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Play a Game With Me

My sister and I were having a conversation about books we liked, specifically in the M/M genre.  Our tastes vary widely.  She doesn’t like a lot of angst, anything that’s too over the top drama, nothing BDSM–in fact, she likes the straight forward, happy, fluffy, two boys meet, have a few getting together issues, fall in love and live happily ever after.

On a whim, I said, “Play a game with me.  Tell me the premise of what you want to read.”

She did.  She told me a bit about the two boys, a bit about their personalities, an overview of the sort of conflict she wants to see, and came up with a cute twist.  Then she waggled her eyebrows and gave me a little “cat-head nuzzling” and batted her eyelashes and asked me to write it,

So, now that’s in my queue too.  And that one will be especially fun.  Because it’s for my sister.

Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

I gave a bit of a yelp when the soggy tennis ball landed in my lap.   The drool that had been soaking the felt started seeping into my pants.  I looked up, shocked, to see a huge white dog sitting in front me me, it’s mouth stretched in a wide grin, a pink tongue lolling out the side as it panted.  I cast my gaze around the immediate area, trying to see if I could discern to whom the dog belonged.  But it didn’t appear that anyone else had intruded on the quite corner of the park where I had chosen to have my lunch.

I stared at the dog.  It stared back.  I gingerly picked up the ball.  The dog bounced to all fours, it’s entire body practically vibrating with anticipation.  I couldn’t quite suppress the smile that threatened my mouth as I levered my arm back and threw the ball as hard and as far as I could.  The dog took off, a blur of white, chasing after it’s toy.  I shook my head, a little amused, and picked up my book again.  It hardly seemed like any time had passed before the ball once again landed with a soggy plop in my lap.  This time, I didn’t hesitate.  I threw the ball.

When the ball appeared a third time, I marked the page, shut my book with a quiet snap, and resigned myself to playing fetch with the animal until it’s owner showed up or the dog failed to return.

“Artemis!”

The panicked shout broke the quiet.  Birds in a nearby tree squawked and took off.  I’d been lost in the quiet rhythm of the act of fetch and it startled me too.  I looked up as a man jogged closer.

“Artemis!  Where are you, boy?”

The dog had been returning with the ball for about the twentieth time when it heard the shout.  It dropped the ball in my lap but instead of waiting for me to throw it again, it took off toward the man at a breakneck speed.  Even at a distance, I could see the relief in the man’s features as he dropped to one knee to receive the dog.  I chuckled, picked up the ball and my now empty lunch sack, and ambled over.

“I believe this belongs to you?” I said softly, holding out the ball.

The man started as if I’d surprised him.  He took the ball and looked down at the dog, “Artemis, you silly boy.  You’re not supposed to interrupt other people just to play fetch.”  The man clipped the leash that was dangling off his wrist onto the dog’s collar and stood up.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, his face turning slightly pink.  “He usually doesn’t run away from me when we’re playing but every once in a while–”

I held up my hand, cutting him off.  “It’s no problem, really.  I enjoyed Artemis’s company.”

“Still,” the man said, with a shake of his head.  His smile was a little chagrinned.  He held out his hand.  “I’m Brandon, by the way.  This lump of fur is Artemis.”

“Mark,” I responded, shaking the proffered hand.  Brandon sucked in a breath when our skin met and I knew he felt that jolt of electricity too.  I let my hand linger in his bigger one, not wanting to pull away.  He was so warm.  His smile was brilliant.  I wanted to thank Artemis for his antics, because it allowed me to have this moment with a pretty man.

“Well, Mark,” Brandon said slowly, his gaze traveling up and down my body.  I imagined I could feel it like a touch.  “Can we make it up to you?  Maybe with coffee at kiosk over there?”

I barely suppressed the happy dance I wanted to do.  He wanted to prolong our time together.  I was so on board with that.  I had to take a second before I answered so that I was sure my voice would be steady.  “Thanks.  That’d be nice.”

We started to walk in that direction, silence falling between us.  I didn’t know what to say.  It wasn’t often that I gained the attention of a good looking guy.  Nerves made my tongue thick.  I cleared my throat and cast my mind for something, anything, to say.

Before I could, Artemis lunged in front of me, then dashed behind, effectively winding his leash around my knees and causing me to crash into Brandon.  Only some fancy footwork on his part kept us both from tumbling to the ground.  I turned beat red, embarrassed even though it wasn’t my fault.  Brandon let out a soft chuckle, untangled us, and made sure I was standing.

