If you aren't reading Marie Sexton, you need to start, and in happy coincidence, today she has a brand new story for you to read.

All right, if you read this too early it will be "available soon," but soon is really, really soon. And it's already on Kindle.

I loved this story. It made me think of Raymond Carver and that close narration, sparse and only essential prose and vivid imagery. I still have the sun-bleached swimming pool painted starkly across my brain. Sexton is passionate about character-driven story, and One More Soldier is no exception. And if you love a throwback, you will love the late sixties vibe.

Yes, Marie is a friend, but I'm pimping her book because I also love her work. And if you think I'm gushing now, you wait until August 6 when Strawberries for Dessert is released.

One More Solider. Buy now and be happy.

I just dropped my daughter off at a friend's house for an hour, and because of a schedule snafu, I'm not going to a PT appointment but am hanging out before I have to take Anna to clean a horse instead. Dan, meanwhile, is at work. I am home alone. The fact that I did NOT go to Tobacco Outlet and buy a pack of Dunhills* is a sign of my personal and moral development. Honestly? I'd rather have the Dunhills.

Lutin, as per usual, has this all summarized nicely (and as usual, with some spelling errors) on the Daily Fix.

You have to kind of split your head
hopefully not open
but you have to divide mentally your attention now
between looking ahead to the future
with enthusiasm and courage
while dealing with some very present realities
that will of course lead you directly TO that future
if you don't let the current situations
drag you down.
Something about Saturn leaving Virgo for the last time (BITCH, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE) and Jupiter and Uranus and the moon. Stuff. Things in the sky. Whatever it is, I feel it. And I would like a Dunhill.

It's not easy being Virgo, and it's no more fun being Virgo with Scorpio rising and a Cancer moon. The drama, it bleeds, and it makes a mess on the floor, which is so unpleasant and must be cleaned. Plus, there's nothing a Virgo loves more than to insist, thin-lipped, "I'm fine," and this drama stuff makes it difficult. It's especially annoying when the Virgo part knows its all really manufactured bullshit anyway. But the crack cocaine is that this is drama about PLANNING. Planning, now. That's very different. Planning is very important. And so here I am, sweet corn season in Iowa, and I'm not licking butter off my fingers after I devour another ear. I'm eating my own arm. Where should this manuscript go? What should I ask for? How can I make this a solid career? Am I doing it right? Is there something I'm not paying enough attention to? Does that social networking thing really matter? Does anybody actually USE LinkedIn beyond accepting connection requests from people? Aren't I supposed to actually write occasionally instead of worry about all this horseshit? How can any of this be validated? Should it be? Seriously, aren't I supposed to be writing right now?

As Annie Lennox would say, these are the contents of my head. Which is why, thank you Jesus, I am signing with an agent.

You will now have questions. They will be one or all of the following:

1. Why do you have an agent? You're writing m/m, a niche genre. Have you not read your royalty statements? You want to share THAT?
2. HOW DID YOU GET AN AGENT, HOLY SHIT!!!! They don't even answer my queries!
3. Who is your agent?
4. Um... what's an agent?


Questions answered, in reverse order:

An agent in this instance is a literary agent. Essentially, she will be my gatekeeper. It is her job to sell my books. She will receive my manuscripts, tell me "good job" or "fix this please" or "tweak that, I have an idea," and then she will sally forth and sell my ass to the highest bidder. And she will go for the highest bidder. The best deal, both monetarily and contractually. She will look not just to the now but to the future. Because this is about career and money for both of us. We would both like some of each. And by signing with her, we each get linked to the other. My success is hers. She gets 15% of everything I make that she sells. So she will try to make that sale higher and higher. Not with promotion, really, but with placement. It's her job to know where to sell me and what to get away with. It is her job to argue over contracts. I have input here, but whereas talking about contracts make me skip right over Dunhills and go to vomit-territory, she thinks they're fun. They are something to be conquered and mastered, god bless her soul. It is her job to be networked and savvy and a killer salesperson. It is my job to write, consider her reports, make some decisions, and sign things. And not smoke Dunhills.

My agent is Saritza Hernandez. She is the "epub agent" at the L. Perkins Agency, which is a New York agency, for those of you raising your eyebrows, though in the epub world I'm not entirely sure location matters anymore. I'm connected to them, and should the opportunity arise to get in on the more traditional NY scene, there they are. But also, this means Saritza is privy to their knowledge and their experience and their contacts, and as the divide between epublishing and traditional publishing further blurs, this is going to be pretty damn important.

How did I get an agent? Jesus. You really don't want to know. Frustration, poor impulse control, and Twitter. And dumb luck. You know when you hear the best way to do well is write a really good book? Yeah. That. She liked Special Delivery. No letter, no query, no nothing. Just, "Um, so, can I ask you a question?" And she said yes, what is it, and I started blurting out how much I hate trying to sell shit and she started selling herself and my potential future, and I thought, "Wow. This is intense. I want this working for me. Yes, please." So here we are.

And now you want to know why.

The answer is that cryptic opening about astrology and the Dunhill reference now so recurrent four of you are now smoking even though you never smoked before in your life and six former addicts are gnawing their fingernails and mentally mapping the distance between them and the nearest store. Do I need an agent in this small genre with very, very small profits? Do I need an agent when I already have contacts with publishers and credits enough to submit on my own and be heard? Do I need one when I already take the time to read contracts carefully and WILL argue points that upset me?

The answer to all these questions and the others I just couldn't think of is YES. FUCK. YES.

ME, I need one. Oh, some of you, no. A lot of people are smarter than me and less neurotic and many other superlatives, and those people are fine. Me, I'm a mess. I have Randy Jansen in my head. I calcuate odds without realizing I'm doing it, analyzing outcomes, examining futures, making myself crazy until even though I'm very, very smart, it is so much easier to just play prop poker and work as a mechanic and take life as it comes. But unlike Randy, I do have a bit of ambition. Largely I'd like to contribute financially to my household and pay for Anna's college and take trips to spawn more plot bunnies. Beyond that is gravy, but my ambitions and my current reality are not quite lining up. And yes, sorting out the business stuff is work. Lots of work. The promo I don't know about. I think most of it is masturbation, really. I think mostly I try to be accessible and out there and myself, and if people like that and decide to click on my website to see what the crazy person is all about and end up buying a book, well, so much the better. Mostly I'd like to write really good books and have them sell because they're really good books and those are always popular. But I can't write at the pace you need to write to make enough money and be competitive AND sort the business stuff and still be good. Not without substance abuse.

So this is why an agent. Yes. Right now she is sharing the crusts of my peanut butter sandwich. But the idea is that she'd like to be shaving off the heel of my porterhouse steak, so she'll be looking to get us both a better meal. My job is now to write good books. Really good books. Her job is to find the place for them to go and make us money. Yes, at first this will be a bit of a cut, but I'm hoping not for long.

I'm still having a hard time putting this worry doll down. And yes, there are moments where Randy is still whispering odds into my ear. But I try to send him off with slavetopassion and Mitch for more porn and quality time, and I try to say things like, "That's for Saritza to worry about now." It will still take a few days for that to sink in. And it doesn't make everything go away. I still have to unsnarl Two To Tango, a task which is the other half of the Dunhill obsession. And yes, as I write it and it gets longer, not shorter, and I wonder where this should go and what I should do and whether or not I should just kill myself, I say, once again, "That is for Saritza to worry about. Just unsnarl the fucking plot," and back we go.

Of course, I still have to unsnarl the fucking plot. And for this God made coffee, whiteboards, and Jameson's whiskey. Or, sometimes, Arbor Mist.

I swear, soon I will actually blog fun and random things like the murals I'm painting on Anna's windows and sunsets and bunnies and other such things. As soon as I get a life, I will blog about it.

Back to work. Which will not involve worrying about contracts, odds, or cigarettes.






*Dunhills are cigarettes. Fantastically wonderful yummy British cigarettes. I got re-addicted when I visited michaelwebster  in 2007. Do you know what he smoked, in the land of Dunhills? MARLBORO LIGHTS. The pain. The pain.

Pride and desire send prosperous merchant Eryn on a personal quest to find the perfect man to share his life. Eryn has heard of a mythical land beyond the mountains, where it is rumored that a benevolent, magical prince rules a kingdom of equality and harmony, and so he sets out, alone and determined... but even the most focused of determination will only take Eryn so far.

A destined true love does wait for Eryn, but the path to his future is rife with risk, and he will face not only his deepest fears, but also pain, torture, and bone-deep desolation as he struggles to reach Wyn, a sweet, beautiful, and fragile man trapped in an enchantment. If Eryn is to have any chance at a happily ever after, he will have to conquer the illusions that have always consumed him, even if it means sacrificing life and limb for love.

[Buy now/also see excerpt]


This is a kinky little fairytale. It's somewhere between Snow White and The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, and honestly, there's some Baba Yaga and Maiden King in there too. Quite kinky. Quite dark. I walk right up to the edge of non-con and shake its hand in a few places. I figure telling this either spares you some discomfort or makes you go "Ooh!" and run to buy it faster.

This novella was written of course to sell, but the whole time I wrote it for my darling, beloved slavetopassion. Jason has wanted "something about pain," and between the education of porn he's given me and the nudge to read Bloodraven, mixed up with the fact that I adore him and wanted to please him, this is the book that resulted.

So there you have it. Sweet Son, ebook novella, available now.

Because you are full of awesome.

This is my daughter Anna. She's taking a picture of herself and some of her favorite things in her room. I think this was to capture the unicorn and fairy sculpture. (Trivia: She bought this at the truck stop in Colorado which doubles as the place where Sam and Mitch have breakfast burritos.) I like that it also includes the "fairy spell" (partly visible under the shelf) I made her when she was younger, to take with her when she visited grandparents and got scared at night. We're sort of homegrown magic around here, but I was proud of that one, and it's nice to see she still keeps it. But why I'm using this photo today is that it gives you a shot of Anna's horrible room wallpaper.

There are three rooms in our house which when we toured it five years ago before purchasing I looked at them and said, "These go right away." Only one of them got changed, and that one took three years to be completely done. (Kitchen.) Anna's bedroom is one of the other two. Originally it was our bedroom, but eventually we decided it made more sense for her to have the big room, and so we swapped. But the wallpaper is awful. 1980s black square outlines on white. Gag. But to redo the room, the wallpaper had to come down. On two other occasions I'd done a little bit of stripping, but it's a BIG room.

