HAPPY PRIDE, EVERYBODY!

Go out and celebrate!

Fragment from MERMAN

Now that Merman is at the galley stage, I can start posting snippets. (The entire first chapter will, of course, be available at the Dreamspinner site once the book is on their Coming Soon page.) The blurb is posted in the previous entry.

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Troubled and restless when he left Taintwell, Marrowbone spent the predawn hours walking a deserted stretch of beach south of Purinton. He kept telling himself to move on, get away from here, travel farther inland, perhaps to Widger or Nittyville. He’d got the information he’d been after: Simon was doing well. Although Perfidor had encouraged him to stay in Taintwell for a while, Marrowbone knew that lingering in this area wouldn’t be wise—for a number of reasons.

Fan’s parting words continued to echo in his mind. “It pained him, you know, that you left so abruptly. He didn’t regain even a semblance of his old bluster for at least three months. William is certain he misses you still.” Marrowbone had tried to dismiss these claims, blaming them on Will’s sentimentality and citing Simon’s resilience. “Nonsense,” he’d said. “I’ll wager Mr. Bentcross has enjoyed himself with half the denizens of Skipskin Mews, male and female.” Fan, watching his friend insightfully, had replied, “Some, perhaps. But I’ll wager he hasn’t given a penny’s rim about any of them. Would you like to know why I think that, Clancy?”

Marrowbone had demurred and instead said his good-byes.

Stopping now, he stared out to sea. He hadn’t seen it in daylight for countless years, but he remembered Simon once saying, “I loved to swim when I was a boy in Kings Province. But here, the ocean is the color of sickness.”

The ragged, grim hump of Floating Brick Island broke the line of the horizon like a reading on a sluggish seismometer. Far off to Marrowbone’s left, the carnival known as the Marvelous Mechanical Circus, shut down for the night, was a mass of shadows pocked here and there with dull light. The distant snap of windblown pennants occasionally broke the steady susurration of waves meeting shore.

Although Purinton was at Marrowbone’s back, it made its looming presence known. He could smell its breath, a creeping stink of smoke and oil and tar, dust and dirt, overcooked food and the end result of its consumption. He could hear the relentless, thumping thunder of its voice, diminished though it was by distance and night. Most people would only catch traces of odor or hear a faint cloud of noise, but a vampire wasn’t like most people. So Marrowbone, if he concentrated, could tell that horses still clopped and streetcars still clattered and 24-hour mills and manufactories kept up their busy clangor.

A bit inland, between sea and city, an aeropod flew over the train tracks. It seemed to be leading the locomotive that chugged rhythmically in its wake.

Briefly, Marrowbone watched them over his shoulder. Beating rotors thrashed against the inky sky. On the ground, a line of black cars heaped with coal crawled along like monitor beetles on a march. Between the aeropod and the train, roiling steam and billowing smoke mingled, filling the air.

His only thought was, It’s truly stupid of me to be out here.

Marrowbone knew he could readily be identified for what he was and even who he was. No mortal glided over the littered sand, as if each grain were a tiny ball bearing. Few mortals resembled errant slips of moonlight. Not even another of his kind had hair that floated and rippled when the wind caught it, a bleached silk banner torn into gossamer threads.

The briny breeze had felt so refreshing when Marrowbone landed on the beach, he’d chucked his hat into the sea. Now he regretted his impulsiveness. Wherever he went next, he’d have to pinch another hat as quickly as possible.

Being obvious did not work to a vampire’s advantage. Only in Taintwell did Marrowbone feel completely safe.

With that in mind, and in spite of being alone on the beach, he retreated to a low dune and sat. He’d be less visible if he weren’t standing.

Yes, he might’ve been lionized in Taintwell—he’d put an end to the practice of branding Mongrels, saved Fanule Perfidor from an assassin’s bullet, and been a significant factor in stopping persecution of Taintwellians—but everywhere else he was feared and despised. Purinton’s government, in spite of its overhaul, still reeked of corruption and bigotry, by all reports. And its Enforcement Agency now had a Special Threats Unit dedicated to seeking out “unusual enemies of the people.” Were a team from that unit to come upon the infamous vampire Clancy Marrowbone, they’d be well-prepared. He’d never survive a confrontation.

