My Ideal Drinking Buddy

Listopia needs more lists!

What do people love lists? I can only speak for myself. Lists serve as crutches for my memory. They prevent instances of "Oh, crap. I forgot to get those cheese-filled franks to supplement my fat and sodium intake! If only I'd made a shopping list!"

But what's with "best" lists? I don't understand them. Choosing a best anything has always been nigh impossible for me. Why? Because I haven't been exposed to every possible choice in any given category. "Greatest Books of the Twenty-first Century." How the fuck can I, or anybody else, choose? 1.)  The century is far from over. 2.) Even if the century were over, I wouldn't have lived through all of it. 3.) Even if the century were over and I did live through all of it, I guarantee I wouldn't have read every book published.

Maybe "best" lists are an extension of the CLAPMO (Crazily Love Always Pimping My Opinions) syndrome. That must be it. Because, like me, nobody who votes on these things has seen every cover or read every book in each of the categories -- which essentially makes every vote invalid.

Except the votes I get, 'cause I don't get many. ;-)

But, okay, we have to live with this system. So I think we can at least add some snappier Listopia lists to the 9,533 that already exist on Goodreads for gay fiction and m/m romance. Like:

• Best Cover That Features an Enema Gone Wrong
• Best Gay Stories That Could Conceivably, if Slightly Rewritten, Involve Humanoid Alpha Spiders w/ Silly Grins
• Books Guaranteed to Make You Barf if You Read Them While Eating Greek Yogurt or Marmite
• Best "I Don't Give a Shit About Editing; I Just Wanted to Get It Out There" Self-published Stories
• Books That Should Be Made Into Movies -- But Only if I Can Make the Movies and Include All My Favorite Perversions 
• Best My Little Pony Slash
• Best Dennis Rodman/Kim Jong Un Slash
• Best Andy Warhol Lookalike Heroes
• Covers That Make You Put a Finger to Your Chin and Go "Hmm, Why Does He Have Hair in That Spot?"
• Best Scratch 'n' Sniff Stories 
  
  
  
• Books I Could Write Better, 'Cause the Authors Are Nitwits
• Ugh. (Sorry, but I'm a Nitwit and Couldn't Come Up with a Better List Name.)

Got any other ideas?

When Charlie Hunnam Inspired a Book, Not Vice Versa

For the third time, Charlie Hunnam has given me a Sad. I'm done with him.

Remember when he played Nathan in the British series Queer as Folk? (It was originally titled Queer as Fuck, which I like waaaaay better, but that subject is what's called a "tangent," so we won't go there.) In case you never saw the British version, Nathan's counterpart in the American QaF was named Justin and played by Randy Harrison. He got it on quite frequently and steamily with Gale Harold.

But back to Charlie Hunnam. He was only 18 or 20 then, and he was a knockout. The song "Sexy Boy" by Air served as his character's leitmotif. (Don't bother watching the video; it's amateurish and obnoxious. Just listen to that hypnotic refrain.) I became a bit smitten by the character of Nathan, his storyline, and his theme song. In fact, they inspired me to write a particular novella and give it the title it has: precious_boy. 

I confess, I kind of felt like this when I watched QaF and Charlie appeared on screen:

But, uh-oh. He dealt me my first Sad when I discovered he was straight. Because shitdamn, he was mighty hot in those scenes with the dark-haired dude whose name escapes me (another straight guy -- Jesus, like there aren't any good GAY actors?) But I compensated for my disappointment when I wrote precious_boy. Ethan Benz-Collier will never turn out to be straight.

Then Charlie Hunnam disappeared from my radar, and life went on.

Much to my surprise, he reappeared . . . vastly altered. He had a rounder face. And unflattering whiskers. His blond hair had darkened to the color of an old tooth, a development made more unfortunate by liberal applications of dirt, sweat, and/or "product."

Okay, I got it: the sexy boy had grown into a badass biker who, between slaking his thirst for vengeance, made out with women. A second Sad descended. I tried watching "Sons of Anarchy," I did, but 1.) it was full of violence and 2.) sweet Nathan had turned into an old rugby ball patched with matted grass. I just couldn't get into it.

The third and worst Sad, though, came today when I found out Charlie will be playing Christian Grey opposite a vapid-looking actress in the (inevitable, I suppose) 50 Shades movie. What the sacred fuck? I suppose there's a good amount of money in it, and I can't fault him for trying to cash in. But I guarantee I won't be seeing that film.

How Readers Can Help Fight Plagiarism

This is just the latest case in too many recent cases of plagiarism in our corner of the book world. But I saw a glimmer of hope in S.A.'s post.