I declared that this summer we'd get to her room, and for whatever reason, this week was the week it happened. On Wednesday Anna went to her grandparents. Wednesday night I played Sims, drank wine, and went to bed. From Thursday until about an hour ago, I've been doing Anna's room. This is what it looks like now.





 


(All photos will enlarge when you click through.)

Wherever you see dark purple, imagine those horrible squares, and that's what the room was. It's a sight better now.

I did most of this work. Yes, me with the dumb chronic pain and recalcitrant body. Dan helped as much as he could, but they're switching hospital-wide computer systems this weekend, and so he basically could give me Thursday and part of Friday night. Every drop of paint is mine, and so is the arrangement. Anna picked the color, but mostly she came home yesterday afternoon and saw this.

Anna had a chronic Stuff problem. Actually, I think Stuff is like alcoholism. It never goes away and is only managed. My strategy was to take very nearly everything from the room, then put things back in a manner which encouraged less stuff and more managed stuff. That bare wall to the left of the window in photo 1 will eventually be custom shelves made by Dan's Dad (painted by us). There will also be an antique steamer trunk beside the white rocker in photo 4 (between the rocker and Butterscotch, but Tom (Dan's Dad) is repairing the hinges and a tray for the top. Inside it will go all the family treasures my godmother gave to Anna and a few of her own.

But we sorted through the Barbies and put them in severe order and containment. We GUTTED the toys. Lots of garbage went in the discard pile. What was left we sorted so it could actually be found and kept up easily. She got her proper curtains back. We moved her TV. Even the fish got a refit. (See last photo!) The closet is still on the docket, but I think we need the shelves for that. We have plans to paint those white panels on her doors and in those spaces on the shutters between her room and my office with fairy scenes.

Anna was thrilled. THRILLED. I've had about a zillion hugs. She told me last night that if she were a sim, her "satisfaction" would be full high for two days. She hates to leave her room. She swears she will pick it up. She loves how neat it is, loves the book and vanity corner, loves her Barbie area, loves the colors.

No, she won't be able to keep it clean always. Yes, we'll be picking it up again, probably soon. But it's got some good organization now, and it doesn't have any of the damn squares.

Yeah, I buggered up my hand and arm pretty badly to do it. Yes, it's still a little sore. Yes, they'll be fine in another day or so.

Yes, my baby girl is worth it.

I woke up this morning and found out I have a short story for sale! With pictures in it!

This one is from Syzygy Magazine, which is very new, and the magazine part proper isn't out yet, I don't think. They do have several other stories available, though, one of which is free!

Here's the blurb for mine. (Well, there's one on the site, but mine is longer, so we'll post that one here, and you can go read the short one too if you want): Sid’s done with one night stands and the heartache they bring, and he’s not going to let the rocky patch that moving in with his good-boy boyfriend has brought throw him from his goal of making a long-term relationship work. But when a night’s respite at a local club has a hip-swinging, sexy Irish folk guitarist winking at him from the stage and buying him drinks, Sid’s resolve is tested. He knows he should find comfort and safety in settling down. But when bad boy Doug is so determined to seduce him, it’s hard to remember that a lifetime of compromise really is better than one incredible night of pleasure.

Excerpt... oh, hey! I don't have one. We'll do a blog exclusive if I can hunt it down. Hmm.

I found it! And I'll post a few photos too.

*
THE BOYS OF PLEASURE

When Sid Hoyt came back to his table, there were two drinks waiting for him: a gin and tonic, and a shot of whiskey. Sid, who didn't remember ordering them, frowned at Livvy, who shook her head and pointed at the stage, where the band had started up again. An Irish flute was trilling, a fiddle was wailing, and drums were thumping. And in the middle of them was a guitarist, who, when he caught Sid looking at him, winked.

So they were from him. 

Sid sat down and glared at Livvy.

Livvy folded her arms in front of her chest. "Hey. You asked me to take you out, and I did. It's not my fault if a guy wants to send you drinks."

"I wanted a night to clear my head." He dismissed the drinks in front of him with an angry wave of his hand. "I didn't want to get flirted with by a saucy Irish musician."

"Then you probably shouldn't have spent the whole first set staring at him," Livvy said.

Yes, that was the problem. 

The band was called "The Boys of Pleasure," but they should have been named "The Collective of Sin."  Their music swept Sid up like a storm of sound. It made his toe tap and his body sway in his chair in time to its pulse. It was wild, and it was driving.  And the guitarist was irresistible.

The musician stood tall and slim and handsome, and he stole the show. The others stayed put, but the guitarist wandered all over the stage, wiggling his hips and bobbing to the beat, winding his cord around speakers and microphone stands until the stage hand had to rush out and undo his damage. He was so over the top that Sid didn't know how anyone could not stare at him.

"He came to the table while you were gone, and brought those." Livvy nodded to the drinks. "He was disappointed when you didn't appear."

"Did you tell him I was living with someone?" The guilty way she bit her lip told him all he needed to know. "Livvy!" Sid sank back in his chair.

She shook her head. "You were right not to go with Mike this weekend.  I've heard you two fighting when he drops you off from lunch. The whole library has." 

Livvy nodded at the stage. "There's no harm in a little flirting. It's good for the soul."

"Yes, and it tends to lead to sex," Sid snapped.

"Even better."

"I just need some time to adjust to the changes that come with living together," Sid said. "I want to take this seriously."

Livvy rolled her eyes. "Bullshit.  You just don't want to fail again."

"Is that so wrong?"

"Yes, if you're only staying with Mike so you can say that.  Do you even love him, Sid?"

Sid glared at her.  "Of course I do!"

"What do you love about him, Sid?"

Sid faltered.  "I—-I love him.  I love . . . his . . . personality."  Livvy snorted, and Sid folded his arms over his chest.  "Well?  What do you expect, when you put me on the spot like that?"

"I expect more than that, especially when I put you on the spot.  But it's your life.  You want to throw it away, go ahead."  Livvy pushed her chair back and rose.

Sid did, too. "Where are you going?"

"Home. I got a text while you were out; my roommate's blind date went horribly wrong." She slid her purse over her shoulder, then came behind Sid and pushed him back into his seat. "You, however, will stay. And you will drink. And when the show is over and the guitarist comes, you will say thank you. The rest I leave to your discretion, or lack thereof." She kissed him on the cheek. "Good-night, Sid." She left.

The song ended, and the audience clapped, but Sid was frozen, Livvy's accusations ringing in his ears.

The guitarist as he leaned over the mic and introduced the next song with a wicked burr. "Here's something with a bit of extra spice." He beamed at the audience, then turned and looked directly at Sid. "This one is called 'Sweet Seduction.'"

He kept staring as the song started, making Sid's blood start to hum.  This was turning into another one of Sid's Bad Choices.  This was the Rose Festival all over again.  And New Year's Eve.  And Pride 2008.  This was someone hot and new and interesting who would give him a great night in bed then never call him again. This was why he had dated Mike, why he'd let him move in, and why Sid tried so hard not to fight with him.

But Mike never looks at me like this guitarist is looking at me right now. 

Sid's hands curled on the table as the guitarist continued to look right at Sid as he played, as if the rest of the room weren't even there.  The music swirled around Sid and pinned him to his chair and pounded at his chest.

Sid did love Mike.  He did.  He loved that they were living together, that there was someone to  cook for.  He loved the way they watched TV together.  He loved lunches together.  He loved . . . he loved . . .

The guitarist shut his eyes, leaned forward, and swung his hips to the beat.

Oh god, he loved that. 

(Want to finish the story? Yes, sorry. Have to click here and have plastic.)

112,576 words. It has some creaky plot points and some seriously bent out of shape arcs. But I can fix all that, because I'm wicked smart. What matters right now is that I HAVE A DRAFT. Of THIS NOVEL. God, I thought this book was going to kill me.

TWO TO TANGO HAS A DRAFT!

*enjoys moment of YAY*

And now I have two manuscripts to put together and sell.

*dances*

To celebrate, here's what is currently the opening scene. first chapter.

***

In half an hour, everything was going to be great.

Right now Ed Maurer tapped his thumb against his steering wheel while he inched along I-94, sloughing off a rough afternoon as a corporate drone. Right now he still shook a little from watching three more people from his department clean out their desks, torn between feeling bad for them and feeling fucking relieved he hadn’t been one of them. Right now his neck was a little stiffer than it should be, especially since he’d taken four ibuprofen half an hour ago. Right now, even though the October sun was bright, Ed felt like everything in his life had a gray cloud around it, and even with The Black Eyed Peas enthusiastically belting out that they “got a feeling,” Ed stared out across the sea of cars and felt despair falling over his life like long, slow shadow.

But soon that was going to end. Maybe not forever, but for an hour, it was going to be great. Something new. Something different, exciting. It wasn’t his life’s dream or anything, but it was good.

It was great. It was going to be great.

On I-35E things cleared up a little, and pretty soon Ed exited and zipped down the streets of St. Paul towards Halcyon Center. His buoyant mood dimmed a little as he caught a glimpse of the playing fields off Payne Avenue and saw two guys he didn’t know but had seen before laughing and giving each other shit as they tossed a football back and forth. His gaze lingered there longer than it should have both for safety and for the preservation of his fragile optimism, and as if it knew what he was thinking, his neck sent a sharp twinge down the long, vulnerable cord of muscle.

Ed forced his eyes back onto the road and gripped the wheel tighter. No. He wouldn’t let the dark clouds get him, not today. It didn’t matter. So they were playing football. So what? He could still play football like they were.

If he was careful.

If he made sure nobody tackled him.

If he kept his mind so focused on protecting his neck that he never let go completely and lost himself in the game, ever, ever again.

The shadow of despair reached out again, closing over him.

Ed tightened his jaw and reached for the MP3 player hooked up to his stereo. Fumbling through the artists folder between glances at the road, he punched angrily through the list of artists until he found the one he was looking for. He stared hard at the road until a breathy voice declared, “It’s Britney, bitch.” As the familiar opening beats filtered through his ears, they bled out some of the tension and chased away some of the clouds. Within a few blocks he was singing along and tapping his thumb to the beat again.