Resting his forearms on his upraised knees, he stared past the advancing lines of foam to Floating Brick Island. What kind of research, he wondered, would benefit from Simon’s “Bubble”? Or was the project more a salvage than an academic operation? Would Simon be safe inside his sphere?

“Stop,” Marrowbone whispered to himself. He couldn’t become too caught up in this. Curiosity, interest, fascination—and certainly concern—acted as adhesives. He’d intended to peel himself away from the province of Purin as quickly as possible.

Laden with flotsam, the low waves sloshed rather than broke on shore. Marrowbone had been paying them little mind. Now, though, with no aeropod chopping overhead and no train lumbering down the nearby tracks, he heard a different sound interrupt the water’s lulling, repetitive lapping. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head and listened more pointedly.

Raspy, that sound, as if a piece of wood were being scraped across the sand. An unusual filament of odor accompanied the noise. Marrowbone couldn’t identify it.

Much of the seacoast was redolent of marine as well as human waste. One not only grew accustomed to the stench but became familiar with it. Although this smell didn’t seem out of place the way a floral fragrance would, Marrowbone found it strange.

Following his senses, he rose to investigate.

“Ghosts alive,” he whispered in horror as he approached a shallow gully between a pair of dunes.

Blurb for MERMAN

The sequel to my fantasy-steampunk novel Mongrel.

When vampire Clancy Marrowbone returns to Purin province 22 months after his departure, he intends only to visit briefly with his Branded Mongrel friend Fanule Perfidor in the village of Taintwell. He also intends to avoid his former lover, the unfortunately mortal Simon Bentcross. What would be the point of rekindling their affair? Marrowbone merely wants to know how Simon is faring.

Quite well, it turns out. Bentcross, who now owns a machinery repair shop, has designed a submersible vessel for underwater exploration. He’ll be manning his “Bubble” for a marine research expedition shrouded in secrecy.

Vaguely troubled after his visit with Perfidor, the restless vampire stops at a deserted stretch of beach in Purinton, the provincial capital. He needs time to reflect before he moves on. But two unexpected turns, including a startling discovery, substantially alter his plans.

By the following evening, Marrowbone realizes his visit to the province won’t be so short after all . . . especially when Simon Bentcross reenters his life. In addition to their conflicted passion, Simon’s involvement in the mysterious Tower Hole project and Clancy’s involvement with a mysterious mutant lead to a growing host of complications and dangers. As if their affair weren’t star-crossed enough, both vampire and mortal become hunted men -- in Purinton, Taintwell, and beyond.

~ Excerpt Coming Soon ~

Git 'er Submitted!

In the publishing world, that's the logical followup to "git 'er done."

As e-publishers become ever more flooded with submissions, the amount of time between submission and acceptance, and acceptance and publication, keeps stretching. And stretching. How might these facts -- the glut and the resulting lag times -- be affecting writers?

I'm starting to feel increasingly desperate to turn in a piece before it meets my standards, just to get a place card in a publication queue. Other writers probably feel the same way. Quick, get it in, just get this baby in so it won't be published next fucking year . . . or the year after! 

The early days of e-publishing spoiled me. Acceptance of a manuscript often came within days, and publication, within two or three months. There were far fewer authors, too, and self-publishing was virtually nonexistent.

Now, though, there seems to be a panicked approach to authorship. Git 'er done! Git 'er in! Git on to the next one! Hustle, hustle, HUSTLE! 

The current realities of publishing have been preying on my mind. I sank hours into finessing Merman (due out this summer) after I signed the contract. This is ass-backwards for me. Fortunately, incorporating changes into the manuscript hasn't been a big deal. It wasn't as if the text was mess when I turned it in, but it wasn't the best it could be, either. I couldn't rest easy until I did more sculpting and polishing.

How many writers, I wonder, might be falling into the "git 'er done and git 'er in" mindset and NOT bothering with any further self-editing? How many rely solely on their editors to make their work presentable? I've read/tried to read a number of books lately that seemed to have been submitted before their time and then promptly forgotten about as the authors likely rushed headlong into new projects. Hurry, hurry! Publish or perish! 

The new publishing timeframe, a result of the increasing spate of new writers, might not be an issue for authors who either a.) don't depend on their royalties as a significant part of their income, or b.) don't have egos that continually need to be fed. But too many of us do depend on royalties or do have voracious egos that thrive on constant attention from the reading public.

It's a shame that speed now seems to be the name of the writing game. A frantic effort is rarely a careful one.

