Three Interview Questions You’re Not Expecting with the Loverly Z.A. Maxfield!

As you may or may not be aware, my longtime pal Z.A. Maxfield is hitting the road again with a new book. My Heartache Cowboy is the sequel to her popular mainstream release My Cowboy Heart. (If you haven't read it, it's classic ZAM. What are you waiting for?!)


I invited Z.A. to stop by and amuse the troops, and she turned the tables on me and dragged me into the interview room too!


**************************************

Hi Josh! Thanks for having me over here chez vous today! A lot of people probably know this by now, but you’re actually the reason I established an Internet blog presence. (I’m sure people are lining up to send you thank you cards. NOT)

I joined LiveJournal to read those posts you used to write about writers, writing, and the work you were doing back then. You were right in the middle of Adrien English and just starting to explore the world of Romance… I think I came in right around the release of The Dark Horse, and of course that led me to read the book The Charioteer by Mary Renault.

I looked to you and other successful writers like you back then for book recommends, writing tips, moral support, and a shoulder to cry on and you have always been so generous. Not only with me, but with all the people in your sphere of influence. So thanks for everything you’ve done, I wish I could be as good a mentee as you’ve been at mentoring me, but hey…I can only do what I can do…

I guess you can’t blame the path for the people on it… *snorts*  

Today I thought I’d do an interview format, and see if you’ll answer too…  

Three Interview Questions You’re Not Expecting.  

Three Books On A Desert Island -- This is like Marry, Kill or Shag only with books. You’ve got nothing to do, you have nothing to burn, and you have no toilet paper. What you do have is three books from tenth grade English. Fahrenheit 451, A Tale of Two Cities, and A Separate Peace. Read, burn, er...utilize in another way. Go... 

ZAM - Are there no leaves on this island? Is there no driftwood? Must I??? Really, must I???? 

Okay, if I must, I’d have to say, it just seems fitting to burn Fahrenheit 451, doesn’t it? I’ve read it, and I enjoyed it, but it’s not going to keep me warm unless I burn it.  

A Tale of Two Cities? Yep. I’m keeping that one. Not because I love a Separate Peace any less, but because if I’m going to spend all my time crying on a desert island, I’m going to do it with a longer read. It will take more of my time to get through A Tale of Two Cities than to read A Separate Peace, but the outcome is going to be the same: red swollen eyes, sobbing and despair. But at least at the end of A Tale of Two Cities, it will be a noble kind of despair.

True, and somewhat funny/sad story. On my daughter’s 10^th grade language arts syllabus, right on the top, the teacher put the 1 (800) number for the Teen Suicide Prevention Hotline. It was almost as if they took a look at books like A Separate Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, Of Mice and Men, The Brute, Medea, Frankenstein, and Antigone and thought, wait…

:-(

 

Josh? Do you want to play with those books, or do you want to spin the magic wheel of books and find three different books for your answer? 

Awww. I love A Separate Peace. I get choked up just thinking about it! I’m saving that. Anyway, I’m probably saving all of them because apparently I’m going to be dying of starvation and exposure quite soon anyway, so I’ll need something to take my mind off it. Reading and bracing sea baths. If I do break down, the first book I eat will be Fahrenheit 451, as I’ve always found it a lot to digest.

;-D

 

What will you bring for the coming cowboy apocalypse? Forget Zombies, the Cowboys are coming. Here’s what I’m bringing:

 Texas Caviar

1/2 onion finely diced

1/2 cup each finely diced red and green bell peppers

1 bunch green onions finely chopped (white part and some green)

1/2 bunch chopped parsley

1 basket cherry tomatoes, quartered

2 jalapeno peppers seeded and finely chopped (wear gloves, please)

1 T. fresh oregano chopped

3 T. minced garlic

2 cups vinaigrette

3 cans (15 ounce) black eyed peas rinsed and drained

1 can black beans

 

Combine all ingredients and let marinate in the refrigerator overnight. Serve with tortilla chips and lots of beer.

