Cover Reveal

With renewed determination, I studied my surroundings: the 

littered floor and heaps of trash and corroded, useless fixtures; the personal caves constructed from crap. I could be a lot worse off than this, but I wasn’t going to settle for it. I wasn’t going to settle for anything or anybody ever again.

… I couldn’t suppress a private smile. How ironic that amid so much decay, I’d found the most effective resurrection man of all.

Coming August 6 from Dreamspinner Press.

Celebration Time!

Dicks with Dicks

Those of us who've been around the m/m romance genre for a while are familiar (probably more than we'd like to be) with some readers' aversion to what they call "chicks with dicks." These readers seem to think that gay heroes who exhibit certain characteristics -- emotional vulnerability or sensitivity, usually, although other traits have also come under fire -- are too much like the heroines of traditional m/f romances. 

I won't go into another rant about how offensive I find that attitude, because the subject's pretty much been beaten to death, but it has led me to wonder about the opposite character type. Why don't readers object to that one?

It's been my experience that hyper-masculine gay men are more the exception than the rule. In fact, I've never known any. Yet the genre is packed with heartless assassins and hardboiled government agents, with mercenaries and muscle-bound members of elite military units and other cold-eyed, coldblooded extreme Alpha males who face death regularly with nary a blink.

Okay, let's pause here and have another look at m/f romance stereotypes. But this time, let's look at some of the heroes. Specifically, those tough, stoical, domineering, manly men who are often downright mean-'n'-nasty. They'll bend to no one's will -- except when their hearts are softened by the nurturing love (and magic hoohah) of Just The Right Woman.

They're real dicks, these guys. They're (you got it!) dicks with dicks.

Why have m/m readers never found this stereotype offensive? Has it never occurred to people who've squawked about "chicks with dicks" that "dicks with dicks" is a far more obvious holdover from category romance as well as far less representative of the gay population as a whole? Haven't they realized they're being just a tad hypocritical?

By the way, I don't object to any kind of gay/bi/trans male character -- Highlander, house husband, Viking, twink, special ops soldier, drag queen, murderous paranormal creature -- as long as he's well-drawn and believable. That doesn't mean I don't have character preferences (I definitely do). It simply means I hate seeing readers fling around pejorative labels without thinking them through.

    

Release Day!

Three relationships in danger.

One must be sacrificed.

Will that be enough to save the other two?

Machine, the final book in the Mongrel trilogy (paranormal steampunk), now available from Dreamspinner Press and all major ebook outlets. 

Go to the publisher's site

to read a blurb and extended excerpt.

New Contract, New Review

First, my heartfelt gratitude to Lynn at World of Diversity Fiction for posting a review of Merman (Mongrel #2). What a pleasant surprise! Thank you, Lynn, for taking the time to read my book and share your thoughts on it. Anyone who likes Clancy Marrowbone is okay by me. ;-)

A reminder to everybody: Machine (Mongrel #3) is coming out on April 30. You can currently preorder it at 25% off the list price.

Aaaaand . . . I've had a story accepted by Harmony Ink, Dreamspinner's YA imprint. Ben Raphael's All-star Virgins is a contemporary featuring five 16-year-old prep school friends. Release is scheduled for early fall.

Save the redwoods! Love the gays!

One of my guilty pleasures is watching a couple of Fake Housewives of Clueless City shows, because it fascinates me to see how the other half lives. Just recently, one of those privileged female stars said something that provoked this shout from me to the TV: "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

This is what came out of the pie hole of Sonja Morgan, NYC Legend in Her Own Mind: "I love my gays." That's a verbatim quote. "I LOVE MY GAYS."

Dafuq? Need I explain why I nearly launched myself out of the recliner? Well, I'm going to anyway.

Those four words, uttered with such self-congratulatory gusto, made me sick. Were I a gay man, I would've shouted something else at the TV. Maybe, "I am not yours, bitch. I am not a bragging point. I don't exist to contribute to your public posturing. Nor am I one of your personal accessories, like a hat or corset or boa. Nor am I part of a happily homogeneous aggregate that you treat like a cause du jour. Save the redwoods! Love the gays! Leave me out of your mission, you fatuous, presumptuous twit."