He glanced over at the passenger seat, reaching over to lift his jacket and relaxing when he saw the folder with his notes inside. This was his first time teaching, ever, and he was a little nervous. He’d been doing personal training for a few months now, and his popularity was why Vicky had suggested he try his hand at a class, but teaching was different. This was a class.  Ed was a teacher now, as his mom reminded him every time he called home. God, she was telling all her friends he was an “instructor” now. But the thought made him grin, because he secretly liked the sound of that too, and he was really excited about this class. This could be really good. No—it was going to be really good.

Which was why he was determined not to screw it up. He’d gotten up at five this morning just so he could go over his notes again. He’d gone out to his car at lunch and reviewed them another time, just to be sure he had it. No way would he take them in to his desk, too afraid he’d accidentally leave them there and not have them for class.

His hope had been to get to the center early enough to sneak into one of the empty offices and do a dry-run, but the traffic between Bloomington and St. Paul had ensured this wasn’t going to happen.  Ed wasn’t going to let this ruin his first day as a teacher, though. He just turned up Britney, tapped his fingers against his leg, and did his best to think of this as prep time, running through his notes in his head.

At last, Ed pulled his Mazda into a parking spot, grabbed his duffel and his notes, then headed into the building, humming under his breath as he went. He winked at the receptionist as he passed back the sign-in clipboard, grinned at an old buddy and tossed him a cheery, “Heya!” and gave him a high-five as he passed. He was feeling good as he ducked into the locker room, and as he headed around the corner, he sang, “gimme gimme more” under his breath.

“Oh, fucking A, somebody’s singin’ Britney Spears. Look out: Maurer’s here.”

Ed laughed and waved in the direction of the voice without looking as he headed to his locker. “What’s up, Duon? You keeping out of trouble?”

“Fuck no.”

Ed saw the young man appear in the row of lockers and lean against the end row out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced at him, making sure he didn’t let his gaze linger too long, because Duon got mad when people checked up on him. But Ed let himself scan enough to take in the bruised cheek and the cut beneath his right eye marring the boy’s beautiful dark skin. Ducking his head to hide his grimace, Ed said, “Vicky see that shiner yet?”

Duon snorted. “Yes. Tried to call the fucking cops. Like they’re gonna care.” He rolled his eyes.

Ed knew this was his invitation to tell Duon that he could so trust the police, but he'd tangled with Duon before so he said, “Need to find yourself a big strapping boyfriend to protect you.”

“Fuck you, bitch! I’m the big strapping boyfriend!” He folded his arms over his chest and glared at Ed.

Which had been the reaction Ed had been hoping for. He fought a smile as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it before hanging it on a peg in his locker. “So that mean you’re coming to my class tonight? Gonna come show me up?”

Duon came over to sprawl at the end of the bench. “Whatever. Damn, man, but I hope I can stay as buff as you are when I get old.”

That did make Ed smile, and he turned his head to look the kid in the eye as he explained that thirty-four was not old—

—but winced instead as his neck sent a shaft of pain up his head, over the top and down into his right eye. Pain exploded in his head, and for a few terrible seconds, he couldn’t see or hear anything at all.

When his vision cleared, Duon was standing in front of him, looking up at Ed with wide, worried eyes.

“Shit, man,” Duon said. “You okay?”

Ed nodded—carefully—and reached up to rub the cord of muscle. “Fine.” He shut his eyes and rolled his shoulder, feeling the inside of his skull light up the first time, but it eased with each successive rotation, and eventually it settled down to a dull roar. He opened his eyes again and turned back to the locker, reaching down to peel off his T-shirt. “I’m fine,” he said again, but even so, he took extra care in taking off the garment, sliding it over his head and down his right arm rather than lifting it up over his head.

“You need to get your ass back to that doctor, if you’re hurting like that still,” Duon said.

“I’m fine,” Ed said, a little more tartly this time. He pulled his muscle-T over his head—also carefully— and fumbled with the buckle of his belt. “It’s already settling down.” He started to nod at Duon, then changed the gesture to a wave of his hand instead. “Go on. I gotta get ready.” When he realized the dismissal was too rough, he added, “and swing by the copy room and find those waiver forms, will you?”

“Sure,” Duon said, clearly reluctant to leave Ed, but he did, and once he was gone, Ed let himself sag, briefly, against the locker next to his.
Then he squared his shoulders and his resolve and finished getting dressed.

His whistle was a bit forced as he finally ducked back into the hall, his notes tucked under his arm, but he kept telling himself it was going to be great. It was going to be fucking great, to quote Duon. It didn’t matter that this was twice now today his neck had bugged him and that the last one had actually been a little alarming. It was fine. It was great, it was all going to be great—

He turned the corner to the hall outside the weight room, and like a bad pass in the fourth quarter, the game turned, and his victory was over before he could even step foot in the game.

Music blared down the hall from the main gym, really shitty house music circa 1997, made even worse by its being pumping out through the PA system. To make things worse, over the top of it came a shrill, insistent call of “And one! And two! And three! Work it, ladies!” The nasal tones hit something primal in Ed’s hindbrain, making his neck light up all over again. But that wasn’t what bothered him right now. Right now Ed was staring at the door to the weight room, the music pounding in his ears mixing with the sensation of dread sitting like a ten pound weight in his stomach.

“No.” Ed clutched his notes tightly in his hand and double-timed it to the weight room. “No.”

But sadly, the answer was, “Yes.” The same ear-splitting cacophony that he’d heard in the hallway was blaring into the weight room, too, and unlike in the hall, the music wasn’t muted, because in addition to bleeding through the door, it was pulsing through the in-ceiling speakers. Nobody who wasn’t completely deaf could stand to stay in the room for more than five minutes, let alone teach a class.

Ed swore under his breath. Then he turned, headed back into the hall, and aimed himself at the stairs that would take him up to Vicky’s office.

*
Halcyon Center’s director was on the phone when Ed stuck his head through the gap in her door, but she waved him in and motioned towards the chairs on the opposite side of her desk without so much as missing a beat in her conversation. Ed entered, but he didn’t sit, choosing instead to make a study of the art on Vicky’s walls. He took in the smiling faces of the gymnastics team and a Minnesota Gophers basketball calendar, but he was mostly using them as focal points to calm his rage. Not even the sight of his old Lumberjacks poster could draw his attention. He couldn’t believe this was happening again. And of all the nights! Of all the goddamned nights!

Vicky hung up the phone and turned to Ed, smiling, but Ed was so agitated that he couldn’t even wait for her to speak.

“It’s happening again,” Ed snapped, pointing at the floor in the general direction of the gymnasium. “He’s playing music over the PA, and it’s piping into the weight room. It’s even louder than it was the last time.”

“What? They told me they fixed that.” Vicky pursed her lips and reached for a notepad. “I’ll have Bob look into it first thing in the morning. Again.”

Ed pointed at the clock. “But my class starts in ten minutes!”

Vicky looked at the clock, too. Then she sighed. “We’ll have to cancel it for tonight, then. And I’ll make sure they have it sorted out by next week.”

No! Ed wanted to shout, but instead he took a step closer to Vicky’s desk and tried to put on a charming face. “Why can’t he get cancelled and rescheduled for next week? He’s the one making all the noise, after all.”

“Because that class has ninety people in it, all paying $50 a head for eight weeks to hear him make his noise.” When Ed’s expression fell, Vicky looked at him over the top of his glasses. “I have to look after the bottom line, buddy. This place is non-profit, but tell that to the light bill. When your weight class brings in that kind of cash, you’ll get that kind of treatment, too.”

“Vicky, it’s my first class. And it’s never going to bring in money—I’m volunteering, and it’s all kinds with no money. Come on, Vic.” Ed held up his notes. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a month, and now you’re telling me, ‘Sorry, go home and watch TV?’ Come on.”

“It’s just for a week,” she pointed out.

Ed sank down into one of the chairs. “Vicky.”

She sighed and leaned forward at her desk. “I know, hon. I know you’ve been looking forward to this, and I know this has been a light you really needed. I feel awful, but I really can’t let him cancel. And it really is just a week’s delay. I’ll make sure it’s fixed next week. I swear. Even if I have to ask Laurie to cut his class short by a half-hour.” When Ed perked up, she held up a hand before he could ask. “I can’t ask tonight. He’s going to need to be finessed after how badly you riled him up the last time. If he even thinks this might be coming from you, it’s never going to happen at all.”

That humbled Ed a little, but it irked him, too. “I still don’t see why he can’t just bring in a sound system of his own.”

“Because it’s a huge, echoing gym, and nothing portable would work. And all we have to offer him is the PA. You know damn well that anything worth ten bucks around here gets stolen.”

“What about that old one? In the storeroom off the stage?”

“It shorts out half the time, which you well know.” Vicky nodded her head in the direction of the gym. “Not to mention that he does this practically for no money whatsoever, mostly as a favor to me, and, once again, because he—”

“—brings in a lot of money for the center,” Ed finished for her. He slumped his shoulders briefly in defeat, then rose. “Okay.”

Vicky eyed him suspiciously. “Now, I know you well enough, Ed, to know that I don’t get off on something this important to you with a simple ‘okay’. What are you planning?”

Ed held up his hands and shook his head. “Not a thing, I swear.”

Which was true. He didn’t know what he was going to do about it—yet.

“Hmm.” Vicky tapped her pencil on the top of the ledge open on her desk as she regarded Ed a little longer. “Can you make me a promise, Ed? Can you promise me I will still have my extremely lucrative aerobics class?”

“Oh yeah.” Probably.

“With my exceptionally afforable instructor still at its head?” she added.

“Not a problem,” Ed assured her.

Her eyes narrowed. “And that I will not be interrupted in the middle of my date tonight by a cell phone harangue about the bumbling neanderthal who doesn’t know his place?”

Ed’s eyebrows went up at the “who doesn’t know his place” comment, and he paused, because he really didn’t like to lie to Vicky. Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Ed,” Vicky said, her tone full of warning.

Ed winked. “No calls, Vic. I swear.”

Vicky tapped her pencil a few more times, then sighed and leaned back in her chair. “All right. Then just make sure I have plausible deniability. But I’m serious about the phone call.”

“Promise,” Ed said, and grinned over his shoulder, pausing as he headed back out the door. “Who’s the date with, by the way?”

“Goodbye, Ed,” Vicky called without looking up.

Ed saluted, then headed back down the stairs and towards the gym.

