safe in a world where there should be no safety. You made me strong inside myself and taught me that no one can truly hurt me. Thank you. Thank you so much." And you love the voice. And you honor it. And you behave the way your parents wish you would have when you were a teenager, acknowledging their sacrifices and support, and you say thanks.

And then you pull out the voice's favorite movie and put it in the player, and you ask for the keys and promise to check in before curfew.

The voice that tells you that you suck is not your enemy. The guardian voice that fills you with doubt is you. That voice is there to keep you from being hurt. But the problem is that it is also there to keep you from living, and after awhile that starts to hurt more than anything life can throw at you. Explaining that to the voice is hard, but that's your job. You get it to respect you by proving yourself. You get it to stop screaming and start nudging by not being the child it needed to protect but the adult you are. Like, my guardian voice is not quite sure about how much sharing I did here, and it thinks I was too wordy and too flip. Which is why this setence just got added in an edit, and I'll be reading it again once it's posted and probably editing again. My guardian voice is concerned with how we are perceived, the pair of us, and it is envisioning scenarios where other people read this and roll their eyes or mock, or worst of all, the most feared result, is that they find a flaw with this post or this exposure and POINT IT OUT and destroy the sense of saftey it has going. That's the real death.That's the guardian voice's worst nightmare, because to it, that's failure. That's a guard asleep at the door. Its only job is to see potential flaws, and it just failed.

Well, that's not true, of course. Its job is to do its best to see those things, and so when it misses, my job is to say, "It's okay." When I have a book out and lots of people are suddenly interested, I'm all excited and fluttery, but the guardian voice says, "Oh, god. This could be bad." It's like the Secret Service in a crowded room with no advance screening. So I try to be good and not stray too far from the guys with the earpieces. I try to respect the voice and advance slow enough that it feels safe too. Because after all this time of benefiting from its shepherding, it seems the least I can do.

So that's the secret to dealing with the writing voice that tears down your confidence. You tell it "thank you." And then you point out that you're unhappy. You point out that sitting still is not satisfying. You explain that, yes, you'd rather look like an idiot or at least risk that than sit in the closet. The collander is indeed comfy, but sometimes you want to walk down the street and take a risk. But you're not running away, and you're not running too fast. This is a team sport. You'll check in with coach. But coach needs to not keep you on the bench, either. You say, "I'm going to try this." You say, "I am strong enough for this."

You say, "I am strong enough for this, guardian voice, because you made me that way. Thank you. I love you. Now let me show you what a wonder you have made."

And then you jump off the cliff and fly. The rest you just make up as you go along.

Today is supposed to be all about Special Delivery, but it's actually a good day for all the boys all around. Hero was named book of the week at Whipped Cream reviews (thanks to all who voted!), Special Delivery went on sale, and when I went to my Google Reader to take a break between edits of TSV, I saw that Paul Richmond had posted the final cover of Double Blind. OH. MY. GOD.



Double Blind, for those of you just joining the blog, is the sequel to Special Delivery and comes out in April. If you read SD and fall in love with Randy, take heart. He shines like the start he is in two months. And MAN is this cover right. Ethan and Randy look EXACTLY like this. My favorite is the expression on Randy's face. And all the tiny details. God. Paul is so full of awesome.

He even made the felt on the table green. Randy so approves.
Double Blind blurb:

Poker player and professional smartass Randy Jansen believes in fate but doesn't let it rule his life. Whether he’s at the table or between the sheets, Randy always knows the odds, and he only plays the games he can win—until he meets Ethan Ellison. Ethan came to Las Vegas with a broken heart and shattered spirit, and when he sits down at the roulette table with his last five dollars, he means this to be one of his last acts on earth. But Randy ropes him into first one bet, and then another, and then another.... Pretty soon they’re playing poker on the Strip and having the time of their lives—and all this even before Randy gets Ethan into his bed.

