I'm out of the garage!

Finally. After four days of sitting with an air compressor and countless other pieces of machinery at my back (because it's a working garage, after all, not just a place to park vehicles); four days of being bombarded by flies and buffeted by the chilly breezes that often whirled through the door; four days of listening to people tell me their life stories (and being truly creeped out by a lone man named Bob from Appleton who'd found Jesus -- but where, he didn't say); four days of crossing the yard and hustling into the house whenever the opportunity arose, hoping to have enough time to use the bathroom, shove some food in my face, and let the poor dogs out. Yep, I was alone for three of those four days. It's harvest season, which means JLA has been driving truckloads of vegetables around the state.

At least I can now pay the DMV $75 to have my license plates renewed. But I still must return to the garage to pack up all the leftovers. Ugh. The weather has definitely turned autumnal -- gray skies, gusty winds, and occasional smatterings of cool rain.

The highlight of my long weekend came courtesy of my canine companions. The weather was lovely enough on Sunday to allow them time in their big, pine-shaded pen. Early that afternoon, they both started barking in a way that said, WTF? People, come here! What is this? What are we to do? (For those of you who've never had dogs, they have different kinds of barks that convey different messages.) So JLA, his son, and I all hurried over to the pen as a few shoppers browsed in the garage.

What had Cody and Luna so distraught was a hissing snake, curled in the underbrush along the fence. Since none of us is a herpatologist and there are timber rattlers in Wisconsin, we got the dogs into the house and then asked the few people at the sale if anyone was familiar with snakes. A younger man came outside to eyeball the invader.

"That's a bull snake," he said. "It won't hurt you."

Later, my inquiring mind drove me to the Internet. Bull snakes are, it appears, a protected species in Wisconsin. They're constrictors -- they stalk rodents and small mammals and squeeze the bejebus out of 'em -- and, while nonvenomous, can deliver a bite if they feel threatened.

Now, of course, we're left wondering where exactly this creature has taken up residence. State law says we're not to harm it or even move it, but . . . the bugger was in the dog pen! We have no clue where it's currently lurking. Eep!

Well, back to work. I have to do some house and garage cleaning before I can even begin to contemplate writerly stuff. By the way, many thanks to all of you who popped in for the blog tour!

Blurb: precious_boy

The novella, she is finished. 32,800 words. Don't yet know who the publisher will be. Here's the blurb for precious_boy.

It was just an amateur porn video, like thousands of others on the Internet. Like hundreds Jonathan Wright has seen and hundreds more he's ignored. He hadn't intended to watch it. In fact, he hadn't intended to go anywhere near his home office. He was simply on his way to the bathroom—the only sensible destination, aside from bed, in the middle of the night.

Jon's fuck-buddy for the evening doesn't think so. Much to Jon's annoyance, his trick is having some solo fun in front of the computer as he watches a lithe, blond young man doing naughty things with a bearish, older man. When Jon gives in to his curiosity and watches the same video the next day, he's seduced too ... and feels like a pervert afterward. The youth in the video seems a little too young, despite the fact he also has his own escort service. Worse yet, Jon gets the nagging feeling he's seen "Justin Time," aka precious_boy, before.

One of Jon's former lovers, a college professor eleven years his senior, is the connecting link between that vague sense of recognition and the hot bottom whose screen name is precious_boy. When Jon takes the defining step of meeting Justin in a Chicago hotel room, his past, present, and possibly his future begin to converge in alarming and confusing ways. There’s no escaping the resulting dilemma: Jon must decide just how involved he wants to get with a sweet kid, all grown up now, whose life has turned sour, and with an ex-lover who seems to care more about his own needs than those of his lost son.

The resolution lies in trust that was established and faith that was betrayed seven years earlier. And it won't come easily.

Next project? Haven't decided yet. I've been toying with a number of ideas for something paranormal, but I never know when a contemporary or historical wild hair will sprout. ;-)

I do know this week will be devoted to setting up my garage sale for the Labor Day weekend. Gads, what misery being out there, now that the heat and humidity are back! I hope they break soon. I also hope I have buyers for my hundreds of books. I'll tell ya, I have one enormous, eclectic collection, and I'm sure the sale will barely make a dent in it.

News (no rants) ~ Amended Version

Loose Id will be issuing Mobry's Dick in a print edition. O_O. Am shocked. It should be out in three to four months. (This will be my first m/m title in print--because, you know, I'm the novella queen. *g*)

And, OMG, and I already have a cover flat! I didn't even know it until I opened the zipped cover-art file. And if you have bionic eyes, you'll see there's a quote on the bottom from "Well Read Book Reviews" (that be you, Jen!)