Funny/true story. My husband bought a bag of “UCLA corn chips” at Christmas. This did nothing to amuse my UCSC and UCI students, despite the fact that they were blue and gold, the correct colors for both my kids’ schools. Apparently they tasted, “Of betrayal.”

Josh, what are you bringing to the Cowboy Apocalypse?

 Oh man, I LOVE that Texas Caviar stuff. One reason I prefer zombies to cowboys is they don’t care about the hors d’oeuvres. MORE FOR ME.

Well, let’s see. You may be surprised to hear I spent several formative summers with cowboys. Elderly cowboys, yes, but cowboys nonetheless. So I am bringing what I know cowboys love. A twelve-pack of Coors beer (I know, I know!!) and the hottest freaking chili I can find.

I don’t eat chili though, so I will ask our readers to supply me with some good chili recipes. Anybody have a good chili recipe out there? Best chili recipe ever? Come on!  

And finally, which of your characters would survive a round of no-holds-barred dodgeball?

Out of all my characters, I think the winner would be Yamane from Drawn Together. Yamane’s tough. He’s resilient. I wrote him to be a true badass, deep down. I’m always likely to pick the little guy to win -- the underdog, the one who’s a little outmanned and outgunned but never outsmarted. That’s just how I like things, so naturally, I’m going to pick the most unlikely character and let him win it all.

Apologies to Samuel Colt, but fiction is the great equalizer. In my work, I have the opportunity to right all the world’s wrongs (as I see them) and settle old scores through the characters I create. So look out, ballers. Yamane is coming atcha.

 Josh? Which of your guys is the biggest badass.

Hmm. I was going to let Taylor MacAllister from the Dangerous Ground series take this one; he’s good at sports and is definitely a bad ass, but then I thought noooo, let’s let a REAL athlete at this one. So I’m choosing Mitchell Evans of Lone Star. Yeah, he’s a ballet dancer, and probably the only character I’ve created who can lift a grown woman over his head. He can leap six feet off the ground from a full stop, so I think he’s probably got this dodgeball thing nailed.




Thank you to Z.A. for stopping by -- and here's wishing her another bestseller!

Enter the Giveaway for Z.A. Maxfield's MY COWBOY HEARTACHE!

My Heartache Cowboy

(Cowboy Series, Bk #2) By Z.A. Maxfield

Blurb:

Can love conquer all? Jimmy Rafferty and Eddie Molina go way back at the J-Bar ranch. They’ve worked together, bunked together, camped out, and drank together. So how has Jimmy failed to notice that Eddie is gay? Eddie has not failed to notice that his friend has a serious drinking problem, and he’s determined to help Jimmy kick the booze cold turkey. Taking him up to a snowbound cabin to detox, Eddie is confronted with Jimmy’s fierce denial. But the pains of withdrawal are nothing for Jimmy compared with the heartache of denying his true feelings and his deep longing for the one man who cares for him more than anyone else on earth.

Available for purchase at

 

Excerpt

When I woke, I was alone and the truck wasn’t moving.

Who the hell did Eddie think he was, leaving me asleep by myself in a truck outside in the freezing cold? My pa and my older brother, Jonas, used to do that. We’d be on the road, and when I fell asleep, they’d leave me in the parking lot of some dive bar or motel--just leave me asleep outside in the dark. I’d wake up with no clue where I was, no idea if they were coming back or if I should go in and try to find them.

My first useful thought was to look for the keys, because I hadn’t forgotten what Eddie said. I hadn’t forgotten the plans him and boss Malloy made for me behind my back. It would serve them right if I up and hightailed it back to the J-Bar with Eddie’s truck and no Eddie.

No keys.

Not like that was going to stop me. Where the hell did Eddie get the idea I’d go quietly? I slid over and tore the wiring out from under the dash. Found what I needed without hardly even looking.

I hated waking up alone like that. Unwanted. Abandoned.

One twist. Two. Touch the wires together and the engine should . . .

Fuck.

Nothing.

What the hell? I checked I got the proper color-coated strands and tried again. I was frowning down at the mess of tangled wire when someone tapped on the window behind me.

I glanced up and saw Eddie frowning down, no doubt pissed at what I’d done to his truck. Serves you right for leaving me like that, you prick.

