Christmas Coda 52

  

ALL’S FAIR series: Elliot and Tucker

“This is a mistake,” Tucker growled, tying his tie in short, sharp snaps. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror over the desk. No need for the scowl because he looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of the Westport Big & Tall catalog. Handsome and successful.

Elliot, sitting on the side of the hotel bed, glanced down to finish lacing up his black oxfords. “What is? Christmas dinner with your mom and step-dad?”

They were in Wyoming to spend Christmas with Tova and Ed—for the first and possibly only time—and Tucker was starting to exhibit signs of cold feet. Well, hell, December in Wyoming? Cold feet went with the territory. Literally.

“I apologize in advance. This is going to be a day of…”

“Family? Food? Festivities?”

Tucker shook his head as though words could ne’er express.

Elliot laughed. “Listen, don’t tell me you prefer tofu turkey and listening to my dad rant.”

In the interests of accuracy, Tucker ranted as much as Roland these days. It was kind of heart-warming the way Donald J. Trump had managed to unite both conservatives and liberals.

“There will be Bible readings,” Tucker prophesied. “There will be sermonizing.”

Elliot rose and brushed down his trousers. “So what? It won’t be the first time we’ve had to sit through a boring briefing.”

Tucker gave a short laugh.

“If this is on my behalf, relax,” Elliot said. “I like Jesus. It’s the Old Testament I take issue with. I don’t mind paying Jesus some attention on his birthday. And maybe Tova will turn out to be a great cook.”

“Fat chance,” Tucker grumbled.

But he was smiling when Elliot caught him by his Christmassy-red tie and tugged him in for a kiss.

It turned out they were both right.

There was indeed Bible reading. Before dinner they gathered in the gigantic living room with the gigantic Christmas tree and the gigantic picture windows gazing out over the gigantic “yard” that encompassed the gigantic house on the prairie where Tova and Ed lived. They listened politely as Ed read in a dry, dusty voice from the Gospels of Luke and John.

“While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.”

So that happened.

And then came dinner. Wherever Tucker had inherited his inability to cook, it was not from Tova. In fact, she was a great cook. There was hickory-smoked turkey, walnut sweet potatoes, green beans in a creamy wild mushroom sauce, twice-baked potato casserole, and two kinds of pie: pecan and pumpkin.  

Tova had even specially purchased a bottle of Ariel non-alcoholic Cabernet Sauvignon for Elliot and Tucker to share, which Elliot found a really sweet gesture. Especially when the wine turned out to be not that bad.

After dinner there was a rather formal opening of presents while Mel Torme crooned in the background. To Elliot’s relief, the gray cashmere cardigan vest Tucker had chosen for Ed, and the pearl and diamond necklace he’d picked for Tova, were warmly received—Tucker had spent a lot of time and thought trying to select the perfect gifts. 

Say what you would about Ed and Tova, they were not stingy. There were presents for both Tucker and Elliot—in fact, it sort of looked like Tova was trying to make up for some of those missed birthday and holidays with an embarrassing landslide of gifts for Tucker: wireless earbuds, a hardwood turntable, Hermès cologne, fur-lined driving gloves… Some of the gifts were right on the mark—a Michael Kors watch, for example—and some seemed like things chosen because Tova just wanted to keep giving and giving—like the Baron Fig notebook and the Polaroid photo printer, which Elliot would inherit before the night was over.

By the time they said their final Merry Christmases, made promises to come again soon, and stumbled out into the bone-cracking cold of the Wyoming night Tucker seemed as relaxed and mellow as if there really had been alcohol in that bottle of wine. It made Elliot happy to see it—in fact, it was the best Christmas gift he could imagine. Tucker spending a genuinely happy holiday with his mom.

On the drive back to town Tucker said, “I just wish they weren’t so obviously proud of themselves for accepting us.”