*
La Bouche was playing when Ed pushed his way through the doors to the gym, some remix of “Be My Lover.” Generally Ed preferred to leave the nineties right where he’d left them, but he had to admit, this song had always made his toe tap.

Of course, not once in his memory had the song had a hyped-up chipmunk with a mic screaming, “And one! And two! And one!” over the top of it.

Laurie Parker was, Vicky had assured him, some big-time dance instructor from Edina, and really, that alone Ed had decided was reason enough to hate him. He’d told Vic they didn’t need some suburban snot coming over here to give them charity, but that had only made her mad.

“He’s a friend, Ed, so back off,” she’d said. “We were friends in high school, and we still get together every now and again to discuss our mutual love of Barbra Streisand. And don’t turn up your nose at me, Football-Player-Who-Listens-to Britney Spears.”

“She’s just misunderstood,” Ed had grumbled, and let the subject drop.

But Ed never got over resenting Laurie. Laurie. What kind of pussy name was that? Of course, it went with the rest of him. Laurence Parker was everything in a man Ed hated: he was rich, he was from the suburbs, and he was a freaking billboard for gay stereotypes. Which he knew didn’t mean Parker was gay—he was, he knew, because Vicky had initially tried to set them up.

That actually would have been okay, if Laurie hadn’t been gay, which was probably some sort of double standard, but Ed couldn’t help it. His whole life he’d been fighting the “gay is girly” shit, and he was damn sick of it. Gay could also mean a semi-pro football player. Who listened to Britney, yeah—but he knew a few of the other guys on the team who did too. Really, Ed was a pretty macho guy who just happened to be gay.
He’d give Parker credit for not mincing when he wasn’t leading aerobics classes, but that was about it. He was overly feminine both in his looks and his gestures. He was a dancer and an aerobics instructor. He fussed about getting dirty. He was stylish and graceful.

He listened to Barbra Streisand.

They weren’t great reasons to hate somebody, Ed knew, but that didn’t stop him getting his back up every time their paths crossed. The only good thing about Laurie was that he was always ready to fight back. So far in the two months Ed had been coming to the center, they’d fought over Ed’s mess in the locker room, space on the bulletin board, whether or not it was unhygienic of Ed to spit into the drinking fountain, whether or not everyone from the Twin City suburbs were pompous asses, the relative merits of dancing and football, and above all, the volume of the music Laurie used to accompany his classes.

This was not the first time the PA system had failed to work the way the maintenance people swore it was wired to. This was not the first time, either, that Ed had complained, and it was not the first time Vicky had said there wasn’t much she could do and the first time Ed had tried to take matters into his own hands. On other nights when he was just in the weight room with a client, he’d been content mostly to vent his spleen and get Parker as worked up as he was. Sometimes he’d managed to get the volume turned down, but that was it. Tonight was different, and so tonight he planned to make his approach differently.

But since no one had informed Laurie of this, he gave Ed a decidedly hostile glare as he wove his way through the throng of sweaty, flailing middle-aged women.

“No,” the instructor said as Ed approached the stage, flipping up the mouthpiece of the mic so his sharp retort did not carry through the PA. He didn’t so much as miss a beat, either, his petite, lycra-clad body still stepping from side to side and pumping his arms up and down in time to the music. “No, I will not turn down my music. No, it is not my fault the system keeps screwing up. No, I will not use a CD player, because I can’t. No, I will not at least listen to ‘decent music’ because this is the music that I have chosen and that I like. And yes, I have to count because that’s the way we do it in aerobics class.” He jerked his chin down and gave Ed a withering look. “Did I miss anything? Or have you thought up some new idiotic questions?”

“I’m teaching a class too,” Ed said, loudly, so there was a hope of being heard over the damn music. “In the weight room. In five minutes. Where right now no one can stand to be for more than ten seconds because it sounds like the aerobics class from hell.”

Ed would admit to taking pleasure in the way the jab made Parker miss a beat.

“It’s not my fault—” Laurie began through gritted teeth. But this time Ed interrupted him.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But you’re the only one who can do anything about it right now, so I’m talking to you instead.” He put his hands on his hips. “I want to know what it takes to get you to use a different sound system just for tonight.”

Laurie pursed his lips. “There is no other—”

“There is, actually. It’s old, and it’s fussy, but it would work for one night. I’ll even help you set it up, and I’ll tear it down myself. Just for tonight. Vic says she’ll have it fixed by next week, and believe me when I say I’m going to hold her to it. But this isn’t like training somebody where I can go out to the hall and explain something and then use sign language to communicate in the weight room itself. I need them to hear me.”

“Tell them to come back next week when the system is fixed,” the instructor said, and Ed shook his head.

“No. I have as much right to be here as you do. You get your way every time this happens, dude. It’s your turn to bend over.”

The look Laurie gave Ed could have cut glass. “I am not—”

“I’m sacrificing too,” Ed said, quickly, because he honestly did not want to piss him off anymore. Not until he got what he was after. “So I want to know: what is it you need? Because everybody has a lever. Something here at the center, something outside of the center, something at your job: you name it. Your car washed and waxed while you direct me from a lawn chair, your flower bed dug up—hell, I’ll dress up in a monkey suit and deliver flowers to somebody, if that’s what does it for you.”

Laurie still didn’t so much as slow down his repetitive steps and arm pumps, but he did regard Ed thoughtfully for a few beats. “You really want it this time, don’t you?”

“I need it,” Ed corrected. He held out his hands. “Come on. Surely you can think of some suitably degrading task you’d love to give the meddling neanderthal in exchange for one half of one night on a sub-par sound system.”

Laurie blushed and looked away. “She wasn’t supposed to tell you I said that.”

“Well, she probably agrees with you.” Ed started to get nervous. “Come on. Come on. Give me something. Something really embarrassing. You know you want revenge, and I’m never going to give you a better opening. Anything, buddy. Anything.”

For a minute Ed thought this wasn’t going to work. But then a strange shadow passed over the instructor’s face. For a minute Parker looked haunted and oddly vulnerable. The part of Ed that felt the same way softened, and for the first time, ever, he felt bad for Laurie Parker, even though he didn’t know what was wrong. Without thinking, he started to reach for him.

The look disappeared, and Laurie looked down at Ed with a glint in his eye.

“Anything?”

Ed held out his hands. “Anything.”

“Hold on.” Laurie lowered the mic before shouting out some new commands, leading his flock into a new move, taking a minute to encourage them before he pushed the mic up again and turned back to Ed.

“What I need is for you to come one night a week for three weeks and be my assistant at my dance studio.”

Ed blinked. What the fuck? Dancing assistant? He tried to read Laurie’s face to gauge whether this was a joke, but no, Parker looked pretty damn serious. And weirdly nervous. “What night?”

“Thursdays,” Laurie said. “Seven to eight.”

Ed shrugged, then grinned. “Consider it done,” he said, and turned to make a beeline for the supply closet.

“There’s more,” Laurie said, his voice full of warning.

“Then tell me already,” Ed said, starting to lose his temper. “My class is about to start.”

“As my assistant,” he said, looking Ed right in the eye, “mostly you’ll be dancing with me.”

Ed’s eyebrows shot up. Then he shrugged. “Okay. Is that all?”

The instructor looked at him with extreme suspicion. “You will dance with me. Just like that?”

“Do I have to do it naked, or something?” Ed asked. “Or recite French at the same time? The French would be a problem, but I could get it if you gave me a few minutes to practice.”

“I’m serious about this,” the instructor said, starting to sound tart. “So if your plan is to just agree now, get your way and then stand me up—”

“I will get your phone number after class,” Ed said, “and give you mine. But if I’m not there, you can go to Vic to get your pound of flesh. You know she’ll be good for it. But there won’t be a need. Now.” He jerked his head at the back of the stage. “Can I get you the damn sound system now?”

When Laurie jerked his head in reluctant approval, Ed hurried around to the stairs and made his way onto the stage. He glanced at his watch before he started lugging out the speakers and started working faster, because the students were probably already there by now and wouldn’t hang out too long. But before he had even half of it out, he felt a hand on his arm, and when he turned around, the instructor was there, holding out a business card.

“You’ll lose half your class getting all that out,” he said. “I’ll do it myself. Here, take this, and go.”

Ed stopped with one speaker hoisted in mid-air and raised an eyebrow.

To his credit, Laurie only lifted his chin a little and pressed the card forward. “Seven p.m. next Tuesday at the address on this card.  Except actually why don’t you come at six forty-five so we can go over what I need in more detail. Wear comfortable clothing and dress shoes with a heel, if you have them. If you do this for me, it really will be a favor, and I don’t mind hauling out the equiment and pausing my class to do it. But if you don’t show up”—his chin came back down and his eyes acquired some very pointed daggers—“I’ll collect the pound of flesh myself.”

“Fair enough.” Ed put the speaker down, took the card, then stuck out his hand. “Thanks, buddy.”

Laurie put his hand in Ed’s, letting his slim fingers be swallowed up in Ed’s beefy paw. “You’re welcome.”

Ed shook his hand once, then let go. “See you at quarter to seven on Thursday,” he called out, breaking into a jog and vaulting off the edge of the stage.

Three and a half scenes to go. This one is not Nowhere Ranch, able to be fussed and tweaked and sent to betas in a few hours' work. Besides, I'm going to run out of fucking betas.

I can't remember if I said here on the blog or not that I was going to go to ATL (Sam and Mitch) next, but that was indeed the plan. New Kylie, New Greg Laswell, and all the characters pulling my hands and saying, "Now. Right now. Now." And then mjules  sends me an email saying, "You need to hear this song," and BAM. Back to TTT. Randy was ticked at hir, but only kind of. Anyway, he knows he's next. Even if it's not his book. Sometimes I think he just likes to sit there and make me nervous.

The nice thing is it turned out TTT was so much closer to "end" than I thought. And the end is going to be different than I thought. Hell, I don't even know if it's going to finish the way that I'm thinking. But it will finish. Today.

I really, really enjoy typing that.

He knows why. Well, so does egret17 .Except she really probably thinks I'm nuts now.



 
I am not shit, and neither is the story I wrote for you. Sorry I said so. I know you get that I'm kind of a mess, but that's even more reason to say sorry in front of everybody.

And I know everybody else is WTF. Sorry. I just had a Roe moment yesterday. If you beta'd NR: I made crap of the leather bracelet I made for somebody. I guess at least I didn't make Jason run out in the snow....