“You need a working engine for that,” he told me as he opened the door. “One that has a battery.”

“Fuck you.” I spilled out of the car ready for a fistfight.

“What?” Eddie jumped back.

“Why did you have to leave me like that? What did I ever do to you?”

Eddie shook his head at me. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. You were sound asleep and I thought maybe you needed it.”

I took a swing at him. “I hate waking up alone in a car like that.”

Ed plucked my fist from the air and peered at me like he was trying to see through my skin. “I didn’t know.”

“I hate that. Left behind in the car like a damn dog. Like a fucking duffel bag. You can’t be bothered to even wake me up and take me in out of the fucking snow.”

Now Eddie frowned like he was thinking about it. Now, after the fact. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t think how you’d feel waking up alone like that. I won’t do it again.”

“Would have served you right if I took your truck and left you up here to walk back to civilization, wherever the hell that is. Would have served you right if I’d died out here.”

“All right, all right. Simmer down now.”

I glared at him. “Fuck you.”

“It’s pretty civilized inside. How about you come in with me.”

“How about you suck my fucking--”

“That’s enough.” He turned and headed toward the cabin’s welcoming front door. “I almost didn’t bother to disable the damn thing, but I thought on the off chance you knew what you were doing and could--”

“Which I did,” I pointed out.

“Come inside.” He jerked his chin toward the cabin like I was a dog and I was supposed to just follow along and yip around at his heels.

I debated making a run at him, but frankly, Eddie was a tough buzzard. He wasn’t too much older than me, just forty-two compared to my thirty-eight. But I was a lover, not a fighter, or at least that’s how I thought of myself. Back there on the road, Eddie had proved he wasn’t above using violence to get his way in this, so I went along.

You’re going to have to sleep sometime.

Eddie led me into a rustic-looking cabin that seemed awful nice for the middle of nowhere. There was a place for us to hang our hats just inside the door, over a table with a passel of pictures on it. There were old time black-and-whites of families and framed pictures of a good-looking man, a pretty woman, and some kids. There were some of the kids alone, and holy cow, there were probably a dozen pictures of Ed. He looked so young in a couple of them, they must have been from before we met.

One of Ed and the unknown man caught my eye. Something about the difference in height, the casual way they leaned together, the way they looked at each other, made me think this was Ed’s friend from the road, Don. Even though they’d both aged some since it was taken, I was almost sure of it.

No knobby hands, no weathered angel, this Don was good looking, without a doubt. He was lanky and chiseled. He had an intelligent face and a smile that drew the eye. He seemed sure of himself and charming. Whatever I’d seen in the darkness outside the car had to be a trick of the light.

Ed looked so young and earnest next to him it took my breath away. Brawny and tan, he wore a yoked Western shirt with the sleeves rolled up past well-muscled forearms and he eyed Don like he would follow him anywhere.

And that Don, he looked like he could appreciate a guy like Ed, as well.

Hadn't I seen firsthand how much he did appreciate him?

About the Author

Z. A. Maxfield started writing in 2007 on a dare from her children and never looked back. Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends. Three things reverberate throughout all her stories: Unconditional love, redemption, and the belief that miracles happen when we least expect them. If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four can find time for a writing career, she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can accomplish if you give up housework.”

You can find ZA Maxfield at

Giveaway

 

$50 Gift Card

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Secret to my Success

Every so often I get an email from someone, generally a newish writer, asking if I would share some of the secrets on how I got to be where I am right now.

It’s only fair to point out that “where I am right now” is one of the leading writers in a very small sub-genre of romance. It’s not like I’ve hit the NYT Bestseller list, although I guess I probably earn as much or more as some NYT Bestsellers.

How much did I earn last year? It looks like I grossed -- grossed -- around $300Kish. Let me repeat again, GROSSED. That’s not how much I took home at the end of the year -- success doesn’t come cheap and I have invested heavily in my so-called success. One example: over 20K on producing audio books this year (and because I'm self-employed, I  pay 40% in taxes).

How did I do it?