Elliot, concentrating on navigating the unfamiliar rocky road ahead, smiled faintly. “It was a journey for them. Nobody in their social and professional circles has made that journey yet.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It ought to though. Because they chose to make the journey. They made it willingly.” He glanced from the road to Tucker. “They made it for you.” 

Tucker was silent. Then he said, seemingly at random, “I’ll give this to your father. He’s a genuinely joyful person.”

Elliot threw him a surprised look. Not a word he would have picked to describe his dad, but it was true. Roland lived every moment fully and without regret. He knew how to love--and he did it with all his heart.

And he knew how to throw a party. Fake wine indeed.

“Did you have a good time today?” Elliot asked. “That’s what really matters.”

“I did,” Tucker said. He put his head back against the seat rest and said contentedly, “And I’ll have a better time when I get you back to our hotel room.”

New Release - FAIR CHANCE

Fair Chance, the final installment in the All's Fair trilogy is out today in print, ebook and audio.

The Blurb:
Elliot Mills comes face-to-face with evil in this follow-up to Fair Game and Fair Chance from bestselling author Josh Lanyon

One final game of cat and mouse...

Ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills thought he was done with the most brutal case of his career. The Sculptor, the serial killer he spent years hunting, is finally in jail. But Elliot's hope dies when he learns the murderer wasn't acting alone. Now everyone is at risk once again--from a madman determined to finish his partner's gruesome mission.

The Excerpt:

“Excellent choices, gentlemen.” The petite brunette waitress dropped her ticket pad in the pocket of her teeny tiny black skirt and bestowed a dazzling and impartial smile on both of them. “I’ll be right back with your cocktails.”

They were seated at Stanley & Seafort’s Steak, Chop & Fish House, one of their favorite places in town to dine on the evenings they weren’t in a hurry to get back to Goose Island. The food was fine. The bar was excellent. But more to the point, it gave them a chance to talk about the case on neutral ground. When Elliot had finally acceded to SAC Montgomery’s request that he visit Corian, one of Tucker’s stipulations had been that they not take the case home with them. From the point they boarded the ferry at Steilacoom, the topic of the Sculptor was officially shelved.

That was the goal anyway.

Tonight there was more to talk about than could be covered in the drive to the ferry.

Tucker sighed, loosened his tie and leaned back in the sofa-sized booth. Elliot gazed out the picture window at the stunning view of Tacoma and the blue waters of Commencement Bay Harbor beyond. He massaged his knee, which had started to ache.

Tucker glanced at Elliot. “If I seemed…harsh back there,” he began gruffly.

Elliot brushed the apology aside. “It’s all right. I get it.” He didn’t expect—or need—Tucker to pull his punches when they were working.

“You’re my priority. That doesn’t change. I genuinely believe your involvement is not critical, but even if I did think we needed your help, I wouldn’t be happy with this because I don’t think this is good for you. Or us.”

Well, hell. That was Tucker for you. No beating around the bush. And an unnerving ability to say aloud the things most guys, including Elliot, were not comfortable saying outside the privacy of their own bedroom.

“I know, Tucker. Like I said, I get it.” This ground was so well trod it was practically mud beneath Tucker’s handmade Italian shoes. “But just once I’d like to discuss the case without a preface from you on how much you didn’t—and don’t—want me involved.”

Tucker grimaced. Nodded.

They were silent for a few minutes. That was mostly weariness, though a small amount of irritation factored in. They were both too opinionated and strong-willed not to bump heads now and again. They’d learned over the past months that simply taking a deep breath and a step back usually took care of things.

The waitress appeared with their drinks. Whisky and soda for Tucker and a glass of California merlot for Elliot. He needed a drink after the day he’d had, but he would be taking pain meds that night for sure. He must have twisted his knee when he’d raced across Corian’s property to see who had opened fire.

Tucker’s expression was somber as he sipped his whisky.

Watching him, Elliot asked, “Do you want me to share my thoughts on my visit to Corian’s place?”

“If you think it’s relevant.”

Elliot let his head fall back, summoning patience.