Another of my m/m titles that breaks from novella length is Mongrel, the steampunk book. Dreamspinner sent me a contract last Friday. They're fast! Mongrel is scheduled to be released in December.

My WIP, precious_boy, is nearing completion. Don't yet know where I'll sub it.

Just a reminder that Electric Melty Tingles is coming September 28 from Loose Id. Sorry I still don't have a cover to show you.

Puter Problems Continue; Contract Arrives but Can't Leave

Warning: This post exhibits an exuberant indulgence in profanity.

Yup, it's been another one of those weeks.

My Local Expert Computer Repairman, after wiping every bit of software from my hard drive (thus losing MS Office Suite 2003, which I couldn't reinstall for reasons I won't get into), replaced it with a Thinstall, now Thinapp, version of 2007. I was dubious, but it worked fine. For a while. When it wasn't being attacked from within by the trojans that had lodged there.

Then, last week, I tried opening Word and only managed to open an error message: "Microsoft Office Word has encountered a problem and needs to close." The same message came up for every program in the suite. It won't go away.

I did the most logical thing to do -- after, of course, pitching hissy fits from here to Kuala Lumpur -- and called the LECR. No answer, so left a message. Got no return call. Worked, in the meantime, in Wordpad. (Oh, joy! No page view! Next-to-no formatting!) By the time I got through to the LECR, I was like a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot with an ADHD kid at the controls. As soon as I heard his voice on the phone, I was ready to let the verbal fists fly, which would have brought me some measure of relief.

Just as my mouth opened, he said, "Oh yes, I got your message. But I just got back from the MAYO FUCKING CLINIC TO HAVE MY PACEMAKER REPLACED AND HALF MY CIRCULATORY SYSTEM REAMED OUT!" [Insert Ritalin into open mouth.] Gah! Thus began another round of calls made and not returned and appointments broken. But there hasn't been a damned way for me to vent about it because the mofo and his bum ticker just got back from the fucking Mayo fucking Clinic!

As of now, I'm supposed to deliver the machine to him on Sunday morning. The way my luck's been going, he'll be dead by then.

Which brings us to the printer/scanner/copier piece of shit from Dell. Ah, Dell. The most international of American companies, with customer service based in India, hardware made in China, ink cartridges from Mexico, and nothing in the U.S. of A. except maybe an executive urinal or eighty. I've already had to replace this crap pile A920 while it was still under warranty, because it just . . . gave up.

Well, after the LECR wiped clean my hard drive, I had to reinstall the printer software. But guess what? The brainiacs at Dell, who are obviously rejects from Microsoft, who are obviously rejects from the LECR's basement repair shop, designed this monument to technological advancement so that when you have to reinstall it, the scanner and copier stop working! WTF? I discovered online that this is a fairly common problem with an incredibly complicated solution that isn't even a sure thing. I repeat, WTF?

Which brings me to the new contract that I now cannot scan and send back to the publisher. But I'm too exhausted to tell you about it. So . . . next time.

Erastes, Beecroft, and . . . Anne Rice?

Clicking on the post title will take you to an enlightening and commendably candid interview with Erastes and Alex Beecroft at Out magazine. I was fascinated. I silently cheered. Then I admired the china. (Honestly, I did.)

What brave and articulate authors! I feel honored even to be in the margins of the same fiction community. How many female writers and readers of slash fiction and m/m romance, I wonder, secretly identify not only with but as gay men? My guess is, far more than people realize. I'd love to see a study of this phenomenon. [Edited to add: I've looked into this, and apparently I'm behind the times. Wiki has an entry here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girlfags_and_guydykes, and it appears the subject has indeed been studied and discussed. But how extensively or scientifically, I have no idea.]

When I was still in my twenties, a boyfriend told me, "You're the only woman I've ever known who wants to be a gay man." My current SO is befuddled and a bit snarky about my love of gay fiction and porn. Me? I don't quite understand this crooked river of gender fluidity, and I've never had any desire to undergo transformative surgery, but I do sure as hell identify with male homosexuality. I just don't worry about it. Instead, I try to funnel that mindset into my fiction.

What added even more stun to stunning was an interview with Anne Rice in the same magazine, and how some of it related to what Alex and Erastes had to say. For example:

I have no consciousness of being a particular gender. It gets me into trouble all the time. I’m constantly reminded that I’m a specific gender. When I rejoined Christianity and discovered the tremendous amount of emphasis they put on gender, it was just jarring.

Anne's responses to all the questions were thoughtful and made eminent sense, even if one isn't as devout a believer in/follower of Jesus as she is -- although, I should note, she's divorced herself from all organized religion. This interview combined with an anecdote about her generosity, which I read on one of my m/m groups, has instilled me with a new respect for her. (And keep in mind her celebrated, bestselling author-son, Christopher Rice, is gay.)