 

Well, to begin with, some of my success is unique to me. I have been writing professionally over twenty years and it shows. It better show after twenty years! My first professional publication credit was at age 16.  Over the years I have developed what is called “a voice.” Fortunately enough readers enjoy reading that voice.

As you can imagine, publishing has changed a lot since I began way back when. In fact, there are times I feel that everything I once knew for a certainty in publishing is now…wrong. Or at least outdated.

For example: How often to publish. In the old days it was a series book every couple of years. Then every year. I remember having a minor panic attack when -- nearly a decade ago -- a bookseller told me I needed a new series book out every nine months. And now? Now series books are launched anywhere from every three to six months.

I’ll be honest. I struggle with that.

 

But anyway, the secret of my success.

Part of my success is I landed in a relatively small but promising sub-genre before the glut. I got here before the rush. That’s simply timing. I didn’t plan that. I was just writing what I loved to write. I arrived early and I arrived with a small, already established readership. Not a fan fiction-sized readership, I admit, but a loyal readership. Also, being an outsider helped. I was a novelty. I came from gay fiction and mainstream publishing. I had the advantage of being something new.

Again, this is all luck. I didn’t plan it.

Two things I did consciously do. I worked hard to build a quality backlist. And I interacted constantly and consistently with readers. I treated readers like I would want to be treated if I was brave enough to contact my favorite writers.

That’s basically how I got where I am. Luck and hard work. The luck was in the timing. The hard work was in the consistent and sustained effort to build a quality backlist and lasting relationships with readers.

I’m not sure if that’s helpful to new writers or not because luck can’t be managed and the hard work I put in seven years ago is irrelevant given current publishing conditions. Every author I know is now interacting feverishly with readers and breaking her or his back to push out a book every two months. Still, these two things remain the cornerstone of any successful modern writing career.

 

What advice would I give a new and aspiring writer in this genre?

 

1 - Write the best possible book you have in you. Publish every three months. In the short term, quantity counts. In the long term, quality. If you want your writing career to last more than a decade, take the time to write quality stories. Write them as fast as you can without sacrificing quality. You need about four “big” releases a year. More than that and you’re probably cutting corners somewhere. (I should probably qualify that a "big" release doesn't refer to word count. It refers to how much promo effort you're going to give to it.)

 

2 - Take advantage of every promotional opportunity that comes your way (and stop whining about how you’re a writer not a marketer -- no flipping kidding! -- NONE of us enjoy the promotion part of it, so get over yourself and act like a grown-up professional). No matter how small, no matter how insignificant, take every promo op that comes your way. And look for additional opportunities. Hunt them down. When you start out, you have to work your butt off to get known.

 

3 - Be realistic.  This sounds silly, but having realistic expectations will save wear and tear on your nerves and keep your creativity and productivity high. Nothing kills creativity like depression. And by “realistic” I mean PATIENT. I mean INFORMED. Know thy industry. I cannot help noticing a pattern whereby a relatively newish writer puts out a book that gets nice, enthusiastic reviews, hits the Amazon bestseller list and believes she’s arrived. Alternatively, a newish writer puts out a book and doesn’t get great reviews (or any reviews) and doesn’t hit the bestseller list and thinks her career is over.

Sorry. It doesn’t work like that. For most of us, success is the result of cumulative and sustained effort over a long period of time. As in YEARS.

 

4 - Keep honing your craft. Nobody likes to hear this, but if you’ve been professionally published for less than ten years, you still don’t know what the hell you’re doing. Honestly. We’re all still learning our craft. I’m still learning my craft. I look back at stuff I wrote ten years ago, and I wince. I hope I keep wincing. I hope ten years from now I’m wincing at what I’m writing today. As humans we’re always, always learning and growing, right? All through our lives? Well, ideally that’s happening with our art as well. We should keep getting better. (Up until the point we get old and fall apart, but let’s not think about that.)

 

There are other bits of advice, of course: pick the right publishing partners, hit your deadlines, read, be courteous, invest in your success, think out of the box, stay informed, create good Karma for yourself, etc.