Hop Winner!

BIG thanks to all who participated in this year's Hop Against Homophobia and Transphobia. Reading about your feelings and experiences was just as enlightening, just as encouraging as reading all the posts. Voices united have always managed to effect change, as long as the people behind the voices exercise patience and persistence.

Speaking of which . . . I also have to applaud the efforts of the hop's organizers:  Erica Pike, NJ Nielsen (so nice to see both of you here!), K-lee Klein, Cherie Noel, and Sasha L. Miller. This was their second year of pulling this mammoth event together, and if that doesn't epitomize devotion to a cause, nothing does.

Anyway, the randomly-drawn winner of my humble giveaway is CAROLYN. I always hesitate to say "congratulations," 'cause it's not as if an ebook from me is like a free cruise. :)

Exposure Therapy

We’re disgusted by them, these divisive and destructive forces called homophobia and transphobia. We don’t want them to exist any more than we want war to exist. We hope our politicians and courts and schools work assiduously to eliminate both. But what's the real silver bullet that will guarantee eradication?

I believe it's what mental health professionals call exposure therapy. Granted, that's a frustratingly slow bullet, but it's an effective one. Enough of these bullets will eventually whittle homophobia and transphobia down to a religious anachronism, a prejudice to which only the most fervent fundamentalists will cling.

So how do we allies implement this strategy? By integrating the GLBTQ people we know into our everyday activities and conversations, thus exposing our relatives, friends, neighbors, and coworkers to the nonthreatening nature of a group they might be wary of. We do it by demonstrating, without either apology or fanfare, how our lives have been enriched by these associations.

Consider the powerful movie American History X. In it, Edward Norton's character, a vicious white supremacist, is shorn of his hatred by the simple act of working with a black man in a prison laundry. Sure, the film is fiction . . . yet it isn't.  

Exposure therapy works. In terms of reorienting attitudes, it works better than classroom instruction and Constitutional amendments. How has any minority ultimately achieved genuine acceptance and respect? Primarily through this, the quiet and relentless stripping away of misconceptions born of ignorance; through believers in equality leading by example rather than strident exhortation.

So maybe, just maybe, if we think of the homophobic people in our lives the same way we think of other phobics -- those with irrational fears of airplanes or insects, water or heights -- and we try to “cure” them through exposure to what they fear, we can make significant inroads.

Even if it’s one person at a time.

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If you feel like commenting on or tweeting this post (and I get ten or more responses), I'll gladly enter you into a drawing for a download of one of my m/m romance titles -- your choice. You can find them all HERE. The deadline is May 27.

Be sure to check out at least some of the other participants in the Hop Against Homophobia. Man, it's a big one!

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Twitter: @HAHAT_HOP and #HAHAT

International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia

        

A Song for Boston. . . and Beyond

This song by dear, sweet Richie Havens, who just passed away, makes me think of everything that's happened in and around Boston in the past week, and all the people who were affected.

All the people.

Old Roots Run Deep

In the last day or so as I stitched together this post, I found similar ones by Sarah Black (wouldn't you know, I can't find it now) and Rick Reed. Looks like the hive mind is at work again. We've all apparently been contemplating how our pasts continue to insinuate themselves into our work.

Back in the Paleozoic era of my writing career -- when I actually had no writing career, only a dream of one, and my estimation of my talent far exceeded my actual talent, and my ambition exceeded both -- I scoffed at a certain hackneyed bit of advice: “Write what you know.”

How absurd, I thought. This is tantamount to being one of those deluded souls who thinks his or her personal history should be recorded for posterity, because it’s just so . . . damned . . . fascinating!  I can't count the number of times someone has proposed that I ghostwrite a biography. My reaction has always been the same, although usually unspoken: Buddy, wise up. Unless you’re a celebrity, nobody other than your relatives -- and most of them probably don’t give a shit either -- wants to read about you. Just settle for immortalizing yourself through your progeny.

Anyway, back in those clueless early years when I hungered to be a better-than-average novelist, I thought writing about familiar stuff would be just as silly as Joe Schobedink's love affair with his own unremarkable existence.

What storyteller ever achieved greatness by limiting himself to what he knew?

Um… Chaucer? Melville? Isaac Bashevis Singer? Hundreds more?