At that moment it was clear to me, a cis-gendered heterosexual female, that possessive modes of thought and expression severely undermine any GLBTQ ally's sincerity, no matter how good our intentions are. They make us look like self-aggrandizing users. And maybe some of us are.

Since watching that episode of Fake Housewives, I've combed through my memories of relationships with people unlike myself. Have I ingenuously dragged them out to use as bragging points? Oh, look at soft-hearted, liberal me with all these black/Indian/gay/lesbian/handicapped/[insert minority group] friends! Yeah, probably (I'm ashamed to confess), at some points in my life. But I can say unequivocally that I never thought of or referred to any of these individuals as a collection or, worse yet, as MINE. And I've never professed my love for all members of any human group. Doing so is the height of either delusion or deceitfulness.

If I learned anything from that stupid TV show, it's the need for constant self-monitoring. Ill-chosen words aren't always innocuous. They can be profoundly offensive and/or indicative of questionable motives. Caring should never come off as condescension. A supportive boost should never be accompanied by boasting. And possessive adjectives and pronouns used in relation to people must be applied with great care.    

Cover Reveal

Coming April 30 from Dreamspinner Press: 

The Final Book in the Mongrel Trilogy

Cover by Anne Cain

The closing-day flea market at the Marvelous Mechanical Circus always draws a colorful crowd, but salesman Will Marchman doesn’t expect to see a large, elaborate gold wagon on the plaza -- especially one called The Spiritorium. The wagon’s exotic looking owner claims he can perform “cleansings and siphonings” via a miracle-working machine housed within. He can supposedly flush the wickedness out of people and places.

The Spiritorium appears in the Mongrel village of Taintwell the next day, setting off a potentially tragic chain of events that begins with a shocking revelation. To make matters worse, Fanule Perfidor, de facto mayor and Will’s lover, has been neglecting to take the tonic that stabilizes his moods. Besieged by his illness, Fan drives Will away. Then Fan’s best friend, vampire Clancy Marrowbone, vanishes, causing a rift between him and his mortal lover. Then Will disappears.

As Fan regains control of his mind, he knows what he must do to save his village and the people most important to him. He must solve the mystery of the Spiritorium and its master. This means delving into truths about himself and his Mongrel lineage he'd never before had to face ... and confronting a man he'd hoped never to see again.

The trial, if Fan passes it, will make him worthy of the title Eminence of Taintwell. And worthy of the far more meaningful labels life partner and friend. 

Life is ablaze with sunshine! When it isn't steeped in gloom.

Writers are emotional creatures who wind themselves up for countless reasons. Small wonder readers often get fed up with us. Sometimes I get fed up with myself.

Do the following sound familiar?

I have a new idea/contract/cover/release/blog tour! J I’m going to a conference! J I’m going as an author instead of a nobody! J J An author who’ll be in the spotlight, like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret! J J J I can’t go to this conference. L But I’m going to that conference! J I scored a great story prompt at Goodreads! J I didn’t score a story prompt. L I got a glowing review! J I got an ickycaca review from a poopbutt who doesn’t understand my work. L I won a contest! J I lost a contest. L I’m in DABWAHAHAHAHA although I have no clue how I got there or even what it is! J I hate those stupid people who run that stupid tournament ‘cause they're poopbutts who play favorites. L Readers and reviewers love me! J Readers and reviewers don’t love me enough. L Readers and reviewers are brainless poopbutts who ignore me. L L I don’t deserve love because I’m a brainless poopbutt. L

A lot of this kind of stuff has been swirling through social media lately. Since I’ve contributed to the whirlwind, I figured it’s time to step away and go in search of a precious and elusive commodity: reality.

Ah, I think I see it there, at my local resale shop!

Every time I go to a resale shop, I gravitate to the book section. Most of you probably do. And at some point I start to mourn all the dozens of "masterpieces," with beat-up dustjackets or no jackets at all, that are doomed to languish unnoticed on the shelves. I think of the men and women who penned them, how thrilled and proud they were to get published -- then how, ten or thirty or fifty years later, they fell into total, impenetrable obscurity.