But before Ethan can plot out a new course for his life, they’re drafted into the schemes of Randy’s former lover, a tricky gangster who needs a fall guy. To survive, Ethan will have to stop waiting on fate and start making his own luck, and Randy will have to face the demons of his past and accept that to win this round, he’s going to have to put up a big ante. It isn’t money going into the pot this time, either: it’s his heart, and Ethan’s too—because for better or for worse, the game of love has a double blind.

Excerpt here.

Hustle on over to Dreamspinner before midnight and get yourself a 15% off the ebook. Or buy the paperback. Hell, buy both. However it pleases you.

This is the steamy one, folks. We open with a blow job. It escalates from there. But it's Dan's favorite because he says it has heart. Go buy Dan's favorite book. If you want a test drive, go read the excerpt.

I'm also ordering ten extra copies to have here on hand. If you live in town and want to buy direct, email me. If you want to have it mailed to you, email me too. This one is a bit more, so cost from me plus delivery this time is $23.I just need your mailing address and a paypal payment, but don't send it to that email. I'll be giving you the email for a different account.

But Sam and Mitch are officially on the road. Contest tomorrow. Several contests tomorrow. But the book is out.

“Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

I had been stirring my drink when the man sitting beside me at the bar asked me this; I shrugged, then started stirring in the other direction.

The man chuckled knowingly. “That’s all right. You’ll find your somebody. There’s someone for everyone.” He leaned back on his stool, opening his stance a bit. He continued speaking with casual confidence. “Got my gift for the missus already. Box of chocolates and a dozen roses being delivered to her possibly as we speak. She likes tradition. We’re traditional people.”

I smiled and nodded. Then I shifted just slightly, bracing my arms against the padded rails of the bar and stirred my drink with focused intent, hinting as hard as I could that I didn’t want to hear anything more about this man’s Valentine’s Day plans with his wife or the traditional nature of their partnership. It had been a long day, and I wanted to be alone while I waited at the bar.

But either I was lousy with my body language, or the man just wasn’t interested in picking up on it. “Yep,” he said, the word escaping on a satisfied breath, “been married thirty years now. Best decision I ever made. Oh, we had our troubles for awhile there, and sometimes we still do. Best marriages have a bit of bite to them, I always say.”

“Hmm,” I said, with absolutely no invitation at all. I glanced up and down the bar, trying to decide if I could get away with switching to a new seat. But there wasn’t anyone else sitting at the rail, and there wasn’t even a better view of the TV hanging in the corner. I glanced at my watch, noted the time, and repressed a sigh.


“Bedrock institution, marriage,” the man went on. “My wife is my ground wire. Bad day at work? Most days just walking in the door and seeing her face makes it go away. And then there’s the kids.” He laughed ruefully. “Oh, they gave us most of our gray hair, that’s for sure. But they’re our legacy. All off in the world now, and a few of them have kids of their own. That’s the way it’s supposed to go. You find someone to love, you make a life with them, and you raise a family. That’s what a marriage is.” His tone sharpened a little as he added, “That’s what it’s supposed to be, anyway. And as soon as those chicken-shits in Des Moines let us vote, that’s the way it’s gonna be again.”

My straw stilled in the middle of my glass, and I looked intently down into the ice. Just say nothing, I coached myself. Just don’t say anything. Just keep your mouth shut and wait, and he’ll go away.

But it was Valentine’s Day, and I was tired, and this man was getting on my nerves. So I said something.

“I don’t think people’s marriages are anyone else’s business outside of the people in the marriage,” I said.

He snorted in derision. “Oh, you’re one of them liberals, are you?”

Leave this, I urged myself. Leave this right where it’s lying. “Actually,” I said, “I’m Libertarian. I don’t believe the government should involve itself in people’s private lives or their businesses.”

“But you see?” the man dogged. “That’s just what that damn Iowa Supreme Court ‘decision’ was. A bunch of activist judges deciding what marriage should be. I didn’t get to vote that judge in. He’s not representing me. But he just decided what my marriage was without asking me and made a mockery of everything good Christians believe in.”

“The judges interpreted the Iowa Constitution,” I said. “That’s their job. They’re meant to make decisions based on law alone, without any pressure to act politically.”