“Sorry,” Tucker muttered. “It’s not pleasant watching a psychopath threaten your partner.” He threw the rest of his drink back.

Fair enough. Elliot would be struggling with that too, were the shoe on the other foot. There was nothing he could say to comfort Tucker, so he related his trip to Black Diamond and his encounter with Corian’s former neighbor.

Tucker mulled it over. “Do you think Corian was working with an accomplice?”

“I don’t know. My first instinct was no. Except…I’m not sure that was instinct so much as rejection of something I didn’t want to hear.”

“I watched the interview twice. I still can’t make up my mind.”

“Twice?”

Tucker was looking at his empty glass like he didn’t know what had happened to his drink. He caught the waitress’s eye and she nodded. He turned back to Elliot. “What I am sure of is there’s nothing he won’t do to wreck you.”

“Of course,” Elliot said. “We already knew that.”

Tucker’s expression drew a faint smile from him. “Come on, Tucker. We already know I’m the bad guy in Corian’s movie. He didn’t invite me over there because he thinks I’m the one person who can appreciate his artistic genius or have a civilized conversation with him, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. He wants me there so that he can dump his horror stories all over me and hopefully cause maximum mental distress.”

“That’s right,” Tucker said grimly. “He’ll try to get to you any way he can. Including physically, so don’t ever turn your back on him.”

“Is that literally or figuratively? Do you want me to shuffle backwards out of the room at the end of each visit?”

“I’m not joking about this.”

“I know. He’ll continue to be handcuffed and wear ankle restraints during our interviews. I’m not about to forget what he’s capable of.”

The Launch Party -- and you're invited! 

PREORDER: FAIR CHANCE

Looky what popped up yesterday on Amazon!

Fair Chance, the third and final book in the All's Fair Trilogy, is now available for preorder (it comes out next March.)

BLURB:


Elliot Mills comes face-to-face with evil in this follow-up to Fair Game and Fair Chance from bestselling author Josh Lanyon


One final game of cat and mouse...

Ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills thought he was done with the most brutal case of his career. The Sculptor, the serial killer he spent years hunting, is finally in jail. But Elliot's hope dies when he learns the murderer wasn't acting alone. Now everyone is at risk once again--from a madman determined to finish his partner's gruesome mission. 

When the lead agent on the case, Special Agent Tucker Lance, goes missing, Elliot knows it's the killer at work. After all, abducting the love of his life is the quickest way to hurt him. 

The chances of finding Tucker are all but impossible without the help of the Sculptor--but the Sculptor is in no position to talk. Critically injured in a prison fight, he lies comatose and dying while the clock ticks down. Elliot has no choice but to play this killer’s twisted game and hope he can find Tucker in time.

EXCERPT:

The less time he had to think, the better, Elliot told himself on the drive over to Laurelhurst. He should welcome this distraction. Any distraction.

Until Tucker arrived home—or didn’t—that evening, he was merely speculating, and that was a waste of energy. Tucker would either have a reasonable explanation or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Elliot would kill him. That was all.

And if Tucker didn’t arrive home…

That was where Elliot’s thoughts broke off each time. Beyond that point was barren wasteland, for now the forbidden zone.

He parked in the curving drive in front of MacAuley’s place. There was a red Cadillac SRX in front of the garage, but no other cars around.

He got out, pressed the key fob to lock the Nissan, and started up the walk. Despite the patchy sunlight, it was still raining. No longer a full-on rain, but scattered drops, spangling the grass and splattering against the shrubbery. The air smelled wet and clean and earthy.

The flat, hard bang of a gunshot echoing from inside the house stopped him in his tracks—and then he raced the rest of the way up the slick path.

Reaching the boxed overhang of the front entrance without harm, he ducked down behind a short brick planter. Though he didn’t recall pulling his weapon, he was holding his Glock as he watched the front door, waiting.

The door was half-open, but no one stepped outside.

There was no further sound from inside the house.

A couple of very long seconds passed.