Final note: Regardless of Ms. Rice's opinion of her books, I still believe Cry to Heaven was the most extraordinary novel she ever wrote.

Read these interviews. Seriously. They're eye-opening.

I found Rick Reed at a garage sale . . .

And brought him home. Actually, it was a paperback copy of his first published book, Obsessed (1991). Click on the post title to read more about it and to see his HOT author photo. (I'd show it to you here and now . . . if my scanner hadn't crashed along with every other $%*&#@&* electronic device I own. This summer has not been a good one for me, cars, and computers.)

I love this show!

Brent and Josh

The Fabulous Beekman Boys!

If you haven't seen "The Fabulous Beekman Boys" on the Planet Green network, you're missing out on one of television's subtle joys. Together for ten years, this odd couple -- quirky, annoying, and utterly endearing -- moved from New York City to the tiny, picturesque town of Sharon Springs, New York (if ever there was a gaytopia, that town must be it) and assumed ownership of a historic farm. There they raise goats, pigs, cows, and chickens, make soap and cheese, have a pet llama, host weddings, and get involved in community events. They also bicker, pout, make up, laugh, kiss, and bicker some more. The whole danged show is just as sweet and funny as can be -- and it's returning for a second season!

Here's what the Planet Green website has to say about it:

"The initial season followed Josh, a best-selling author and advertising executive, and his partner, Brent, a physician and former vice president at Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, as they left Manhattan behind for the country life at the Beekman 1802 farm. Season two will follow them——along with viewer favorites Farmer John and Polka Spot the llama—as they juggle their relationship, along with a burgeoning home business and a rapidly expanding working farm. From raising a barn to hosting a Sotheby’s auction to shopping for sheep with Martha Stewart, season two will offer complete access to Brent and Josh’s second year at Beekman 1802."

I'm, like, wondering, like . . .

About something related to a discussion on one of my author loops. It has to do with English usages -- words, phrases, various idiomatic expressions -- that become associated with particular periods of time and certain places. For example, "the cat's meow" and "twenty-three skidoo" are pure Roaring Twenties. "Groovy" is hippie-speak. Then I started wondering if older people of bygone eras got irritated by trendy additions to the language.

Yup, probably. Because I know how irritated I get, old biddy that I am. (I'm groovy, but I'm still an old biddy.)

Recently, I saw a teenage girl on some TV show (I think it was "Children of the Paranormal") trying to explain . . . something. Dicked if I could figure out what it was. She was American, so English was her native language. But every sentence she uttered was hacked up by insertions of the word like. She couldn't utter four syllables without sticking in a like. She flung around likes as if she had a salt shaker full of 'em! For the life of me, I couldn't grasp what point she was trying to make.

Brits seem to do this with the phrase sort of. (Is that the one? Or am I thinking of another pointless phrase?) Anyway, both drive me apeshit. Or is it batshit? (What animal's doodoo is currently associated with craziness? I can't keep track.)

American gangsta urbanites are very fond of this: "Y'know what I'm sayin'?" It's spoken rapidly after every declarative sentence. And it, too, pulls my apeshit/batshit trigger.

Then there's "awesome." I think this word should be stricken from the language for the next ten years. Maybe, when it's brought back, it will be used properly and in moderation.

What does it for you? 'Cause I know I'm not the only curmudgeon, groovy or otherwise, who's driven apeshit/batshit by certain contemporary usages. (Please tell me I'm not!) And I know I've only scratched the surface of this topic.

Review for Fugly

Jeff Erno, a lauded m/m author, just notified me of his new review of Fugly. You can read it at MichelenJeff Reviews by clicking on the post title.

I'm speechless. Doubly speechless, because there's a review of The Prayer Waltz just below this one.

About that workman with the great ass . . .

KZ Gets New Carpeting and Kitchen Floor;

Dodges Jungle-size Houseplants

Looming Over Her Desk

A man has been here for the past three days laying new floor covering pretty much throughout the house, which has been in a complete state of disarray for the past month in preparation for his work.

Was the wait (and the echo) worth it? Was he a hunk in tight, tattered jeans? Did a hint of buttliciousness show when he bent over? Hell, no. I got a 62-year-old man with a beer belly who drank two pots of (my) coffee a day, resulting in motor-mouth and the incessant whistling of "Blow the Man Down."

The houseplants that were temporarily moved into my office are still nodding over my shoulder. One is a seven-foot cactus with spines about half that long.

I figured I deserved at least one good ass-shot to compensate for all my suffering and coffee brewing --but NOOOOOO.

If it's August 2 . . .

It must be time for

fugly

to appear

at Liquid Silver Books