“You okay?” Brandon asked.  I nodded and willed the blush to leave my cheeks.

Brandon looked down at the dog that was now sitting patiently by his side.  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

The dog gave one bark and appeared to be smiling again.  Brandon shook his head.  When he turned to look at me, his gaze heated.  “Artemis likes you.  I happen to know he’s an excellent judge of character.  After we get coffee, you maybe want to meet me for dinner?  I promise to leave the meddling dog at home.”

He was asking me out?  That never happened to me.  It seemed too good to be true.   A hundred responses ran through my head but what came out of my mouth was, “Far be it for me to ignore the matchmaking abilities of a dog.”

That seemed to be the answer both Brandon and Artemis were looking for because they both smiled at me.  I ducked my head and smiled too.  I’d never imagined I’d end up with a date when I’d decided to enjoy my lunch in the sunshine.  And I’d never had a clue that dogs were such good matchmakers.

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Let’s Start At The Very Beginning

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…

It was a dark and stormy night…

Marley was dead: to begin with…

In all my web perusing, I’ve read how other authors write.  One thing I’ve learned, without a doubt, is that everyone’s process is a little bit different.  Some need music, some complete silence.  Some write an outline they stick to religiously, some fly by the seat of their pants.  Some can jump around, writing scenes out of sequence…I, most certainly, cannot.

I have to start at the beginning.  Word one.  While I do “see” scenes out of order, I can’t write them that way.  For me, the only way I can make a coherent story is to start with the first word and write each consecutive word until I get to the last.  That’s not to say things don’t get switched around, added or deleted, and rewritten out of order when I edit.  But for the first draft?  That initial putting the story on the page?  For me, it all starts at the beginning.  

As a reader, the beginning is often what makes or breaks a book for me, too.  That beginning has to grab me, make me want to find out more about these characters I’ve been introduced to, or I find the whole thing lacking.  I think that is, actually, a fairly universal truth.  And perhaps that’s why I need to write that way as well.  If I can’t get the beginning to to grab my attention when the characters live in my head, how can I expect a reader to want to follow their journey?

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not knocking anyone else’s method.  If you can write scenes out of order, more power to you.  I just don’t operate that way.  For me, the beginning is where it all starts.   As soon as I can figure out that, I can write a story.

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Writing, Interrupted

Sometimes, life just gets in the way.

It’s hard for a person like me, and I’m sure other authors can attest to this, when life gets in the way of putting the words on the page.  But the fact is, life needs to be lived.  There are things that have to be taken care of and, for me, a day job to go to.  And sometimes all that other stuff interrupts the writing.  And as much as you want to sit at the computer and tell the stories that are swimming in your brain, you have no choice but to step away.

It was like that for me last week.  That’s why there was only one post and that is why, regrettably, there was no flash fic on Friday.  I hope it’s not something that occurs very often and I hope it’s not an unforgivable trespass.

But the past couple of days, I’ve managed to get in some stellar plotting.  I have to let ideas percolate for a while before I can even begin to get them on the page.  I see scenes in my head and I have to “play” them several times before I know if they’ll work or not.  I have to write out–long hand–some ideas and notes to see if I can make it to the end of the tale.  I don’t outline in the traditional sense, but I do write notes and paragraphs of the beginning, middle, and end so that I know where I intend to go.  When I’m actually writing, sometimes that changes as I go.  But I need a basic plot settled firmly in my head before I can even think of beginning to write.

I got there this weekend and this week, there should be plenty of words on the page.

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The List

Here’s the thing: in my life, I can’t use the word “plan.”  You see, if I plan something, no matter what it is, it invariably goes to shit and the plan falls apart.  So, I try not to make plans, per se, as there is little point.  Either life, or my own idiocy, gets in the way.

But I do make lists.

I love lists.  They help to keep me focused and I get quiet satisfaction from being able to cross things off the list.

Now, I didn’t want to plan out my writing schedule for the upcoming year.  If I did, it would a recipe for disaster.  Instead, I combed through the plot bunnies and made a detailed list of the things that I want to write.  And while they are in no particular order, I do intend to focus on some before the others.

Right now, I’m working on the first thing on my list.  A short story that may or may not turn into a novella.  Also on the list? Rewriting Postcards from start to finish, writing another book that takes place in the same world with a MC we met as a secondary character in Postcards, a paranormal novella, and there is tentatively a contemporary novel skirting the edges of my brain that’s on the list as “That one about the guy.”