What was this? Not an accident, or the front door would not be standing open. Not a firefight, or there would be shots in return.

Suicide? Not with the front door standing wide-open. Or at least…unlikely.

Homicide?

Attempted homicide at least. MacAuley might be fighting for his life, might be injured, might be in a hostage situation. This could be anything. A burglary gone bad, home invasion, attempted kidnapping. But unless that single shot had been a warning shot, things were not looking good for somebody in that house.

Elliot found his phone, thumbed in 911, still observing the front door.

Emergency dispatch came on the line and Elliot gave him the details for a Code 2. No lights or sirens. Urgent. The address, the number of shots, a possible active shooter, his name and the name of the likely victim.

Dispatch was still requesting additional information when Elliot clicked off, put his phone on vibrate, and started for the front door.

Active shooter situations were always unpredictable. They evolved—and ended—quickly, generally with the arrival of law enforcement. Ten to fifteen minutes. Which was fine—except, depending on where you were hit, you could bleed out in a lot less than ten minutes.

He got to the exterior wall, staying beneath the window. The stucco picked at the wool fibers of his blazer as he leaned back, listening hard, pistol at high ready.

There was no sound from inside. No moans, no footsteps, no nothing. Dead silence.

A dog barked down the street.

Elliot craned his head around the corner for a quick look. He could see a slice of the entry hall. Empty.

His pulse was racing, but he felt weirdly calm. He was conscious of his elevated blood pressure, his accelerated heart rate, all the signs of the inevitable fight-or-flight response, but at the same time he felt almost detached. The whole day was unreal and this was just one more dream-like stop on the way.

Using his free hand to steady himself, he rose and stepped across to the opposite wall in the entry.

He listened intently.

Nothing.

He glanced down at the threshold. No shadow. His own was fortunately blocked by the overhang.

Are you doing this?

He didn’t have to. He could—should—wait for backup. Backup? For LEO. Which he was not. Not anymore.

But it was a rhetorical question. Of course he was doing it.

He used his free hand to soundlessly push the door wide and cross the threshold to buttonhook into the room, weapon at ready as he made sure no one was hiding behind the door.

Clear.

He was past the point of entry and now in what was known in tactical training as the “fatal funnel.” If he was careless enough to get shot, Tucker would— No. Christ, don’t think of Tucker.

For the next ten minutes he could not afford to think of anyone or anything but getting through this. It was not the time to start second-guessing himself.

He swept the empty hall with his weapon, then traveled swiftly along the left wall toward the living room, safely reaching the opposite corner.

Clear.

It did not feel clear though. The house did not feel empty. Elliot’s scalp prickled with tension, and his shirt felt damp beneath the arms. He took a couple of deep breaths. Sticking close to the wall, he moved to the living room doorway and risked a quick glance around the frame. The blinds were partially open, but the rainy light was muted and liquid, creating shadows and the illusion of movement.

Trying to do this on his own was a tactical nightmare.

He made himself focus on the room in front of him while trying to stay alert to his peripheral fields. He could make out indistinct, stationary shapes. Furniture. Potted plants. Blinds.

So far so good. Nobody and nobody.

But his instincts were screaming at him to stay alert, stay sharp. It felt like he had been in the building an hour already. In fact, it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.

His nostrils twitched at the scent of gunpowder…something burning…and blood. Yes, there was no missing that sharp, coppery tang. A lot of blood.

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Books and Black Orchids

My writing slump seems to have passed.

Partly, I'm sure, that's due to catching up on all the stuff that was mentally weighing me down. Everything from buying screens for the front windows of the house to arranging for the Italian translation of The Mermaid Murders.

But mostly I think my renewed enthusiasm for writing is due to two things: spending time with friends and family AND reading.

More precisely, reading within the M/M genre.

Last year I read an essay by Matt Bell in the NY Times titled "Influence Looming" wherein he muses "Novels have two primary sources: writer's life experiences or their art experience."