Imagine how Edna Winchester’s ego swelled when A Chalice of Rubies  was issued. Did she celebrate? Sure she did. Maybe donned her best lemon-yellow cocktail suit with rhinestone buttons and went to a nice restaurant with her husband. Maybe drank one-too-many glasses of champagne afterward. Her mild hangover was worth it, though. A Chalice of Rubies made her that special being called an “author.”

But that was in 1962. Regardless of Edna’s creation being offered by the Book of the Month Club as an alternate selection, regardless of it being condensed for Reader’s Digest, regardless of raves and pans and an award for Best Historical Novel of the Year by the Crown and Quill Writers’ Guild, A Chalice of Rubies now sits -- ragged, ignored, and leaning piteously -- on a warped and dusty shelf. Nobody’s willing to pay so much as a dime for it. Nobody’s even heard of Edna Winchester. In fact, nobody other than Edna's friends and family have heard of her since 1974.

So, my writer friends, if you ever find yourselves fussing over reviews, either good or bad, or feeling pumped up by a contest win or deflated by a contest loss; if you’re ever tempted to pat yourselves on the back or kick yourselves in the ass because of your success or lack thereof . . . go to a garage sale or any store that sells other people's unwanted crap. Scan the books. Note how many author names you don’t recognize. Note how many books couldn’t interest you less. Pick up one that's bound in cheap, paper-covered boards or barely clinging to a faded and tattered dustjacket, and think about its short journey from pride-and-joy to piece of shit.

Believe me, you’ll get a humbling adjustment in perspective. You'll realize the vast majority of fiction is throwaway fiction. Nothing you do, don’t do, are, aren’t, score, don’t score as a writer will ever seem quite so earth-shattering anymore.

Until, of course, that next release or review or conference or contest . . .

I just got this in the mail.

And I won it fair and square. :-)

Yes, it's for Xylophone.

And More News

Dreamspinner accepted my novel-length (but not quite by their standards; it's just over 55K words) contemporary, Resurrection Man. It should be coming out in August. I've posted an unedited blurb below.

Right now I'm working on my first bona fide YA story. (The Zero Knot was, I guess, more NA, because it did contain explicit sex scenes.) Titled Ben Raphael's All-star Virgins, it features 16-year-old protagonists. There's a Big Sad in it too.

So here's the blurb I promised.

Resurrection Man

Bad enough Elijah Colter’s life of comfort and privilege comes to an abrupt end when he’s 17 and his family discovers he’s gay. Bad enough he must live out of his car in a bar’s parking lot and turn tricks for money. But when his perfect boyfriend, Alonzo, is taken down in a drive-by shooting, Elijah plummets into suicidal depression. The concepts of trust and hope become more alien to him than ever.

All that keeps Elijah going is a promise he made on that bleak Chicago sidewalk: that he would look after Alonzo’s stepdad, a sixtyish black man named Dizzy who’s on the verge of losing his house.

Diz joins Elijah in Milwaukee, where they become companions in homelessness—until Elijah discovers a program for throwaway LGBT youth. Through Footbridge, the now-20-year-old gets his own apartment… then loses it after a year when he can't cover his living expenses. Elijah has kept his promise, though, and until he can get back on his feet, he’s resigned to joining Dizzy in the abandoned factory the older man calls home.

One September day, a pair of new presences in Elijah’s life promise to shape his future: Alonzo’s ghost and an outreach volunteer named Michael Hanlan. As the boundaries between reality and illusion, truth and deception begin to blur, the bright but naïve Elijah must decide which of his dreams to pursue and which to cast aside. And just how much he can dare to believe in himself again.       

Update of the Update

Machine should be coming out at the end of April. You can bet you'll see the cover as soon as I get it.

Following is a blurb and a snippet from Chapter Two.

* * *

The closing-day flea market at the Marvelous Mechanical Circus always draws a colorful crowd, but salesman Will Marchman doesn’t expect to see a large, elaborate gold wagon on the plaza—especially one called The Spiritorium. The wagon’s exotic looking owner claims he can perform “cleansings and siphonings” via a miracle-working machine housed within. He can supposedly flush the wickedness out of people and places.