“That should change.” The man’s fist tightened as it rested against the smooth surface of the bar, and he glared at the line of liquor bottles across from us. “We should vote them in just like we do everyone else. They should be representative of us, not the damn liberals that put them in.”

“But most of the Iowa Supreme Court was appointed by Republican governors,” I pointed out. “And Varnum vs. Brien was a unanimous decision.”

Now the man was getting agitated. I will confess, I was enjoying it a little. “You’d feel differently, son,” he said gruffly, “if you were married and it was your marriage being cheapened.”

Do not open your mouth! I pleaded with myself, but even as I reached out to still my tongue, I knew at this point there was no hope. “Actually,” I said, “I am married.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that some fag can just waltz down the aisle with some guy he met online and get married, just to thumb his nose at what you have with your wife?”

I frowned at him. “I don’t think that actually happens. And in any event, a heterosexual couple could do that too.”

“Heterosexual couples don’t have a degenerate lifestyle,” the man sneered. “They don’t go against the word of God.”

I didn’t even bother urging myself out of this conversation anymore. I just pushed my drink away and turned to the man. “You don’t think it’s against the word of God to hate homosexuals?”

That pushed him over the edge too. He aimed an angry finger at me. “Don’t even start. I’m so sick of hearing that a Christian speaking out against the degradation of the institution of marriage is preaching hate. Did I say I hated homosexuals? Did I say that? No. I didn’t.”

“It was implied,” I said, “when you wanted to take away their civil rights.”

“Bull!” he shot back. His face was red. “Special rights are not civil rights! Not even every gay thinks so, either, so don’t go talking about what you don’t know about. Some gays are fine with civil unions. They get that their choice means they don’t get what the rest of us have. They get that it’s right that way.”

“And those people, and you, have the right to speak for everyone else who doesn’t feel that way?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and I watched his opinion of me slide away like mud down a hill. I watched him judge me, and I felt him dismiss me. I made myself see it, made myself feel it. Remember this, I told myself. Remember the way he’s looking at you. Remember that this is the reason that you fight.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” The disgust in his voice was thick. He looked at me as if I carried the plague, and he was horrified that he had been sitting next to me this long, treating me like a regular, healthy person. “You’re one of them.”

I lifted my chin and kept my voice even and calm as I replied.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m one of ‘them’. I’m one who believes that you shouldn’t get to vote on my marriage or anyone else’s. I’m one of them who believes that all men and women are created equal in the eyes of the law and that we are all endowed with certain inalienable rights. I believe that love is blind. I believe that sexuality is not a choice but a complicated state of being which is no one’s business outside the person living that life. And for the record, I do believe in the word of God. I believe that we should all love one another. I believe that as you do unto the least of us, you do unto God. I believe that judgment is reserved for God alone. I believe that we should care for one another and respect one another, that we should build each other up, not tear each other down.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the bar open, and my heart rose up, carrying my body with it. I couldn’t smile at my partner, but it wasn’t necessary. My heart and my love were in my eyes. “I believe in love. For everyone.”

I grabbed my coat from the stool beside me and pulled out my wallet to pay my tab, because I was leaving now, and thank God for that. The man beside me watched me move, and it was clear that he was sickened and repulsed. “You’ll think differently, fag,” he snarled, “when you’re rotting in hell.”

I tossed a ten dollar bill on the bar. “I don’t believe in hell.” The man snorted, but I ignored him, turning around and putting on a wide, grateful smile as my wife came up to me and put her hand on my arm before leaning in to give me a kiss on my cheek.

I watched the man’s jaw fall open in surprise, and yes, I enjoyed it. I smiled at him as I took my wife’s hand and squeezed it in silent welcome and thanks. I kissed her on the lips, lingering and soft, drawing strength from her, letting her take away all the ugliness this man had given me, the ugliness against which I’d been unable to turn the other cheek. I let her love wrap around me, lifting me up.

When I was feeling strong again, I turned to the man, and I gave him a civil smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, then took my wife’s arm and let her lead me away.



Copyright 2010 by Heidi Cullinan