It's a real balancing act. The best fiction is that perfect blend of art and reality. Too often the aspiring author confuses writing fiction with the dutiful documentation of memoirs--and rarely are our own lives as fascinating to others as we imagine. But there's also the danger of being unduly influenced by the work of your peers. You don't want to sound like a third generation recording of a what was once a live performance.

Still, it's important to read in the genre you're working in, and regardless of the medium, all artists are inspired by each others' work. Part of how a genre evolves is through this process of influence. So yes, it was interesting to catch up on what's been happening in the genre over the past couple of years -- sample some of the rising stars and see what old favorites have been up to. There's some great stuff out there, although it feels harder to find those nuggets of gold given how very wide and very deep that river of content has grown.

Anyway, the only thing better than reading is talking books and writing with friends. Especially

talking over cocktails. I discovered something called Black Orchids at our local Yard House and our martini shaker has not been silent since (kidding -- no shaker is involved in this recipe).

Black Orchid
 

 1 ounce Skyy Raspberry Vodka
 1 ounce DeKuyper Blue Curacao
 1 ounce DeKuyper Watermelon Pucker
 Splash: Cranberry juice
 Garnish: none 

I'm not going to share too much information about what I'm working on because I've got several projects going now and only two of them are absolutely certain to be finished this year.

One is Fair Chance, the final book in the All's Fair trilogy. HOWEVER that book won't be released until next year--please don't give me a hard time about it because I have no control of my publisher's release schedule.

The other project is So This is Christmas. It's that long promised Adrien English holiday novella.

(I know, you'd given up hope of that ever happening, but just because it takes me a while doesn't mean I'm not going to follow through on the books I promised.)

Yes, it's a mystery and it picks up right where the holiday codas end. And...and...I think that's pretty much all I'm going to say at this point!

Cheers! Have a Happy Weekend!

2016 in Preview

Regular subscribers will note that I'm late with this morning's post. I did totally forget today was Friday, which is what happens when the writing is going very well--which it is.

I've changed up my creative process this year -- well, actually I started last year with A Case of Christmas. The first big change is I'm giving myself loads of time to write everything. "Loads of time" translating to charting out a writing schedule that requires no more than 1500 - 2000 words a day. This is a very comfortable pace which leaves time for research, rewriting, chortling over Donald Trump's latest bon mot and staring blankly into space.

 Secondly I'm writing the way I used to -- this is a bit trickier -- and doing a lot of skipping around and writing out of order. You can't do this if you're pressured for time because you lose emotional continuity. But because I have plenty of time, I feel comfortable sketching out scenes and conversations out of order, as inspiration occurs.  What I like about this, especially when writing mystery, is it allows me opportunity to go back and plant clues -- both physical and psychological. Plus it's just a way more enjoyable way to work. Like popping pieces into a giant puzzle.

I'm not saying that everyone should work this way -- actually, that reminds me. What is it with all these defensive posts about NOT TAKING WRITING ADVICE FROM ANYONE ELSE!!! Good heavens. There are actual memes on the topic of not taking writing advice. :-D Speaking for myself, I love books on writing, books on craft. Heck, I'm planning on taking a screenwriting course this year. Not because I think I'm going to sell a screenplay. But because I am wholeheartedly in favor of anything that stretches and tests my writing brain. My writing muscles. I've been writing professionally a long time. As in selling my writing to publishers since I was sixteen. I've forgotten more about writing than some of my contemporaries have yet learned. :-D  But that forgetting, is why I'm all in favor of refresher courses and writing books and so forth. Why do people get angry at the idea they may have more to learn. OF COURSE YOU HAVE MORE TO LEARN. Unless you are Yoda, you have more to learn. About everything. We ALL do. Until the day we die.

Anyway, I think that defensive, huffy attitude is at odds at becoming the writer we all eventually hope to be.

But I digress.