Trust me, I know what that means 😉

At any rate, I’m writing and editing.  It’s nothing too groundbreaking, I assure you. In February, Hero Worship will be released in the Dr. Feelgood anthology from Dreamspinner Press.  More details on that as the date gets closer.

The list will, undoubtedly, grow and change as the plot bunnies start hopping.  But that’s all right.  That is the way of it.  In the meantime, I have the list to help keep me focused.

Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

Slowly, Cameron removed his clothes.  Naked, he stood in the middle of the room, biting his bottom lip and trying to tell himself that he didn’t need it, didn’t want to do this.  But he did.

He loved the way the satin and lace made him feel.  With trembling hands, he pulled the garment from the drawer and just held it.  Soft pink, delicate, the lingerie was exactly what he needed after a bad day.

With the utmost reverence, he pulled the panties on and didn’t try to suppress the groan of satisfaction as they slid up his thighs and into place.  The fabric stretched to accommodate him, cupping his cock and cradling his balls.  He closed his eyes and savored the feeling.  He walked the three steps toward the full length mirror by memory, and then slowly lifted his lids.  His skin was winter pale and smooth and the pink looked perfect against his complexion.  He looked pretty.  He felt pretty.  His wavering confidence settled into place.

He didn’t know why he liked feminine underwear.  He never examined it too closely.  But when he put it on, he felt invincible.  Like nothing could touch him.  It made him feel beautiful and special.  He just wished that he had the self assurance to wear them whenever he wanted.  As it was now, he didn’t think he could share this bit of himself.  It was a secret because he would be judged.  Which was stupid.  Why should anyone care what kind of underwear he wore?

“Cameron?”

His whole body jerked at the sound of his lover’s voice.  A hot wave of embarrassment washed over him, his face heating as he squeezed his eyes closed.  He couldn’t bare to see the look of disgust on Jake’s face.  He scrambled backward and blindly reached for his pants.  “It’s n-not what you t-think.  I swear!  I just—“

“Cam,” Jake’s voice interrupted gently.

“They’re made for men!” Cam blurted.  Somehow it was important to him that he made the distinction.  He couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart and the sound of his harsh breathing.  Panic threatened to bubble up and spill over.  He stomach was in knots.  This would be it.  Jake would end things now that he knew Cam’s secret.

“Cameron, look at me.”

Cam couldn’t help but obey the firm but quite command.  He gasped at what he saw.  Jake’s face held no judgment, no disgust.  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he might even see lust in the man’s eyes.  Jake didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze raking down Cam’s body.

“Were you scared to tell me this is something you like?”

Cam swallowed hard.  “Y-yes.”

Jake gave a sad sort of smile.  “What have I ever done to make you think you couldn’t share this part of yourself with me?”

“N-no,” Cam stammered.  He took a breath.  “No, not you.  But it’s not normal and I…” He trailed off, not sure how to put it into words.  Jake just nodded like he understood.

“You like wearing that?  It makes you feel good?” Jake asked after long, tense minutes.

Scared and nervous, Cam gave a tentative nod.  Jake’s eyes turned hot.  The man slung his sport coat over the back of a chair and started loosening his tie.

“You have more?”

Bolstered by the response from his lover, Cam nodded again, this time more sure.

The grin on Jake’s face was absolutely wicked.  “Show me.”

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Year End Recap

2013 was a big year for me.  And not in the least because my dream of become a published author finally came true.  More accurately, I finally got enough courage to actually submit something for consideration.  That was the biggest thing of all.  If Worth It hadn’t been accepted, I would have been beyond disappointed, but I still would have been proud of myself.  Because I’ve been writing for more than half my life and I’ve always wanted to be not just a writer, but an author.  But I never felt like I had written anything that was worthy of being out there for public consumption.

The first draft of Worth It was actually written over three days right after Christmas last year.  I only had one truly false start when I went to put the words on the page.  It had a different premise when I originally conceived the story.  But then that opening scene–the prologue–jumped into my brain.  I could see, with absolute clarity, Jack and Ryan standing in their special spot saying good-bye.  And once I got those words on the page, the rest of the story fell into place.  Don’t get me wrong; there was much agonizing and tweaking over the next few months.  For all that it was less that 9,000 words, it was my baby and I wanted it to be as good as I could make it.  And then, of course, there were several more weeks of not being able to bring myself to actually send it in to Dreamspinner.  I was scared and nervous; half of me certain it would be rejected and the other half brimming with confidence that it would be accepted.  It was quite a roller coaster ride.