*The necklace is for sale! I kind of want it now....

Because I have a twink fetish. Mitch didn't come from nowhere, baby.


California Gays. Yes. Please.

Somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have done something good, because after all the screaming and wailing and not being able to finish TTT or get anywhere with anything, Monroe Davis decided to visit me and give me his story. I hinted at this the other day in the Cheating Bastard entry, but now it's offical. Nowhere Ranch is a novel. The betas have it, and gods bless them all.

This was weird, because it was first person. In the end I liked it, but I was apprehensive for a long time. As a craft exercise, it was very educational. Man, the form stuff you can pull with FP. Just let the story go as it wants, and if you miss something, you just say, "Oh, and about X" and back you go. Of course, this is thanks to Roe. Pretty much I just sat down, said, "Hi, hon," and he told me the story. We struggled at first, because I wasn't sure about this direct address of the audience, but this was the way he wanted it, so there we went. Every now and again our wires would cross too, and Roe, the high school dropout, used words like "ostensibly." Not so much. I also learned more about sheep husbandry than I really needed to know. Also soil. Sometimes these guys creep me out. I write something down, and I think, "I didn't KNOW that. How did I write that?" Oh well.

And this is another smutty one, folks. Smutty, smutty, smutty. Except I get it. Roe is very about making you see him all the way to the core, and you have to see the raw guts too.

I need to check one thing though, so maybe somebody knows. How big is a "big spread" in ranching? How small is a small one?

Anyway. Monroe Davis lives. Now the trick is to quick go finish TTT, because Kylie Minogue's Aphrodite snuck over to me early (I'm sure it's all Sam's doing) and now Sam is bouncing up and down and shaking me, saying, "Come ON!!! We have to DO THIS!!!!!" Which is fine. We just have to do Ed and Laurie first. Because I am stubborn.

Teaser below. I'm still not sure about the opening scene, so I'm skipping and going to the second. I love the third scene, but it's a brutal tease. If I end there, you'll kill me. Though it's the end of chapter one, so when it's up for sale, that WILL be the scene to tease with.

 *

I met Travis Loving two years after I got out of prison, when I went out to work at Nowhere Ranch in northwestern Nebraska. I had been working my way around the Midwest, doing time in Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas, but Nowhere was the furthest west I'd yet gone. I will admit I answered the ad because of the name. That and because if I went through one more fucking North Dakota winter I was going to hang myself. I had heard it wasn't quite as bad in western Nebraska. So after a good few days of fucking in Omaha, I sent an email, the ranch manager said he'd give me a try, and off I went.

The other thing I liked about Nowhere Ranch was that it was a hobby ranch, almost as small as a larger farm. This again is why my story would make a crap movie. I know everybody's all about the sexy cowboys and ranches and tumbleweeds blowing by you, but I grew up on a farm, and it's what I know. Ranches usually feel too big, and it's like it's the wrong culture or something. The ones in Kansas were the worst, and from what I gathered it was only going to get worse down south, which was how I ended up in the Dakotas. I liked the idea of Nowhere being middle of the road geographically, but it was going to feel more like the work I knew best too.

It really was out in nowhere, though. Apparently it had gotten its name because the owner had kept talking about how he was moving out to the middle of nowhere, and the name stuck. But it was a good, solid operation, especially considering Loving was still pretty greeen. The feed was all organic, and he had just about as many sheep as he did cattle. The ad said hands would be expected to shear, which was what they were having a harder time finding. We only had sheep six years, but I knew enough about them to know what I was getting into, and I could legitimately claim experience with them. So I had an edge there. And best of all, from the way the manager talked, nobody else lived on site. At first that had worried me, because that's just weird as hell, no hands at all on the ranch, but the manager said it really was that small, that they rotate through a set of local guys when they need him. But he said he liked the idea of me living on side, and if I wasn't fussy there was an apartment above the stable I was welcome to. It wouldn't cost me anything if I was willing to be on standby to do work off the clock, like help round up steers that got out or help with somebody sick. Which was why I was kind of wondering about nobody being on site. But okay. So it would just be me and the hippie at the ranch with the manager down the road. As long as Loving didn't want to talk politics, that'd be fine.
Plus, as soon as I heard about having my own apartment, not a bunk, I was ready to do about anything to get there. I was careful about anybody finding out I was queer, but I still can't shake the feeling that, like it was with my mom, something I didn't expect would trip me up. I was pretty sure handing sheep and calves wasn't going to give me away, but in my own place I could jack off porn without watching to make sure nobody noticed there was nothing but dick in what I watched. That was a big plus.

When I arrived at Nowhere, though, I found out that the manager hadn't been kidding. The apartment was a real fucking dive. It was about twelve by twelve, and I think the carpet had been there since 1972 without once making the acquaintance of a vaccuum. It was furnished, with a bed and a table and a recliner and a bedstand, but I took one look at the bedding and headed into town to hit WalMart, and while I was there I picked up a bottle of bleach too. Jesus, but that place could have given you the clap, I swear. And that was the main room. I won't even talk about the bathroom. Eventually I went back to WalMart and got a new shower curtain and even a new toilet seat. I also hauled the recliner out to the garbage, because it had a mouse nest in it. By some miracle the bed wasn't gnawed, but I'd be getting a new mattress shortly too.
I was still overall pleased with the place; a little cleaning and replacement parts and it was a palace to me. The only problem was that there really wasn't a kitchen to speak of, just a dorm-sized fridge and a hot plate. It's not like I'm any kind of a gourmand, but eating out all the time gets expensive, and I get tired of sandwiches. It was enough of a hitch in my getalong that I thought about asking my new boss-man about it, but I couldn't figure out if I should ask Tory, the manager, or if I should go straight to Loving. In the end I decided I could limp along at least to start. I'd ask about getting a moderate kitchen upgrade once I had a better lay of the land.

The first two weeks I only saw Loving the one time, and even that took four days. Tory Parrish ran the ranch, that was clear. He took orders from Loving, that I knew because every morning they stood at the fence rail, Tory nodding while the owner spoke quietly, his tan cowboy hat bobbing as he turned this way and that, gesturing to fields and barns and equipment. I saw Loving head out on his horse a couple hours after the last of the hands had gone home and he'd had his evening meeting with Tory. Sometimes I would watch him ride out, because it was a nice vista, man on horse, silhouetted against the sunset. And yeah, the hat helped.

I was not crushing on him or anything. To be honest, it wasn't until later that I got a good look at him, and even then I didn't exactly feel like my heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was tall and broad, but actually he's a few inches shorter than my six-two. I have always run a little to skinny, though, and the years of drug use didn't help that any. So he was shorter than me, but he felt bigger.

Older, though. By this time I was almost twenty-five, but Loving had to be pushing forty, I figured. Later I found out that actually he was forty-two. So, yeah. I'm not ageist or anything, but he seemed more like my dad than somebody to ogle. Also, he's the boss. I knew he used to be a professor in Omaha and that he was divorced with no kids, and I knew he'd only owned this ranch for about three years. I figure even that little was more than I needed to know, except that he signed the paychecks. But I did note that he wasn't bad looking, though more clean-cut and fussy than I cared for. I seem to look scruffy even right after a haircut, but Loving looked like the guys you saw at the bank. The old farmers who paid cash for brand-new trucks. Well, again, like my dad. So mostly I didn't pay him much attention outside noting when he was around so I could work harder at not being a dick. Because I did like the job, and outside of the kitchen, now that I'd put things to rights, I enjoyed the apartment.

One Saturday night, though, there was a knock on my door, and when I opened it, by God if it wasn't Loving standing there. I didn't even have time to worry that I was in trouble, because he just gave me a curt nod as a greeting before coming right out with, "We got trouble on the north ridge. Tory said you'd agreed to help after hours?"

I nodded, but from the grim look on his face, I wanted to add that I would have lent a hand regardless for anything serious, just because that was what you did. But he didn't look like he was much up for conversation, so I just hustled into my boots, grabbed my hat, and followed him down the stairs.

Tory, who only lived a few miles down the road with his wife and two kids, was already on a four wheeler, and I knew this wasn't gonna be fun when I saw he had a rifle stowed in the back. Loving had his own ride waiting beside Tory's, but I noticed there wasn't a third, so I climbed on behind Tory and reached back to hold onto the rack as we rode.

Loving keeps his sheep pretty close to the ranch, and he uses some kind of custom fence to keep wolves and coyotes out. So I was pretty sure that wasn't what was going on. But when I saw the ewe bobbing around, bumping into the other ones and acting like she was drunk. I knew what we were in for even before I was told. Except it turns out I was the only one who did know.

"It looks neurological," Loving said, sounding uncertain though, and Tory just shrugged. He had hired me, he said, because none of them knew Jack Shit about sheep, and I was just now realizing how little.

"It's neurological all right," I said. "That ewe has rabies."

They both turned to me, looking like I'd just come out.

"How can you tell?" Tory asked.

I motioned to her. "She's acting all crazed. It's eating her brain right now. We got to put her down and get her the hell out of here. And we need to isolate the rest of this herd right quick. Groups as small as you can get. You don't know how many she's bit."

"I'll call the vet," Loving said, reaching for his phone.

"Ain't no point," I said. "Well, I guess you could get a vaccine into each of them and hope for the best. Though that would probably ruin your organic certification."

"But there's a treatment," Loving pressed. "They give it to people."

"Yeah. And it's several thousand dollars a pop. This is thirty head of sheep. You'd do better to slaughter them and buy new before you did that." I gestured to the huddled herd. "Just partition them off as best you can and wait it out is my advice. Either they been bit or they ain't, and you just wait and see." I grimaced and tugged on the brim of my hat. "What you need to do is call all the hands and make sure none of them's been bit. I think that's the only way we could catch it. But you only got so many hours between exposure and death."

Loving, likely imagining the wrongful death lawsuit, reached for his phone again. But Tony already had his out and waved him off.

"I'll call the boys. You two get her put down and figure out how the fuck we're going to isolate them."

Loving nodded and reached for the rifle, but he glanced at me as he loaded the cartridges. "You're sure about this?"

Hell, yes, I was sure. "They get it from skunks, see. Anyway, it's the sort of thing you don't mess around with, sir. She could infect half the herd tonight. Better to kill her and I'm wrong than wait and lose them all. Anyway, the only positive test is to examine her brain. Which kind of requires her to be dead."