I don't have a lot set in stone for this year. Partly that is because I have a ginormous mainstream project that I'm doing with the SO. MR AND MRS MURDER: HUSBAND AND WIFE SLEUTHS IN DECTECTIVE FICTION is due to McFarland Press at the end of the year. We have a zillion books to read and one hell of a lot of essays to write. So that is pretty much my year.

Ground-breaking stuff, I assure you. (Actually, I sound like I'm kidding, but I'm not -- this is a big deal.)

In addition to that, I've got The Mermaid Murders (Book I of the Art of Murder trilogy) due out March 1st.  What do you get when you combine a special agent from the FBI Art Crime Team with the top profiler/manhunter from the BAU units? A lot of art-loving serial killers. No, I'm kidding. Partly. Partly not. I think I will write this series pretty fast, with a book out each year.

Then there is a little bitty surprise project which I am superstitiously not going to talk about yet.

Officially next up, Murder Takes the High Road. This is an amateur sleuth standalone for Carina Press. A lonely librarian finds murder and love on a tour bus wending its cumbersome way through the Scottish Highlands. Also the secret cache of whisky in the back of the bus. NOT BASED ON TRUE INCIDENTS. Except the whisky part.

Then there is a lot of room--about three months?-- to do some other projects and I am leaving that stretch of boundless possibility blank for now. Because that's part of the fun, part of the excitement of  being a self-employed artist. (The flip side is never knowing if you will be able to pay the bills.) What should I write? Since I'm reading all these historical mysteries, maybe it makes sense to write historical. The sequel to Snowball? The sequel to This Rough Magic? I need to finish Slay Ride... What? What should I do?

Not knowing is kind of luxurious.

Then, final contracted project (again to Carina Press) for the year, Fair Chance. This is the third and final book in the All's Fair trilogy. We'll be talking about that one quite a bit more I have no doubt. This is the farewell to Elliot Mills and Tucker Lance. Elliot must confront jailed serial killer Andrew Corian -- who may have picked up an apprentice or a copycat killer in the interim.

So that's what we know for sure. The rest of the year is wide open to opportunity and possibility. And that is just the way I like it.

Fair Play Launch

Fair Play goes live on Monday, so this blog is a tiny bit premature, but oh well! The launch parties are at Goodreads and my Facebook Fan Page, and once again there is a glittering array of presents and giveaways to celebrate the new story. I cannot get over the generosity of my readers.


Plus a little something special. I'm taking part in Amber Kell's annual birthday party, and my contribution this year was a little "birthday" snippet with Elliot and Tucker. You can read that here -- just scroll down the page a bit.


Meanwhile, you can order Fair Play at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iTunes and of course directly from Carina Press.


Fifty years ago, Roland Mills belonged to a violent activist group. Now, someone is willing to kill to prevent him from publishing his memoirs.


When ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills is called out to examine the charred ruins of his childhood home, he quickly identifies the fire for what it is—arson. A knee injury may have forced Elliot out of the Bureau, but it’s not going to stop him from bringing the man who wants his father dead to justice.


Agent Tucker Lance is still working to find the serial killer who’s obsessed with Elliot and can’t bear the thought of his lover putting himself in additional danger. Straightlaced Tucker has never agreed with radical Roland on much—“opposing political viewpoints” is an understatement—but they’re united on this: Elliot needs to leave the case alone. Now.


Tucker would do nearly anything for the man he loves, but he won’t be used to gain Elliot access to the FBI’s resources. When the past comes back to play and everything both men had known to be true is questioned, their fragile relationship is left hanging in the balance.

Life is Good

Tonight, Thursday night, is my Friday. I’m out of town all this weekend. But this evening I’m sitting here watching Transformers…IX? X? XI?  Anyway, I’m having trouble following the plot, though there are some good lines and I like Mark Wahlberg as the befuddled dad and wacky inventor turned hero.

 

I’m on my own all this week (for the first time in years) and I got ambitious and made myself dinner. Mashed potatoes, roast cod with garlic butter, and a glass of white wine. This afternoon I had a swim in arctic water and I’m writing a couple of blogs. By the way, if you’re not following Queer Romance Month, you’re missing out. There are some really excellent posts so far.