More often than not, it's an alert reader who notices suspicious similarities between already (and legitimately) published work and something that suddenly crops up, usually through a very small publisher or a self-publishing effort. So please, dear booklovers, keep your eyes peeled. If you get a sense of deja vu while reading, but you know the author is unfamiliar to you, give some thought to where you might have encountered that storyline/those characters before.

Many writers don't read widely enough in the m/m romance genre to troll through each book that's produced. The same is true of editors and publishers. They're too busy to scan every page of every new release. So we all rely on eagle-eyed readers and reviewers to detect signs of plagiarism. Obviously, no one person can devour the scores of stories that show up every week, but among the thousands of you, with your varied tastes, chances are somebody will have read both the original piece of fiction and its copied counterpart.

Thanks! (And thanks a hundredfold if you catch a thief!)

To Sequel or Not to Sequel?

Say you write a book. It doesn't exactly take off like a rocket (one of those good rockets, the kind that doesn't arc into a nosedive), but a number of readers really like it. And, of course, you like it too.

So what do you do when the readers who really like it express an interest in seeing more of the characters and their world, even if you'd intended the story to be a stand-alone? Do you give those dear readers what they -- and maybe you, as well -- want, or do you adopt a more hard-nosed, objective approach?

This isn't an easy question to answer.

I'll admit I dithered around after Mongrel was released. Nothing I've written has ever taken off like a rocket, and this novel was no different. But it had enough enthusiasts (bless you all!) to keep a follow-up story simmering in the back of my mind. Still I remained cautious, to the point that I published seven books before I threw caution to the wind. Why did I even bother? Because, regardless of the passage of time and the relatively small audience for anything that isn't a contemporary feel-good story, I hadn't managed to root Clancy Marrowbone and Simon Bentcross and my dirty steampunk world out of my brain.

Finally, I began Merman.

It was a struggle. Boy, was it a struggle! Not that I didn't adore the characters, but my old doubts still lingered. I told myself I should've been writing an angsty contemporary laced with humor. That would have more of an audience than this. But I'm stubborn . . . with a touch of delusional. I kept going and got caught up in the tale. To make matters worse, I OCD'd my way into a third book, just to give myself a sense of completion with the Mongrel storyverse.

Not a day goes by that I don't ask my computer, What the hell am I doing here? Why do I keep writing this book? When all is said and done, there might be five people, max, who'll have any interest whatsoever in reading Machine. And yet I press on. I have over 17,000 words written and I can't seem to stop, no matter how often I tell myself it's an exercise in futility.

What have I learned from the Mongrel Trilogy experience that I can pass on to fellow writers?

DO NOT follow my example. At least not the one above.

DO:

1.) Plan a duology, trilogy, or series before you begin writing the first book. Don't wing it. When I began the Utopia-X series for Loose Id, I knew I wanted each of the first three "installments" to concentrate on the development of one relationship, and the fourth to put the primary world in danger. Therefore, Book I focuses on Win and Pablo; Book II, on Tole and Ridley; Book III, on Zee and Sebastian (with a wrap-up of the Tole-Ridley story arc, which proved the most complicated). Book IV centers on a threat to the entire Utopian Metroplex of Regenerie. It also tests the Win-Pablo bond and resolves other issues, so it brings the series full-circle. That's the kind of planning I'm talking about.

2.) Unless you're as popular as Rowling or Ward or Meyer, and have millions of rabid fans salivating at the thought of a sequel to anything you produce, it's imperative you not let too much time go by between books. Adhere to the old adage, "Strike while the iron is hot." Sure, give the first volume a chance to take off/catch on, but after six months to a year, your next book should be ready to launch. M/M fiction, like most pop-fic genres, has an explosion of new releases every damned week. If you want readers to remember your first story and retain their enthusiasm for it, release the subsequent stories in a timely manner. I waited waaaaaaay too long to get cracking on Merman.

3.) Stay abreast of readers' preferences. They change rapidly. Today's Big Thing could easily be part of tomorrow's Glut. Or become tomorrow's Meh. Gay steampunk was still something of a novelty when Mongrel came out, but while I was doing all my dithering, the novelty started wearing off. And vampires fell even further out of favor. What's more, even though interest in mermen was rising, I deliberately chose not to create a fairy-tale merman and make him a sexy, romantic hero -- which is, I think, what most readers want. Oh well. That type of character wouldn't have fit into my universe.

By ignoring all these trends, either perversely or on principle (in my case, it was a little of both), I took more steps toward jeopardizing the success of my sequel.