And while I was waiting for news, I wrote Hero Worship.  The submission call had been rattling around in my head for a couple of weeks and then suddenly, bam!, the beginning scene hit me out of nowhere.  Literally.  I was standing in the kitchen one morning before work, drinking my coffee, and I just saw it.  By the time I felt that that story was as ready as I could make it and was going to submit it, I heard back from Dreamspinner that they were going to publish Worth It in the Advent Calendar.  That by no means made it easier to send to the publisher, though.  But Hero Worship with be out in February, as part of the Dr. Feelgood anthology.

I participated in NaNoWriMo and successfully wrote 50,000 words in about ten days.  But what I learned from that experience is that I don’t work well with that method.  Even though Postcards needs to be rewritten, pretty much entirely, I have the bones of story to work with.  And I learned a great deal about the way I work as a writer.  And what I need to craft a story that I think is worth telling.  It’s on the back burner for now, but I will revisit it.  I will rewrite and polish and improve it.

But for now, I’m working on something new.  And that feels incredibly good.  The boys are talking to me, they are telling me their story, and I’m getting it on the page.

I’ve learned a lot this year.  About myself as a writer.  About the publishing process.  About edits and blurbs and just how much work goes into the whole thing.  I’ve grown as a person and as a writer.  I hope to continue to grow and change and learn and improve.  I’ll work hard to make sure that I do.

2013 was a good year for me.  I hope all of you out there can say the same.

Here’s wishing you a lovely and prosperous 2014!

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We Were On A Break

I sort of psyched myself out.

It happens.  The words and I were getting along too well and I had so much other going on in my life that we took a wee break from each other.  No big deal, right?  Only, I let the break go on too long and the doubts started to creep in.  And then I started getting that sinking discouraged feeling.  And then there was a spiral of bad and I couldn’t seem to sort anything out, let alone get any words on the page.  I couldn’t even put together  a cohernt thought for a blog post.  For a few minutes there, I was certain I was doomed for Titanic proportion disaster.

But eventually, I snapped out of it, said, “fuck that noise,” pulled up my big girl panties, and put some words on the page anyway.

It’s probably not gold.  In fact, it may just need a lot of work.  But that’s okay.  Because the words are going on the page and I have a new story and a new goal in mind.  And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I needed to get out of my writing funk.

I have a billion and nine stories in my brain.  Some of the are worth the telling.  And finally, again, I’m attempting to tell them.

Flash Fic Friday

Flash Fic Friday

Jack and Ryan will be back next week to share with us what they got each other for Christmas.  Until then, enjoy this short about some of the perils of home renovation.  

“I can’t get it up!”

The twelve year old boy in me couldn’t help but laugh at that.  I bit my lip to keep it inside.  If he caught me laughing, he’d be pissed.

“I’m a man!” he shouted, indignant.  “I should be able to get this thing up!”

I pressed my knuckles against my mouth and turned my back to him.  I would not laugh out loud.  I wouldn’t.

“Oh, there it goes.  No!  Stop!  You’re supposed to stay up.  Once you go up, you stay up.  That’s what you do!”

I lost it.  The laugh burst from my throat like a mighty guffaw.  I had to press my hand against my side, I was laughing so hard.  It really shouldn’t be that funny.  But he was so put out and had no idea what he said.  Little boy humor still got to me, still made me laugh despite the fact that I should have outgrown it twenty years ago.

“Oh my God!  What is wrong with you?  This isn’t funny in the slightest.  The window doesn’t work.”

“Counter-“snort ”-weight’s-“ chuckle “-broken,” I managed to choke out.

He huffed and stamped his foot before he crossed the room to my side.  I reached out and pulled him in, but he kept his body stiff.  I tried to rein in my mirth for his sake.

“Remind me again why we bought this house?” he grumbled.

“You wanted it, so we bought it.  Because you said it was, and I quote, ‘too freaking cute.’”

“Well, it is that,” he mumbled, his body finally melting against mine.  I dropped a kiss on his head and he grunted.  “But it’s also a freaking money pit.  Knob and tube wiring, so all the electrical has to be replaced.  Poor insulation and crumbling sheetrock in practically every room.   The stairs creak.  The windows don’t open, or if they do, they don’t stay open.  The furnace is so old it barely heats the house.”