 

If I had to give you one single piece of good advice -- it’s the same piece of advice that writers have been handing out to each other since the dawn of the printing press: always write the best book you possibly can at this particular place and time. I'm not saying this guarantees success, but if nothing else, there is satisfaction in knowing you always gave your best to everything you did.

 

  

 

 

And the winners are...

I so enjoyed -- was so cheered and inspired by these lovely thoughts -- that I'm kicking up the giveaway audio books to ten. :-)

Our winners are:

Pauper Joe
Savanna
Christine
KrissyVee
Pat B
StacieH4
AshleyE
Karen H
thelastaerie
Emily

Congratulations! Contact me with your email address and we'll get you hooked up and listening to your next story. :-)

Thank you all for contributing your winter loves this weekend. These Five Things blogs are some of my very favorites.

Five Things I Love

It's time for another Five Things I Love post. We do these daily in my Goodreads group, but I like to do them here seasonally on the blog as well. The last time was in the autumn and we've had plenty to love since then!

So as before, I'm giving away five audio books. This time it's The Dark Tide, the fifth and final (at least for the foreseeable future) Adrien English novel. Share five things you like about winter in the comments below to be entered for the audio book giveaway. I won't pick the winners until Sunday night.

Five things I love about winter:

1 - Rain

2 - The holidays. Yes, I'm glad they're over, and in all honesty this wasn't the best set of holidays ever given that I was working and/or sick through them, but I still love the holiday season. The holly and jolly, the hustle and bustle, the hurly and burly -- er, wait. Wrong holiday, that last one. But still!

 

3 - Documentaries. True, I watch documentaries all the time, but I watch more of them in the winter. This week I watched Black Fish. Fascinating -- and let me just say I won't be sharing my tourist dollars with SeaWorld anytime soon.

4 - The feel of sunlight on my face. Somehow it's warmer, sweeter, softer in winter. Maybe it's the promise of spring.

5 - Reading. I read all year long, but reading is especially pleasurable in the winter, I think. There's something about wrapping yourself in a warm blanket and settling down in front of the fire with a drink and a book. Nothing beats it.

Now you. Five things you love about winter for a chance at winning The Dark Tide in audio.

Here's to 2014!!

Wishing you all the best in the New Year. May 2014 bring you health and happiness -- and the understanding that nothing else matters.

And the winners are...

Sorry for dropping off in the middle of a big giveaway. It was the double-whammy combo of holidays and being sick AGAIN.

But LB and I do have winners, lots of winners in our audio book giveaway.

LB's winners were:

Jane Wilkinson
Susan Haase
Another Susan
Reader Cat
and Carey

And my winners were:

cloudless 9193
Aussie 54
Mari Donne
Jen C
Cynthia H.


So winners, please contact us! You will be given a download code and you can use it on either book. It's up to you.

Christmas Coda 28

Nathan and Matthew from SNOWBALL IN HELL

 

New Year’s Eve in the City of Angels.

Not so many angels out and about that night, and Matthew and his squad were kept busy with a knifing, two shootings, and an attempted kidnapping. By the time Matt finally got away it was about twenty minutes till the Witching Hour. He made for the Biltmore Hotel, knowing Nathan would be there.

It was standing room only at the Biltmore, dames and gents alike in silly hats and tinsel tiaras, blowing plastic horns and paper fizoos in each other’s faces. Everybody was talking and nobody was listening. The floor was littered with soggy confetti. Champagne glasses were overflowing, and seeing that this was the Biltmore, maybe it really was champagne spilling down the fronts of party frocks and dress uniforms.

Matthew worked his way through the crush of people in the elegant lobby with its parquet floors and rich jewel-toned carpets and carved ceilings. He made it to the bar but couldn’t find Nathan anywhere. He knew what that meant, and his heart sank.

Well, what had he expected? He had thought things were different now, but Nathan had been honest about what he needed, and Matt would somehow have to learn to accept it.

And if he couldn’t accept it… Then he would be equally honest.