 

I’m feeling really good. The Boy with the Painful Tattoo is doing well -- I’m sure it helps that I’ve left it at the preorder price this week -- and mostly readers seem to be enjoying it. Which of course makes me happy. I did not do blog tours or review copies or basically anything to promote this one. There just wasn’t time. September was a marathon of obligations and commitments beyond writing. So I’m deeply grateful to the gang at Goodreads and Facebook for the launch parties -- and to the readers who took it upon themselves to spread the word.

 

I’m basically done for the year. Fair Play was finished over a month ago, so all that’s left now is “Baby, it’s Cold,” a Christmas novella in the Comfort and Joy anthology. I don’t think I’ve talked much about this one yet, but I’m joining pals LB Gregg, Harper Fox, and Joanna Chambers for a holiday project. I'm really thrilled about this one.

 

COMFORT AND JOY

 

Housebound for the holidays. Four contemporary holiday novellas about finding love in your own backyard. Even when you don’t have a backyard.

 

Rest and be Thankful by Joanna Chambers

Two stormy hearts find peace when feuding neighbors in the Scottish Highlands are trapped by a blizzard.

 

Out by Harper Fox

Can a stranger unlock the courage and passion in a young man’s captive heart?

 

Waiting for Winter by L.B. Gregg

Some mistakes are worth repeating.

 

Baby, it’s Cold by Josh Lanyon

Or maybe it’s the flu. Breaking up is hard to do -- especially around the holidays.

 

It’s out December 7^th, and I’ll set it up for preorders before the end of the month. You’ll be able to buy the stories as a collection or if you just want one particular story, you’ll have that option too.

 

But first, of course, is Fair Play. I feel good about it and I think it’s going to go over well. Especially since for that one I’ve got Carina Press to help me out. (This is why I still like to work with publishers. Sometimes you just don’t want to have to do everything yourself.)

 

I’ve pretty much figured out the schedule for next year, but I’ll wait to share that. There will be at least one surprise in the mix and at least one title readers having been campaigning for.

 

It’s autumn now. Despite my refusal to give up my afternoon swims. What do you have planned? What will make this autumn different from the autumns that came before?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those Mid-way Mid-draft Blues

Writing is such a weird business. You go days, weeks, months (sometimes years) thinking of nothing but the story you are working. Everything you read, watch, think is basically related to these characters and their world – even when it isn’t.

 

You crawl through the muck of that first draft. Dragging every godawful little word out one by one. Then finally you’ve got something coherent enough to be called “a first draft,” and off it goes to your editor. Who swallows bravely and tries to make sense of it before she bounces it back.

 

There is incredible jubilation after that first draft. Partly because nothing is more difficult than carving that “think” out of the concrete block your brain turns into. But then comes the second draft. That is when you feel the power and the glory (such as it is) of what it is to know your craft. The second draft is the fun draft. It is really, in my opinion, the only joyful part of the writing process. When you take that raw material, look at it with fresh eyes, and you suddenly understand what you were struggling to say.

 

The more time between drafts, the better, in my opinion, but modern publishing doesn’t really allow for this. If you steal yourself an extra week somewhere you are doing great (and giving production teams nightmares).

 

The first draft is just about…getting there. Arriving muddied and bloodied on the doorstep. The second draft is about writing. It’s about how you will shower, dress, and seduce the reader into losing her or himself in the story. It is about clarifying theme and refining characterization, it is about nitpicking every adjective (Dear God, how many times have I said dryly this time? – PLEASE tell me no one “swallowed hard,” etc.) It is the one stage in a long process where you feel like you maybe know what the hell you’re doing.