Loving grimaced and nudged his hat higher on his head with his knuckle. "And here I thought footrot was hell."

"Oh, everything about sheep is hell," I said. "We never cussed more than the six years we raised them."

"I was thinking more in the lines of a Scotch neat, but yes." Loving sighed and raised the rifle, only to lower it again and glance at me. "Would you mind trying to separate her a little? But don't expose yourself to her."

"Hell, I already had the shots," I said, heading for the main body of the herd. I clapped my hands and said, "Hee-yah!" until they started to bleat and stumble over each other trying to get away. The rabid ewe followed them for a second, then fell. She got up pretty quickly, and when she did, she came for me.

I wasn't too worried, because sheep don't exactly set land-speed records, but I was interested in not catching any stray gunshot. Turns out I needn't have worried, because Loving could shoot a single hair off your head at a half a mile, I swear to God. He put the bullet right between her eyes, and she went down like a ton of bricks.

"I got hold of everybody," Tory said. "And they're all coming in too to help sort them out. I thought probably in the stalls in the horse barn. Chaucer and the boys won't hurt to be out in the pasture a few days. And we can whip up temporary pens in the south field."

And that was that. Loving stayed through to help. We ended up only losing two more sheep total, which was good. But I didn't talk to Loving again that night, and not again through the next week. And after that, he took off. Tory said he'd be gone through the weekend.

Which, I thought, maybe this would be a good time to get away myself. I was starting to get itchy, and an online search for nearby gay bars informed me I would be going three hours north to Rapid City to get laid. I worried Tory would say I couldn't leave the ranch unattended, but he said not to bother about it. He was already coming over extra with Loving gone, and he'd said have a nice time.

The drive was okay, better than I-80 from Iowa, anyway. Mostly I didn't notice, too busy thinking about how I could spend the next forty-eight hours fucking and getting fucked. I was so horny that I wasn't really particular. There was only the one bar, and I had no delusions that there would exactly be a prime selection of candidates. Still, I checked into my hotel, showered, and fussed with my clothes before heading over at nine.

It was small, really small. It was dingy and sad and hard to take after the flashy stuff I had gotten used to in Omaha and Kansas City. Even in North Dakota I had gone to Fargo, which hadn't been bad. This place was a different story. There was hardly anybody in there, either, and most of them looked like they'd already hooked up. But I saw one lone cowboy sitting at the bar, and I beelined to him, determined to spread my legs for him even if he looked like Ethel Merman.

You probably saw this coming, but I have to tell you, you could have knocked me over with a feather when the cowboy turned around and I realized I was staring at Travis Loving.
 

So, I have been trying to keep quiet about this, but clearly I have to publicly shame myself to finish Two to Tango, so I'm going to come clean. I have been cheating on the WIP.

I think I have been working on Two to Tango since January. It's definitely been since February. Fresh from finishing and submitting Double Blind, created and sold in 40 days, I felt smug and happy and sure I could just keep on doing that. Even the several month revision of Miles (which was initially drafted in October) didn't dull my enthusiasm. I was on a roll! I could so do this! I steamrolled on with TTT, eager and happy and determined to have a contract by April.

You might notice that it is currently June. That June, in fact, is almost over. Not only do I not have a contract, I have not finished.

Tango is a pokey little fucker. Well, it's not little either. I think it's hovering around 100k, and I know I'm nowhere near the end. Of course, I'm still stuck in revision, so I'm actually at the 60k mark. Who the hell knows how/where/if it will end. And yes, I suppose six months isn't exactly dragging my feet. A lot of people take their time on novels, especially ones this long.

If you could please explain this to the multiple other stories in my head, that would be lovely.

Because when Tango wants to sit and ponder the meaning of life, they take over. There is this really funky steampunk thing that I have NO fucking clue what that is about, but it stole the show for a few weeks. Sometimes Sam and Mitch and company take over. For a good while there I always seemed to have something to edit or proof because a release was coming out, and that killed some time. It helped me feel like it still might be March when it was actually May. The whole resurgence of the weird stupid pain shit didn't help, and it absolutely colored the WIP. Sam Keller's great ride of the rainbow was distracting too—in a good way, yes, but it was hard to make Laurie and Ed dance when great things kept waking Sam up, and then we had to party a little. And then as I mentioned, he kept whispering about more story.

This is to say nothing of Etsey, which we will discuss eventually here in another post.

I thought I had this all under control, that I was just having outlets or something, and I stand by that excuse for everything up until the past few weeks. I can't use it anymore, though. I am cheating. I am cheating bad. I am sucking away Tango time, and I am flirting with Something Else. I have over 40,000 words, so this isn't letting off steam. This is fucking cheating.

Because you know there is a collage:


How this got started was because I have had a bee in my bonnet that I wanted to do a cowboy story sometime, but I really wasn't sure how to do it. I really hate repeating stuff already done, and I couldn't figure out a fresh angle. The conflict really tripped me up. There was also the huge issue that I know jack shit about ranching, and that felt like an imporant detail. If I was going to do it, I was going to DO IT. You would be feeling the wood of the side of the barn and the barbed wire of the fence and smeling the sun on leather. I just didn't know how that could happen. And because this was a gnarly problem, it has been something satisfying to pull out when, say, I'm doing dishes.

I really can't tell you what the catalyst was. All I know is that three days before DM Pride, I was wandering around the house or Ames or somewhere, and the next thing I knew I was at the computer taking dictation. I knew the cowboy. I knew his history. I knew what he wanted, what he needed, and where he needed to go. I knew it ALL. By the time Marie Sexton arrived, I had 30k.

In fucking FIRST PERSON.

(There is nothing wrong with FP. Just like there is nothing wrong with mayonaise salads. I just don't really care for either. I will read FP, and I will eat some mayonaise dishes, but I seek neither out on purpose and must be dragged to both with some force, even when I ultimately find them very pleasing. What I never do is WRITE in FP. Except for that one time in Necking. And now this.)

I think I'm cheating with Roe (short for Monroe) because he soothes my jangly nerves. It just feels like everything is going so fast and is so crazy, and my inner Randy is really fucking upset about the odds. I'm not even sure what the odds are for, and neither is he. Sam just wants to dance and throw roses, and that's fine, but Randy and I aren't sure about all this exposure stuff. We are thinking what we need is some single malt, a dark corner and some good porn and maybe we can wait it out, but we end up having to make all these damn decisions, and we are kind of sick of it.

Writing Roe makes me feel relaxed. He is so steady and centered, but he has such a sad ache in him, and it makes me want to fix it. His plot is so easy, mostly just a painting. He's so simple and easy. I have no idea how he reads. Nobody's read him but me. All I know is that after a few hours of wrting Roe I feel a lot better, and I can face things again.

Also, there are a few personal demons Roe is helping me exorcise, which I appreciate. And part of him was spawned by some poor treatment of a friend of mine by her family as she marries her longtime partner and adopts four perfectly beautiful children. She's shared her pain with me about it, and I ache with her, but that's about all I can do. So I fed it to Roe, who seems to know just what to do with it.

So that's my confession. I'm a cheating bastard. Except so long as I get back to TTT soon, I'm down with it. Right now Roe feels like the writing equlivalent of swimming laps. He's healing several things and making me feel stronger. Any second now I'll whip open the Scrivener document for TTT and dive back into it.

I was going to post a teaser, but I'm feeling all superstitious and can't now. Let me just say that if you liked the heat level of Special Delivery, you will enjoy Nowhere Ranch. Lots. I don't know about the first person. I was kind of hoping it would go away and I could change it, but I don't think so. I will also tell you that it is set in Nebraska. Why, you ask? Because they have cowboys too, and actually we in the upper Midwest are just as sexy as Texas and Colorado and all the places everybody else sets cowboy stories.
 
Okay, that's about it for now. I am cheating on Tango. I will finish it eventually, though, because now if I don't I will look like a fool on my own blog, and I really hate looking like a fool.

Just so long as Sam and Mitch and everybody else are content to wait until I get my shit straight, I should be fine.

So, I have been trying to keep quiet about this, but clearly I have to publicly shame myself to finish Two to Tango, so I'm going to come clean. I have been cheating on the WIP.

I think I have been working on Two to Tango since January. It's definitely been since February. Fresh from finishing and submitting Double Blind, created and sold in 40 days, I felt smug and happy and sure I could just keep on doing that. Even the several month revision of Miles (which was initially drafted in October) didn't dull my enthusiasm. I was on a roll! I could so do this! I steamrolled on with TTT, eager and happy and determined to have a contract by April.

You might notice that it is currently June. That June, in fact, is almost over. Not only do I not have a contract, I have not finished.

Tango is a pokey little fucker. Well, it's not little either. I think it's hovering around 100k, and I know I'm nowhere near the end. Of course, I'm still stuck in revision, so I'm actually at the 60k mark. Who the hell knows how/where/if it will end. And yes, I suppose six months isn't exactly dragging my feet. A lot of people take their time on novels, especially ones this long.

If you could please explain this to the multiple other stories in my head, that would be lovely.

Because when Tango wants to sit and ponder the meaning of life, they take over. There is this really funky steampunk thing that I have NO fucking clue what that is about, but it stole the show for a few weeks. Sometimes Sam and Mitch and company take over. For a good while there I always seemed to have something to edit or proof because a release was coming out, and that killed some time. It helped me feel like it still might be March when it was actually May. The whole resurgence of the weird stupid pain shit didn't help, and it absolutely colored the WIP. Sam Keller's great ride of the rainbow was distracting too—in a good way, yes, but it was hard to make Laurie and Ed dance when great things kept waking Sam up, and then we had to party a little. And then as I mentioned, he kept whispering about more story.

This is to say nothing of Etsey, which we will discuss eventually here in another post.

I thought I had this all under control, that I was just having outlets or something, and I stand by that excuse for everything up until the past few weeks. I can't use it anymore, though. I am cheating. I am cheating bad. I am sucking away Tango time, and I am flirting with Something Else. I have over 40,000 words, so this isn't letting off steam. This is fucking cheating.