The Spiritorium appears in the Mongrel village of Taintwell the next day, setting off a potentially tragic chain of events that involves a shocking revelation. To make matters worse, Fanule Perfidor, de facto mayor and Will’s lover, has been neglecting to take the tonic that stabilizes his moods. Besieged by his illness, Fan drives Will away. Then Fan’s best friend, vampire Clancy Marrowbone, vanishes, causing a rift between him and his mortal lover. Then Will disappears.

As Fan regains control of his mind, he knows what he must do to save his village and the people most important to him. He must solve the mystery of the Spiritorium and confront a man he’d hoped never to see again.

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Will saw a figure racing in his direction. A tall, familiar figure, his rough jacket flying out behind him, his powerful strides measuring out long stretches of grass. Before Will could react—

“Get away from him!” Fan roared, sounding fiercer than Will had ever heard him, sounding like a dragon defending its young, as he gripped the stranger’s shoulders and flung him aside.

Or tried to.

The Spiritmaster stumbled but didn’t fall, although he looked considerably older than Fan. Any other person would’ve landed on the ground ten feet away. Transfixed and anxious, Will glanced back and forth between both men. They looked… they looked like….

“You,” the stranger grated, his sharp gaze raking up and down Fan’s tall frame. The glance he darted at Will made a damning connection. “And a filthy two-door, no less. I can’t say I’m surprised.” He muttered something in a foreign tongue, but the name Quam Khar stood out.

Will gaped at the angular figure, the exotic man of stone. Why had he targeted them? Why did he seem to despise them? Not because they were twors; he couldn’t be absolutely sure of that. Not because Will was a Pure and Fan was a Branded Mongrel; he couldn’t have known that, either. And what, if anything, had all this to do with that Quam Khar person?

The self-appointed judge (for that was how he now seemed) dipped to the left, frowned for a moment at the side of Fan’s head, then extended a hand and flicked at Fan’s windblown hair. Will gasped at this inexcusable liberty. Glowering, Fan jerked away.

The judge curled his lips. “Well, well. Small wonder I couldn’t see the verification. They found you guilty of buggery and cropped your ears. What a peculiar punishment. You should have been stoned or hanged or at least had an S carved into your forehead.”

Will stepped forward. “That’s not why his ears were—”

Without looking at Will, Fan stiff-armed him from getting any closer to the stranger, at whom he stared spears of ice.

Any second now, Will feared, Fan would do something horrible to the man. Fan would suck the light from his eyes and swallow it, which meant it would be gone forever. The Spiritmaster would be blind for life.

Will clutched at his lover to get his attention. “Calm yourself, Fan. Don’t do anything rash. The authorities won’t tolerate it. You’ll be arrested.”

“It would be worth it.” The reply, spoken in a hard, cold voice, was shockingly sincere.

The stranger echoed “Fan” on a scornful laugh, as if he were spitting badly cooked food from his mouth.

“Just leave him be,” Will pleaded when he saw how Fan’s face had changed, how it quivered with suppressed rage.

“He can’t leave me be,” the stranger said, sneering around the words. “I’m sure it isn’t in his nature to leave anything be. Nor is it in mine.” Narrowing his eyes, the man lifted his nose and grimaced. “Dear God, how much of an abomination are you two? Do you also consort with blood drinkers? I can sense at least one beast’s presence in your lives.” His gaze slid to Will. “Ah, your friend, the one I saw you with yesterday! Is he the link, or is there, God forgive you, a more direct connection? Because as sure as I’m on this Green, I’ve stumbled upon a clutch of mandrakes, at least one of whom is a vampire.”

Will’s face gathered in confusion. More, in dread. How could this newcomer know all these things? “Who are you?” he whispered. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted his gaze to Fan. “Who is he? Tell me. I know you know.” His certainty had come but a split second before he voiced it.

A scudding cloud dimmed the sun. Slowly, the stranger looked at Will and smiled.

With a gesture as graceful as Clancy Marrowbone’s movements, he pulled a card from one of his pockets and handed it to Will.