 

But then you hand that second draft off, and there is a real sense of letdown. Almost depression. Because no matter how hard you tried, the infinite possibilities for this story are gone. The story is what it is. It is now limited in what it can be and what it can achieve. And from this point on the changes are minor ones – you did not explain how Character A knew Character B was stealing eggs from the Farm at C. You repeated a phrase too many times. That kind of thing. The fate of the story is now determined. It is the kind of story it is, and you can already hear both the praise and the criticism.  

 

There is definitely relief – great relief. The book is done. If you were to die at this point, the book could still go forward. It no longer really even needs you. Anyone can do these edits.

 

And so there is a kind of letdown. We start every story with a sense of excitement and endless possibility. Whether you outline or not, every story begins with endless possibility. But by the end of the second draft, this story has narrowed to a particular set of events with a determined outcome. You know how it ends.

 

And that’s where I am this morning. I sent Fair Play off yesterday afternoon and today I feel…meh. I loved writing it. I loved researching Washington and the Puget Sound and the anti-war movement of the 1960s. I learned about Black Bull whisky and Montreal and organic farming. But now it is done and there is a definite letdown.

 

We talk about reader addiction, but I think there is writer addiction too. And that is never more clear than when the rewrite is handed off and that particular high is finished. Done. No amount of accepting commas and removing echoes can bring it back.

 

But there is always the next story…

 

And in the meantime, I thought you might enjoy seeing the cover reveal for Fair Play!

 

Dis, Dat, and Da Other

Once again, this is not the post I had intended to write for this week, but there have been a slew of little updates, and I'm deep into Fair Play right now, so maybe we'll just do it this way.


Speaking of Fair Play, here's a little bitty snippet...






“Have you read the book?”
“No.” Elliot grimaced. “I forgot about it, to be honest. After he got that agent, he never really talked about it again. I figured nothing had ever come of it -- until he suddenly had a book deal and the damn thing was going to be published.”
“So you have no idea what’s in it?”
“Zero idea.”
“Any guesses?”
“He’s always talked about stirring people up, rattling a few cages. Christ knows what that means. He might mean cages in general or he might have a few specific cages in mind.”
“How much of a badass could he have been? I know he got a certain amount of notoriety from a string of arrests, but he never did any major jail time and he never made the Most Wanted list.”
“I know. I can’t imagine anyone reading the thing, let alone feeling threatened enough to kill him over it.”
“You could ask to read it.”
 “True.”
“The cops will ask to read it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. The prevailing theory is that this is just another right wing nut outraged at the idea of a high profile leftist memoir.”
“It’s not a bad theory.”
“No, it’s the obvious theory, but I can tell that’s not what Dad thinks.”
“But he’s not telling you what he does think.”
“No.”
Tucker slid between sheets and groaned with relief.
Elliot tossed the report aside and leaned over him. “Welcome home, sailor.”
They kissed.
“What a long ass voyage,” Tucker muttered.






Fair Play is now available for preorder at Amazon. Hopefully soon at other places as well.


Also now available for order is the print edition of Fair Game. Remember, this print edition is an experiment for Carina Press, and therefore the clock is ticking as to how long it will remain available.


In other news, Stranger Things Have Happened, the Adrien English CYOA novel is now -- AT LONG LAST -- available for Kindle. Yes, it does have those gorgeous (black and white) illustrations by Catherine Dair.


And finally, a bit of good news for audio book lovers, This Rough Magic narrated by Jordan Murphy is now up for sale at Audible. (It should soon be available at iTunes and Amazon.) Regular viewers may recall that Jordan was the narrator who came in second place with voters during the Armed and Dangerous vocal death match.


Oh! I almost forgot. Next week is the release of the Male Male Contemporary Box Set from Carina Press which includes stories by LB Gregg, Libby Drew, KC Burns and me. (My story is Icecapade.) This is a great way to sample some excellent M/M stories from writers I'm pretty sure you'll really enjoy.


And I think that's it. I will be very hard to find on line for the next couple of weeks while I plow through the rough draft of Fair Play, so if I am slow in responding, the good news is I'm writing one of your most requested stories.