Here's where another consideration comes into play. If you notice a change in tastes that could influence the reception of your next story, whether it's Series Book 2 or Series Book 10, do you alter it accordingly or remain true to your original vision? There is no right or wrong answer. Which way you go probably depends on how much you crave approbation . . . and royalties. ;-)
    

4.) Know when to call it quits. Granted, some series become so beloved, readers never seem to tire of them: e.g., Sookie Stackhouse, Miss Marple, Nero Wolfe, J.D. Robb's "In Death," and the chronic diarrhea that is Anita Blake (sorry; I'm not a fan). Our genre has been blessed with some excellent ongoing series: Boystown, The Administration, PsyCop, to name a few. But . . . keep in mind these are the exceptions, not the rule. Most authors can't get away with producing an open-ended and seemingly never-ending series. Their writing suffers, their readers get bored, and soon, their reputations are taking some serious hits. Counterproductive, for sure. (I really admire Josh Lanyon's wisdom and courage in putting the brakes on Adrien English. He could certainly have squeezed a lot more mileage out of his central couple, but for some very sound reasons, he chose not to.)

Now, I'm obviously not averse to letting favorite characters make cameo appearances in stories that aren't theirs -- Jackson Spey turned up in Fugly and Abercrombie Zombie ('cause, hey, he's a wizard, so he can show up whenever and wherever he pleases!) -- but I'd never drag out an actual series past three to five books, and I don't think too many authors should. It's a matter of recognizing limitations: your own, both in terms of creativity and popularity, and your readers', in terms of their interest level. So don't, don't get too big for your britches and assume the world will never get enough of your wonderful characters. The sad truth for most of is, the world will more likely forget about our wonderful characters than eagerly await their return.

To learn more about crafting series fiction the right way, check out Josh Lanyon's excellent guide, Man, Oh Man: Writing Quality M/M Fiction. He's devoted an entire chapter to the subject. (You should read the other chapters too, while you're at it, because a series won't fly unless you've mastered all the elements of storytelling.)
 

RWA: Talkin' the talk but not walkin' the walk?

After reading some very encouraging accounts of the recent Romance Writers of America conference (yes, THE be-there-or-be-square event staged by Romanceland's preeminent professional organization), I felt heartened. Attendees who represented the m/m romance (sub)genre said they were heartily welcomed, and treated with as much regard and even enthusiasm as their m/f romance counterparts.

This hasn't always been the case. Not that the ladies of RWA have ever behaved like members of Westboro Baptist Church at a gay soldier's funeral. I'm sure they were gracious about their initial aversion to GLBT romance. But there was an aversion in some quarters (likely still is), and a good deal of acrimony ensued as a result.

Now -- yippee! hurrah! huzzah! -- the tide seems to be turning.

Or is it?

Here's where I get confused. GLBT authors can join Rainbow Romance Writers, a "special interest chapter" of RWA. (Why the segregation?) This in turn means, from what I can gather, one must join RWA before joining RRW. (Does that entail paying double dues?)

Now let's examine RWA's two big awards competitions, the RITA and the Golden Heart. I checked the 2013 finalists for and winners of both. Here's what I found:

 The RITAs ("recognizing excellence in romance fiction" -- keep that phrase in mind)

11 categories
8 finalists (on average) in each category
88 total finalists (approximate)


The Golden Heart Awards ("[promoting] excellence in the romance genre by recognizing outstanding romance manuscripts" -- also keep that phrase in mind)

6 categories

8 finalists (on average) in each category

48 total finalists (approximate)

This adds up to 136 finalists (approximate) in 17 separate categories. At first I wondered why there was no M/M or GLBT category for either award. Then I thought, Well, why should there be? Love is love and romance is romance and a good story is a good story, regardless of the gender(s) of the central characters.

But . . . But . . .

Out of +/-136 finalists in 17 categories, there wasn't a single title featuring a "nontraditional" couple or threesome. Not one. (Please, PLEASE correct me if I'm wrong! I didn't have time to read all the novels' blurbs.)

I know damned well that "excellent" GLBT romance fiction is published not just every year but every month. Why wasn't it represented? Why didn't, say, a dozen books final? Or even a half-dozen? What's up with that? Why are dues-paying, bona fide romance writers being squeezed out of these competitions? Are m/m authors and publishers simply not entering? If that's the case, why? Don't they have every right to enter? If not, does it have something to do with discriminatory definitions of publisher eligibility? If so, why are those standards in place?   

Might this rather dated statuette hold some answers? 

I doubt I've ever used so many question marks in one post. But honestly, I cannot fathom what's going on here. Sorry to say, my skepticism has returned.

Who is Simon Bentcross?