It took me a while to realize that nearly all great authors, with the possible exception of certain masters of sci fi and fantasy (and if you delve beneath the surface of their work, they might not be exceptions at all), did indeed write about what they knew. Their greatness lay in transforming the personal into the universal.

When I finally took a good, long look at what I’d been producing, I realized I’d been trying to exercise the same alchemy. My attempts were paltry and severely limited, of course, but the fact remains I was indeed writing about what I knew. I was just embellishing it so other people found it relatable. Or at least interesting.

I’m still doing exactly that.

Sometimes I chide myself for continually setting my stories in Wisconsin. It isn’t a glamorous or exciting place full of glamorous or exciting people. There are no cowboys or rock stars or billionaires here. There isn’t even a single high-octane city that's a-hummin' round the clock (except maybe Green Bay when the Packers win the Super Bowl, but that's a very occasional and transitory hum).

courtesy of ThirdCoastDaily.com

However, the U.S. upper Midwest is what I know – the look of its landscapes, the smell of its seasons, the temper of its towns. My psyche was shaped by Milwaukee’s blue collar workers and eastern European immigrants, by Madison’s academics and Door County’s artsy types, even by poorer counties’ on-the-dole barflies. I’ve hobnobbed with Twin Cities yuppies and Upper Michigan Yoopers and displaced Chicago bartenders who fled north for reasons of their own.

I’ve camped along the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers, ice skated and ice fished (hell, learned how to fish) on Green Bay, walked the beaches of Lake Michigan (once found a trilobite there), and gazed in awe over Lake Superior. Even though Prism Falls (in The Prayer Waltz) and Cold Harbor (in Visible Friend and The Zero Knot) don’t exist on any map, I’ve been to those places as surely and as often as I’ve been to Summerfest. Those sailors Ned likes to ogle in Electric Melty Tingles? I've ogled them too. 

 Jackson Spey and Adin Swift reside in the neighborhood where my mother grew up. For about six down-and-out months, I lived in the same drafty house that Carny Jessup (in Carny’s Magic) shared with his aunt. After that I moved to the county where Xylophone is set. As for “Bouncin’ Bob” Lempke and the Polka Doodles, I’ve known them, and danced to their music, since childhood. I currently live in the county where A Hole in God’s Pocket takes place, although I changed some names in the story. 

Everywhere in this humble stretch of flyover country, I’ve met people for whom I’ve cared deeply -- people who enriched or educated or at least entertained me, people whose skin color, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, upbringing, and interests often didn’t match mine. Were they boring? I guess that depends on one’s definition of the word. To me, everybody everywhere can be a source of inspiration. “Colorful” is a matter of perception.

Yep, the upper Midwest is what I know, who I am. How could I possibly avoid writing about it? And why would I want to?   

photograph by Wisconsin Historical Images via Flickr

Two Recent News Stories That Got Me Thinking . . .

Asian carp

What do these creatures have in common?

1. They have tiny brains. 

2. They're overfed and voracious.

3. They pose a threat to other life forms.

4. They sprang from the same gene pool.

The M/M Romance Hall of Fame

Each sport seems to have one. Rock 'n' roll and country music have them. I'm sure there are many other halls of fame for countless professions and pursuits. So why not one for our little corner of the literary world?

I first introduced male-male attraction into my published fiction about six years ago. (Actually, I explored sexual orientation far earlier than that, in some of my non-genre novels. Only one has been published). Back then, Goodreads didn't exist. Amazon was around but e-readers weren't, so Amazon peddled only print books. But blogs and Yahoo groups abounded, and it was through these that I became familiar with the pioneers of m/m romance -- authors and publishers who, to this day, remain iconic. A bit later, review sites devoted exclusively to our genre began to appear.

Therefore, I'll divide my M/M Romance Hall of Fame into rooms -- Publishers, Authors, Reviewers, Cover Artists -- and populate them with major contributors to the genre's visibility, respectability, and popularity. Keep in mind that all of my inductees have withstood the test of time.

AUTHORS 

From the beginning, my beginning, I saw certain names with awe-inspiring frequency. The work of these writers was (and still is) enjoyed and admired and often revered. Willa Okati and Ally Blue; Sean Michael,  James Buchanan, and Sarah Black; VJB and RRR and the two JLs (Lanyon and Langley); soon thereafter, ZAM and KAM and JCP. (You bet their initials will do!) Then I discovered m/m historical romance, a rich subgenre within the wider genre, and realized it had its own greats: Alex Beecroft, Erastes, Charlie Cochrane, Tamara Allen, Ruth Sims. They get their own niche in the Author Room.