Everything he said was true.  But that didn’t mean that we should give up.  This was his dream home, he was just too upset at the moment to remember.  I’d just have to remind him.

“On the upside, it’s got copper pipes.  The plumbing is solid.”

He was silent for a moment, then reluctantly agreed.  “That’s true.”

“And all the beautiful hard wood floors?”

“After we refinish them, you mean.”

“Easy enough, though.  And hey, there’s the breakfast nook.”

“Which is just so damn adorable I can’t even stand it.”  He was trying to hold on to his annoyance but it was slipping fast.

“And what about the window seat in the bay window in the front room?”

He sighed and sagged against me, letting me take his weight because he knew I’d hold him up.  “I love the window seat.”

I put both my arms around him and hugged him tight.  Five years we’d been together and I still got a tiny thrill every time I realized how perfectly he fit in my arms.

“It’s going to be perfect once we get all the reno done.  It’ll take a bit, but we’ll get it finished.  Of course, if you don’t love it, then we can always flip it and buy something else.”

He jerked back, that indignation back in his eyes. “Are you kidding?  This is our home!  We aren’t selling!”

I smirked and he groaned.  I saw the blush creeping up his cheeks before he buried his face in my chest.  I chuckled and squeezed him tight.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered, his voice muffled.  “You made your point.”

“Back to the list of what needs to be done then?” I asked.  I didn’t bother to gloat.  It would do me no good and he was reminded that we had bought this house to build our life together.

He took a deep breath, kissed me once, and then stepped out of my embrace.  “Yes.  But we’re replacing all the windows.”

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What’s in a name?

I’ve always had a thing for names.  Weird thing to collect, right?  But I have ever since I was little.  I was the person who, in high school, got people to tell me their full names–even when they didn’t want to.  And I hoarded them, cherished them.  Names hold power.

I have a thing about names fitting a person as well.  I always get upset when parents pick out names for their unborn children and do not waver or allow for any possibility of changing their minds.  What if your kid is born and the name doesn’t fit?  And it always irritates me when parents don’t fully think about any ramifications that the name they choose for their child could have.  Naming your daughter Crystal if your last name is Ball might seem cute at the time, but it’s going to put that girl in prime position for teasing.  Yes, kids can be cruel and tease for other reasons, by why give them fodder?  This is my thing though, and I do fully support the right of parents to name their child whatever they choose.

When it comes to giving my characters names, I often feel like a parent, trying to choose the best one for them.  A lot of times, the character just sort of tells me his or her name and it is what it is.  But other times, I struggle.  I’m working on a story now and I got stalled out about page five because the main character, whose voice I’ve been writing in for the last five pages, has yet to tell me what his damn name is.  And everything that I think of just doesn’t fit.  We’re working on it.  But I’m very fortunate that most of the time, my characters’ names are apparent from the get-go.

I will fully admit that I have a penchant for J names.  I don’t even know why.  But characters often have them.  I adore them.  I want to use them all the time.  But then, when I’m writing a scene and three out of the six characters in the scene have a name that begins with J…well, it can get confusing even for me.  And then live in my head, I know them inside and out, so it shouldn’t be that difficult, right?  But it is, because I’m an avid reader as well.  We all know that phenomenon that happens when we read: our eyes catch the important letters and our mind automatically fills in the rest.  So, when there are a lot of J names floating around, it’s hard to keep track of exactly who’s doing and saying what.  I’ve made a conscious effort to steer clear of the J names of late.  In fact, in the last three things that I’ve written, there has been only one character with a J name and she’s a secondary character.

And then are the books I read where one, or more, character(s) have names that I hate.  Can’t be helped and I don’t blame anyone for that.  We all have our own personal preferences, right?  But, at least for me, if a character has a name that I can’t stand, it sort of pulls me out of the story a bit.  That’s on me, of course.  A name that I don’t like can easily be a name that someone else loves.

That being said, I only use names that I like for the characters that I like…and if I’m writing a bad guy, a villain,  a mean character, then that character is probably going to have a name that I despise.  It’s how I’m wired.  But I’m not just slapping any old name on my characters.  Each one is a deliberate choice.  Whether that’s because what they “told” me their name is or I’ve given it immense thought and chosen the name specifically.

How about you?  When you’re reading, or writing, does the name of a character influence the way you feel about that person?