Because you know there is a collage:


How this got started was because I have had a bee in my bonnet that I wanted to do a cowboy story sometime, but I really wasn't sure how to do it. I really hate repeating stuff already done, and I couldn't figure out a fresh angle. The conflict really tripped me up. There was also the huge issue that I know jack shit about ranching, and that felt like an imporant detail. If I was going to do it, I was going to DO IT. You would be feeling the wood of the side of the barn and the barbed wire of the fence and smeling the sun on leather. I just didn't know how that could happen. And because this was a gnarly problem, it has been something satisfying to pull out when, say, I'm doing dishes.

I really can't tell you what the catalyst was. All I know is that three days before DM Pride, I was wandering around the house or Ames or somewhere, and the next thing I knew I was at the computer taking dictation. I knew the cowboy. I knew his history. I knew what he wanted, what he needed, and where he needed to go. I knew it ALL. By the time Marie Sexton arrived, I had 30k.

In fucking FIRST PERSON.

(There is nothing wrong with FP. Just like there is nothing wrong with mayonaise salads. I just don't really care for either. I will read FP, and I will eat some mayonaise dishes, but I seek neither out on purpose and must be dragged to both with some force, even when I ultimately find them very pleasing. What I never do is WRITE in FP. Except for that one time in Necking. And now this.)

I think I'm cheating with Roe (short for Monroe) because he soothes my jangly nerves. It just feels like everything is going so fast and is so crazy, and my inner Randy is really fucking upset about the odds. I'm not even sure what the odds are for, and neither is he. Sam just wants to dance and throw roses, and that's fine, but Randy and I aren't sure about all this exposure stuff. We are thinking what we need is some single malt, a dark corner and some good porn and maybe we can wait it out, but we end up having to make all these damn decisions, and we are kind of sick of it.

Writing Roe makes me feel relaxed. He is so steady and centered, but he has such a sad ache in him, and it makes me want to fix it. His plot is so easy, mostly just a painting. He's so simple and easy. I have no idea how he reads. Nobody's read him but me. All I know is that after a few hours of wrting Roe I feel a lot better, and I can face things again.

Also, there are a few personal demons Roe is helping me exorcise, which I appreciate. And part of him was spawned by some poor treatment of a friend of mine by her family as she marries her longtime partner and adopts four perfectly beautiful children. She's shared her pain with me about it, and I ache with her, but that's about all I can do. So I fed it to Roe, who seems to know just what to do with it.

So that's my confession. I'm a cheating bastard. Except so long as I get back to TTT soon, I'm down with it. Right now Roe feels like the writing equlivalent of swimming laps. He's healing several things and making me feel stronger. Any second now I'll whip open the Scrivener document for TTT and dive back into it.

I was going to post a teaser, but I'm feeling all superstitious and can't now. Let me just say that if you liked the heat level of Special Delivery, you will enjoy Nowhere Ranch. Lots. I don't know about the first person. I was kind of hoping it would go away and I could change it, but I don't think so. I will also tell you that it is set in Nebraska. Why, you ask? Because they have cowboys too, and actually we in the upper Midwest are just as sexy as Texas and Colorado and all the places everybody else sets cowboy stories.
 
Okay, that's about it for now. I am cheating on Tango. I will finish it eventually, though, because now if I don't I will look like a fool on my own blog, and I really hate looking like a fool.

Just so long as Sam and Mitch and everybody else are content to wait until I get my shit straight, I should be fine.

Every astrologer I follow has been saying since January that this summer was going to be eyeball-popping from both personal and global standpoints. So far it seems so. My personal stuff is less epic, but it's definitely there. It comes in layers too: we have high drama on the household front, and then there is my personal drama. Housewise, EVERYTHING is breaking. I mean, everything. Is. Breaking. The car has sucked down $1k in less than a month. BOTH water heaters have broken. (We have two because it's an old house, somebody remodeled in the sixties and added water heater, furnace, and AC units instead of changing the pipes/ducts to support bigger systems.) The AC has broken. There's something else too I'm forgetting. It's the sort of stuff that if I put it in a novel I'd get called on it. You notice life is full of bad plot like that? Things stack on top of each other and repeat too obviously, and in a movie we'd scoff and say bad writing. Well, real life is full of bad writing. That's why we invented fiction.

On a personal level, I have two demons. As usual, there is the body. It has been doing really well, overall, but two Prides have nearly reduced it to ashes. I did okay at both events, but the aftermath has been hell both times. Both events were worth it, though. I would do the Iowa City Pride again in a heartbeat. Still, the piper must be paid, and so I am paying. Achy bits, tired everything. Lots of painkillers.

The other demon is that I am having a hell of a time writing. It's the sitting down and focusing that is killing me. There is no dearth of ideas. None. In fact, they are becoming part of the noise keeping me from writing. So many stories wanting out, new and old. And I have officially now reached the part all unpublished writers hate to hear about, but I am here to tell you it's true. The business side kills, and it kills bad. There is little that deflates writing more than editing, marketing, and promo. I think I need to develop some sort of persona in my head that deals with the business end. God knows letting Sam and Randy (two very strong archetypes in my head) handle business is a bad plan. Sam believes if you build it, they will come, and Randy hates everything and thinks the odds are always stacked against him. Put him in charge, and we end up drinking and taking motorcycle rides across the dessert. Take Sam along, and it's a motorcycle ride through fantasia. So. Auditions are open, universe, for archtypes who are good planners and business-minded. (I think that may be Will from STB, longtime blog readers. Maybe it's time to bring that one out of mothballs.)

What I can tell you is that my summer has felt like chaos so far. Too much going on, too many directions at once. The ground is never in the same place I left it. The schedule will not stay put. Even the weather is inconstant: all it does is thunderstorm. ALL it does. All the damn time. Every time I get momentum on writing, whether I put my nose to the grindstone or follow the muse, I end up snarled and thrown off track. If I get my body in line, something appears to throw it off track. If I get a day to do things, Anna throws the world into chaos by inviting friends over who are too loud and make huge messes and problems. If I say we're going to do something as a family, things get in the way and blow that up too. It's always something. I keep thinking of deconstruction theory from lit crit days back in college, and I walk around murmuring, "There is no center."

I have decided to deal with all this by swimming.

I am both being metaphorically cute and literal at once. It's still very true that the more I swim, the better my body is, though that helps the mind too. Yesterday we were at the pool with friends, and every time I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, I put my swim cap and goggles back on and went to the lanes and knocked off a few more. I've reached the stamina point where I can do four or five in a row without any trouble at all, and I don't have achy arms or legs no matter even if I work for forty-five minutes straight. I'm still searching for a magic bullet for my lower half that doing the backstroke and crawl do for my upper, but overall it's still all very good.

But it's great for my mind too. While I'm swimming, all I'm thinking about is where the end of the lane is and how odd it is to swim for no real reason. I love equally doing face-down swims where I'm looking at the bottom of the pool, following the black line, thinking only about when and how to get my next breath and on-my-back strokes where I stare at the starburst ceiling of the Ames Municipal Pool and try not to splash water into my mouth or nose. That's it. I don't think about characters (except maybe Ed, because he has to do this stuff too), just swimming. For an hour, that's all there is. Swimming.

And because I like simplicity and consistency, I'm trying to take the swimming approach to life. I have already worked hard to adopt the idea that pain is not something that I need to conquer or hate, that like the crappy weather Iowa can dish out, it just happens. I was going to write all day, but pain has happened, so I'll write less. This isn't my special gift or my karmic curse. It just is. That is actually a pretty hard mental place to get to, but once I grasp it, it frees everything. So I try to do the same thing with everything else. I was going to take a small vacation, but the car broke three times. I was going to suggest we all go out to dinner, but the schedule went crazy. I wanted to read with Anna, but a friend called her instead. I suppose this is the Zen thing. Overall I really do like to ride the passion, the ebb and flow of life, but right now that seems to happen on its own, and despite what Derrida claims, I really want the center. Though I think actually he is closer to what I'm grasping than I'm allowing. It's not that there is no meaning, just that it doesn't come in the box. Just the pieces. Assembly required.

I don't feel like assembling much right now. Not with deliberation, anyway. Every time I try it just gets blown over. So lately I am doing what I can, and if there is a center, it is swimming. When the metaphor breaks down, I go get literally in the water. Happily, even the weather can't get me here: when the outdoor pool is closed because of bad weather, the indoor one stays open. And both are right up the street from me.

At this second there are now three active WIPs. Two need finishing and one needs selling. One more novella is coming out, and after that the marketing stuff can hang itself, because I have no delusion I'm finishing anything anytime soon. So I'm going to keep on swimming, with occasional rides through the dessert with Randy and wishes on stars with Sam, all the while keeping one eye out for the business archetype. But mostly I'm going to be swimming. Down the lane and back again, trusting that even if it's not doing anything as awesome as I think it is, at least it's keeping me busy until the world stops going crazy.

And if I can keep being in all this water and not wake up the mermaid book, I'll be doing very, very well.

I did an Inside Reader for Elisa Rolle, and it's up today, if you care to read it. Ten books I cite as influential to me, and a bit of banter too.

For five months I have been trying to work up the courage to put a copy of Special Delivery in my hand, walk down the street to the local co-op, and hand the produce manager a book. Today I finally managed it.

If you are the sort who reads the dedications and acknowledgment sections of novels, you may have noticed in the front of Special Delivery that I thank the produce manager at our local co-op for his casual comment about a delivery man. I almost put his name in there, but Dan pointed out that I hadn't asked for permission for that, and so at the complete last minute I had Dreamspinner pull the name and was more vague. But I did thank him, because if he hadn't said, "That delivery guy was hot," there would be no Sam or Mitch. It has been bothering, me, though, that I never told him in person. Several times I tried to cowboy up, but I always got nervous and backed out. Then for a long while I was perpetually out of copies of SD, so I let it slide.

Today for whatever reason as I headed out the door to run errands, I picked up a copy and took it with me. I decided that I would take it in to Wheatsfield with me, and if I saw him I would say something, and if I didn't see him, I wouldn't. Well, I saw him. Right off. So I had Anna pick out some apples, and I went over and did it.

I'm amazed he could understand me, I talked so fast. I have never, ever been so nervous about anything. I think I would have had an easier time undressing on Main Street. I'm not exactly sure what I was afraid of, but oh my god, I was terrified. My hands shook for a full half hour after I handed the book over. Which I should say he accepted with aplomb and grace, and was very happy and nice and had me sign it. He said he was going to go home and read it. I warned him it was steamy, and he said, "Good," so we're probably on good footing there.