Seems the poor guy is always being dissed by somebody: a young pitchman who ends up dumping him, an employer who ends up firing him, a vampire lover who's been trying to avoid him, a Branded Mongrel who's clocked him twice, and a merman who wants him dead. 

In spite of all that, he's actually a pretty decent guy -- good-natured, loyal, considerate, and unashamedly sentimental in spite of his gruffness and occasional vulgarity.

Simon, who's in his early thirties, is a bit more rugged-looking than the man below. Aside from that, there's definitely a resemblance, right down to the broad-brimmed hat. So, mentally add some disheveled hair, thin the beard and mustache to a carelessly shaved state, add some laugh-lines to that face . . . and there you have him!

Mongrel 3? Here's the opening.

Now that the publication of Merman is approaching, a notion has taken hold of me. A duology in the Mongrel storyverse simply feels incomplete. I need a trilogy. Then I'll call it quits. I'd like to explore where and how Branded Mongrels originated, and find out more about Fan's parents, and see what happens when the two central couples' commitment is tested.

I don't know if Machine (a very tentative title; it could change to Miscreant, or something else entirely) is going to appeal to anybody or not. Too soon to say. If the interest isn't there, I'll either scrap this story or, if I finish it, offer it as a free read. Hell, maybe I'll just write it for myself. :)

Stay tuned.

Prologue

Starless midnight. November had begun. The air, bearing small blades of frost, hinted at December’s cruelty.

Like a gilded and festooned ark, a showy wagon crept down Division Highway. Its wheels creaked laboriously as they made their slow revolutions through the dirt. The highway was deserted. A team of black horses plodded silently before the wagon, their hooves never touching the ground.

The driver paused at Whitesbain Plank Road and, considering, directed a narrow-eyed look down its shadowed length.

“Not yet,” he whispered after a moment.

Team and wagon resumed their trek.

On Whitesbain Plank Road, Simon Bentcross breathed irregularly in his deep sleep. Dreams bounced from jagged peak to jagged peak. Alone and restless, he swaddled himself more snugly in his quilt, as if this bunting would protect him. He sensed things he had no desire to know. And he knew only his lover’s presence would calm his mind.

Clancy Marrowbone, concluding his feed from a willing booth-tender at the Marvelous Mechanical Circus, swiped his tongue over the puncture wounds in the man’s chest. His saliva would hasten their healing.

Gods forgive him, he'd imagined it was Simon’s chest pulsing beneath his lips.

A sickening feeling suddenly lassoed his ribcage, squelching his arousal before it reached its natural conclusion. He stumbled backward as his host slid out of his grasp and crumpled to the floor.

Something was coming.

All he was sure of in his guilt- and blood-drenched daze was that he wanted no part of it.

      

A brown leaf dove toward the glass like a sparrow, tapped once, and swirled away. Darkness concealed the path of its flight. Soon, another gust coaxed a rustle and rattle from the withered vegetation in the yard.

 Fanule Perfidor continued to stand at the window, trying to see beyond his reflection. He couldn’t. The night would not allow it. The night pushed his image back at his eyes. He felt like a seer without sight.

Strange thought….

“Fan?” William sounded half asleep and wholly bewildered.

Fanule turned. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?” Sluggish movement stirred the bedclothes. A moan, inadvertently enticing, fell into a pillow. Then a mumbled “Come back here,” muffled by a clot of feathers.

“In a minute.”

Air seeped between frame and glass, raising gooseflesh on Fanule’s bare arm. He lowered his hand from the window. Winter whispered through the wind.

Something’s about to happen, he thought with an added chill of apprehension.

Stuporous, a fat fly buzzed and spun on the windowsill.

Damn it, something’s about to happen… as the bottle-green fly, twitching wings powerless beneath its back, sputtered through its death throes.

Fanule made his way toward William and warmth. And the fragile comfort of certainty.

Chapter One     

The tradition had begun when Alphonse Hunzinger owned the Mechanical Circus. On the first of November, the last day of the carnival’s season, peddlers, spiritualists, amateur entertainers, spreaders of cultish fervor—anybody who hungered for attention or had something to sell—were allowed to gather at no charge beyond the Circus’s high fences and take advantage of the crowds.

The entire city of Purinton looked forward to this chaotic spectacle. And why not? Solemn women conjured ghosts in tents. Mr. Dulhorn sang operatic arias for the sheer satisfaction of having, finally, an audience other than his collection of indifferent cats. Politicians and preachers stood on crates and shouted their evangels, hoping the messages would lodge in at least few listeners’ ears. Whittlers sold carvings, housewives sold pies, gypsies sold spells.

Even in the rain, the first of November was a glorious day.

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.

*

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 ~