PUBLISHERS      

Companies that released m/m (or GLBT) romance exclusively were few and far between when I entered the genre. The ones that have survived the longest certainly deserve a place in the Hall of Fame. So I'm overlooking all past kerfuffles surrounding Torquere Press, the ugly covers of MLR Press, and any grumbling about Dreamspinner Press, and I'm giving credit where credit is due. Starting these companies required vision and balls of steel; not one of them installed the safety net of heterosexual erotic romance. They deserve to be honored. (Should I include Lethe, too? I'm undecided, because they publish "literary" as well as romance fiction -- although, frankly, the distinction often eludes me.)


REVIEW SITES

He writes the worst English that I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abyss of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash.

~ H. L. Mencken, on the writing style of President Warren G. Harding

Love 'em or hate 'em, reviewers have been the evangelists of m/m romance. They can't be excluded from the Hall of Fame. The first two inductees have to be Elisa Rolle and Jessewave, both of whom have made enormous contributions to the genre. They've promoted acceptance, deepened understanding, and helped advance authors' careers. Perhaps most important, they've encouraged open, frank discussions among readers. I won't listen to any smack-talk about Elisa or Wave. They're both incredible women. Jenre's "Well Read" blog, Val Kovalin's "Obsidian Bookshelf," and Chris's "Stumbling Over Chaos" also go back some years. They all helped paved the way for the excellent GLBTQ review and promotional sites we see today.


COVER ARTISTS

Since I don't know how long most of them have been working in the genre, I currently have only one inductee. Gee, can you guess who she is? ;-)

Now . . . who would your nominees be? I know I've left people out through sheer oversight, so help me correct that! Just keep in mind there are criteria for the Hall of Fame. (Yeah, okay, so they're my criteria, but this is my blog.) Authors, publishers, and reviewers have to have proved their staying-power, and they can't have a recent history of dipping their toes into other genres.         

Of Mongrels and Mermen

My next appearance will be on March 20 at a wonderful new website that's an offshoot of Coffee Time Romance and is devoted specifically to steampunk. Since I just signed a contract with Dreamspinner Press for Merman (which should come out this summer), I'll of course be talking about Mongrels and Menfish and how I like incorporating fantasy into the industrialized world of Purinton. If you don't have a copy of Mongrel, you'll have a chance to win a free download.

So, what's Merman about? I obviously can't tell you the whole story ;-), but here are some hints:

Floating Brick Island, once the site of a penal colony that was destroyed in a ferocious hurricane over a century ago.

Tower Hole, a chasm of indeterminate depth just off the shore of that bleak heap of rocks and rubble.

And . . . an alluring mutant.

When vampire Clancy Marrowbone returns to Purin province 22 months after his departure, he certainly doesn't anticipate spending time near the sea. He intends only to visit briefly with his friend Fanule Perfidor, the "Dog King," in the village of Taintwell. He also intends to avoid his former lover, the unfortunately mortal Simon Bentcross. What would be the point of rekindling their affair? Marrowbone merely wants to know how Simon is faring.

Quite well, it turns out. Bentcross, who now owns a machinery repair shop, has designed a submersible vessel for underwater exploration. He’ll be manning his “Bubble” for the Tower Hole Research and Recovery Expedition, a project shrouded in secrecy. 

Vaguely troubled after his visit with Perfidor, the restless vampire stops at a deserted stretch of beach just south of the Marvelous Mechanical Circus in Purinton, the provincial capital. He needs time to reflect before he moves on. 

Then Fate steps in.

A startling discovery followed by an even more startling intrusion redirect Marrowbone's attention and substantially alter his plans. He's forced from thought into action. By the following evening, Clancy Marrowbone realizes his visit to the province won’t be so short after all . . . especially when Simon Bentcross reenters his life. In addition to their conflicted passion, Simon’s involvement in the mysterious Tower Hole project and Clancy’s involvement with a mysterious creature lead to a growing host of complications and dangers. As if their affair weren’t star-crossed enough, both the vampire and his mortal lover become hunted men -- in Taintwell and beyond.

(By the way, you can read the opening to Merman here. More excerpts are to come.)

Hope to see you on the 20th!