Anyway. Jesus, I'm glad that's over. I'm glad I did it, because it felt like something I had to do. Karma loop closed.

On to the next.

Well, in theory there was going to be a blog post BEFORE Pride saying, "Hey, I'll be at Pride, come on down," but things went crazy, so the post will be recap only. But I did go to Des Moines Pride, known here as Capital City Pride. I didn't just attend: I had a booth for Dreamspinner Press, and I wasn't the only author, either. Months back when I signed up for Pride, I put out a call on the Dreamspinner loop for any author who wanted to come to Des Moines to feel free. Marie Sexton (who hails from Colorado) emailed me and said, "Sure, I'll come!"


This is us at our booth. We were there for the street party on Saturday night and the parade and festival on Sunday, and in true Iowa spirit, it was humid as all hell. We had a lot of browsers Saturday, but not many purchasers as most people didn't want to carry books around all night. We got a lot of word of mouth out for Dreamspinner though, and some people told us Sunday they'd checked us out overnight and had already made some purchases. Yes!

We got home late Saturday night, passed out, then rose early to do it all again. Unfortunately overnight a weather system had crept up on us, and from 9 to 11AM it was pretty much a monsoon. Marie and her friend Drew headed off to Dollar General for some waterproofing, and we ended up with a tent that kind of reminded me of a sultan's den.



Later in the day we tore down the sides, but we were ready for more rain. Which was why as soon as we had this set up, it stopped raining entirely.
It was wicked fun to be at Pride. Met a ton of people, sold a pile of books, and got roped into doing another Pride event. More on that in a bit. But it was absolutely fun. I am still tired from it, but I will so be doing it again next year. I think my favorite part was watching guys handle the books. They loved the cover art. LOVED it. Anne Cain has fans in Des Moines, Iowa. Sometimes the books walked off without anybody reading a word: they bought them for the covers alone. And it was very fun to have people be exited about a hero from Iowa or Kansas or Minnesota. There were a lot of guys who seemed genuinely touched at the idea of books "for them." They were sometimes perplexed at straight women writing them, but in the end they didn't care how it happened, just that it did.


Marie Sexton is also absolutely wonderful. We talked book all weekend, and ogled hot men, and in general had a great time. We had a good system going by the end of the day on Sunday: she lured them in with CDs and promo cards, and I worked the table. I haven't plugged Marie on here yet: you need to read her stuff. All of it. Start with Promises and work your way on through the ouvre. She is fabulous, and so are her stories.

I also want to give a hat tip to Zahra Owens: she donated two books to our table, and the full proceeds went to One Iowa. She also sent along handpainted cards both for the books and for One Iowa to give away at their booth. Thank you so much, Zahra!

I mentioned I was approached by other Pride organizers; one of them was very persuasive, and as a result, I will be at Iowa City Pride this coming weekend. Down on the Ped Mall, as I understand. So if you're in the Iowa City area on Saturday afternoon, stop on by!

It seems like I'm leaving a lot out, and I probably am, but to be honest, it's been four days since I've written a word of fiction, and it's starting to drive me absolutely crazy. So if you want a longer report, I will direct you here, and if you want a lot of photos, I will direct you here. Now I'm off to make a pot of coffee and work for an hour. If this week and next go like I'm hoping, soon I should have some interesting things to show and tell. If not, I'll just make something up.

That would be Daniel Cullinan.

Three cheers for Dan! If you're inclined, wish him happy birthday on his blog, Facebook, or twitter. Or here. He reads all the comments. Gemini: need input.

My fourth novel (!!!!!) is available for purchase now in both ebook and print.





 When the forest behind a Minnesota pawn shop turns out to be the doorway into a faerie paradise, Miles Larson doesn't see any reason to complain. He's bankrupt, single, and living in a trailer in his backwoods hometown after being laid off from his big city job: he could use a little downtime in a homoerotic dreamland.

But Miles soon learns that in the faerie world, nothing is quite as simple as it seems. The beautiful faerie man who has captured Miles's heart might also be after Miles's soul. The frightening beast who chases him through the forest is actually a noble-hearted human under a terrible curse. And at the center of it all is the deathly beautiful Lord of Dreams, a faerie so powerful that if Miles so much as looks at his face, he will be lost in dreamland forever.

The only hope for Miles's escape is a magic flute, an enchanted instrument that holds the answer to the faerie lord's defeat. But even if Miles is smart and strong enough to wield it, will he dare? When the cold light of truth dawns, if there is no reality beneath the love he's found in the faerie realm, Miles will have to return to his own world—alone.

[Excerpt]
 ****
This one is a little darker. It's a romance, several of them, actually, but to me it's more complicated than that. I wrote it in October while I waited for NaNoWriMo to start, then revised it all spring. It definitely got colored by the return severe onset of the chronic pain, so I thanked the pain in the acknowledgments. Which I admit is weird. But it was important.
Now, I am buying paperbacks again, but if they come in time for Pride (please, God, let them come in time for Pride), I'm going to hold off on all of them but Libby's and the Goodreads giveaway. (The book is dedicated to libby_drew.) Well, and Sue's. And I'm very sure I'll have extra and plenty of them. If you show up at Des Moines Pride this weekend, Saturday night or Sunday, I will be there, and I will have books. If I don't have Miles, I will first cry, and then I will just take orders. And then, god yes, I will sell them direct to any soul who will send it to me paypal.

I keep wanting to talk more about what Miles means to me, but I think I'd spoil it. What I will say is that I get to the end, every time I read it through for proofing and editing and have to stop and go gather myself. I'm fairly sure I'm one of the few people who will have that reaction. It was a catharsis to write. But I definitely feel odd about this one going out into the world, odder than usual.

In other news: I'm probably going to have to change my handle on here. The title of my blog will always be The Amazon Iowan, but it's about time I was heidiculilnan as a user name so people know who the hell I am. I already did the change on Twitter and broke Dan's heart, but hey, it's business. I'm dragging my feet a little here, but soon, yes, It will be heidicullinan.

I think that's it. Buy books, watch for a name change, live long and prosper.

Oh, and newsletter winners announced tomorrow!

In the past ten years or so I went from someone who loved to go to public swimming pools to someone who didn't even bring a suit and argued with the front desk about whether I should even have to pay at all, since I was just going to sit in a chair wishing for shade and my air conditioned house. When I was a kid, I loved to swim, but somehow in the last decade I lost it utterly. I didn't mourn the loss, either. I just didn't want to go. Which was why when physical therapy declared I needed mandatory three times a week hydrotherapy this past winter, I was less than thrilled.

Fast forward four months, and now I am a pool rat. I still hate the fuss, and no, I am not attractive in a swimsuit. But there's no question that water works. The weeks I don't get to the therapy pool three times are worse weeks than usual, and a trip to the pool almost always makes whatever hell I'm in for that day better. So when Dan suggested we get a family pass to Ames's new aquatic center, which isn't at all far from our house, I went along with the plan. I wasn't sure I'd quite made up with water enough for that, but I think I can now safely say that I have. The center opened last Friday, and in that time the Cullinan family has gone at least five times. 

It's a pretty awesome setup. There are three full sized slides, two for inner tubes and one called a "drop slide" which goes into 13 feet of water. There's a "pond" for ages six and under with a family slide next to it where up to three people can go down at once. There's a lazy river, and yeah, there's the standard fifty meter pool with diving boards and three lap lanes. Even in the full crush of opening weekend, it didn't seem that busy because the place is just so damn big. Parking is decidedly an issue, but as I said, we don't live too far.

What I'm loving is that I've found a trip to the pool can greatly diminish any chronic pain I'm having that day. I think some of it is the anti-gravity factor, and some of it is the stress-lowering aspect. In the past two days I got brave and, with a swim cap and goggles, tried my hand at a few laps. I can't do many at all, and my arms are not quite ready for prime time, but last night's laps turned me from absolutely sure I would have to go back in to the chiro or ask PT to use the ultrasound on me to feeling actually quite fine today, except for some very tired and slightly strained arms. I did laps again tonight, and I feel even better, though yeah, now my arms are REALLY sore. But as someone who knows the difference between achy and sore, sore is a lot better.

And, like mother like daughter: Anna is pretty much ready to make a bunk in the women's locker room and see us all in September. She was already wearing goggles, but today I talked her into a swim cap because all she does is dive and swim underwater, and when I added that to new diving balls, all she really needs now is fins. I'm on the hunt to find her some nose plugs, because as I was at her age, she can't seem to let go of her nose to breathe out.

The pool is full of excitement too. One night we showed up only to find no one was in the water and an ambulance was screaming through the parking lot: someone had banged their head in the lazy river and got a concussion. The first few days we had to make Herculean efforts to get to the pool at opening or there would be not only no parking but no chairs. Last night as Anna was in line for concessions, we watched two sisters get in a catfight, the older one trying to rip the younger one's head off by her hair, and she wouldn't back down until the pool manager threatened to call the police.

And tonight.

Dan and I had just come back from the lazy river, and we were standing with Anna in the main pool (they call it the "lake"). All of a sudden all the guards blew their whistles and told us repeatedly to get out of the pool. At first I thought there had been some sort of weather issue, because it was cloudy and it felt like it could storm later. But as we all herded towards the exit ramp, someone indigantly pressed the pool manager for the reason we had to get out.

Her reply: "There's poop in the water."

As Dan pointed out, she might as well have said, "There's a great white shark in the water." There was practically a stampede.

Yes, some delightful soul shit their pants and then either dropped trou to let it out or just let it escape innocently out the side of the suit. It was resting along the edge of the wall. I don't want to know how long it sat there. I really don't. Practically speaking, there's so much chlorine in there that we're all fine, and honestly, we're all giving off so much body waste in general that it's just a communal germ festival. Hence the chlorine. But yeah. Poopy pool water, not my idea of a good time.

Even so, I suspet we'll be back there tomorrow, and if not then, Sunday. Trust me, they were cleaning the pool when we left. And anyway, it feels really good to do laps. I like what it's doing for my neck, and today even my hips are happy. My goal is to be able to do ten laps (up and back as one lap) without stopping to rest by the end of the summer. If it continues to do good things for me, I'll continue to do laps in the community indoor pool in the fall.

And if my fellow pool rats can stop getting concussions, stop trying to kill each other, and can learn to use the toilet, it should be a great summer.