But he wasn’t there yet. Not by a long shot. Yes, he was disappointed and, yeah, it hurt like hell that Nathan couldn’t do without for a single night, but Matthew had entered into this knowing he was going to have to take Nathan as he was. So he resisted the urge to search any further. Finding Nathan rolling around in the undergrowth at Pershing Square wasn’t going to do either of them any good.

So Matt left the party as midnight was chiming and drove home through the eerily silent streets. He tried not to think about Nathan or his own disappointment. He thought he was mostly successful, but when he reached his own street and saw Nathan’s Chrysler Highlander parked in front of his house, happiness and relief hit him in a warm rush. And with it a little stab of shame that he had wronged Nathan. It was frightening to care so much about someone you knew so little.

He parked beneath the trellised carport and walked back to the street. Nathan was sleeping in his car, head tipped back, his hat over his face. When Matt tapped on his window, he jumped and then grinned sheepishly, tiredly.

Matthew opened the door and Nathan unfolded wearily.

“Come inside,” Matthew told him.

Nathan threw an instinctive look at the dark windows of Mathew’s neighbors. “No. It’s all right. I just wanted -- needed -- to wish you…Auld Lang Syne. It wouldn’t have seemed right to start the new year off without seeing you.” He offered his hand.

Matthew took his hand, but didn’t release it. “Come inside,” he said again.

He could see Nathan wavering, recognized the longing because he felt just the same. Nathan said reluctantly, “Your neighbors are going to notice if I spend another night here.”

He was right, but Matthew just couldn’t bring himself to care enough to give up the pleasure of being together even for a few hours. He placed his other hand on Nathan’s shoulder, guiding him toward the house. “Then we’ll have to think of some reason for you to visit. Don’t we share a Great Aunt Gertrude? How’s she doing these days anyway? How’s her lumbago?”

Nathan shook his head, but Matthew caught the whisper of his laugh. Then he was unlocking the side door and letting them into the silent and dark house. The door closed behind them. Matthew felt for the chain, slid it into place, and took Nathan into his arms. Nathan hugged him back  fiercely.

“Happy New Year, Nathan,” Matthew said softly, and kissed him.

Christmas Coda 27

Finn and Con from LOVERS ANDOTHER STRANGERS

 

 

Christmas morning.

Finn knew he had to make an effort.

It was difficult though. Everything was difficult now. Ever since the autumn. Ever since Fitch…

He had been okay at first. Shocked and horrified, but he had been dealing with it. He had to deal with it because he knew Con would never put up with anything else.

But then the sand had started to slip out from under his feet. And suddenly he wasn’t okay. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Couldn’t stop imagining…

Couldn’t stop remembering…

Con had started watching him, frowning, starting to wonder what was the matter with him, starting to question why they were together.

Con denied it, of course. But it was right there in his eyes.

Finn was denying it too, but of course he was thinking the same thing. The only reason they were together was because of Fitch. And that wasn’t a good enough reason. In fact, it was a really bad reason.

He missed Fitch desperately. Which was bizarre because he hadn’t let himself think of Fitch for three years. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He couldn’t work. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep.

His brain wouldn’t turn off. His thoughts were stuck on a loop. A terrible, terrible loop.

“I need some time on my own,” he had finally told Con.

“I don’t understand,” Con had answered. His face had been guarded, giving nothing away.

“I don’t understand myself,” Finn had said. “But I need to be alone.” What he meant was, I need to be away from you.

Maybe Con had read between the lines. “Why don’t you go back to The Birches,” he had said finally. “Maybe you can work there. I’ve got this book due anyway.”

So it was just exactly what Finn had thought. Con was only too glad to be let off the hook.

He went back to The Birches and he did try to work. He tried to pretend everything was normal. But Martha and Uncle Thomas had seen something that Con didn’t or wouldn’t.

Clinical depression. That was the official diagnosis, and the recommendation was a brief hospital stay “just to get stabilized.” Finn had panicked. Rescue had come from an unexpected quarter. Con.

When Uncle Thomas had phoned to let Con know the situation, Con had shown up within the hour with an alternate plan. He would move into The Birches and lend a hand around the place until Finn was feeling more like his old self. It was a casual, low key offer, more neighborly than loverly, it seemed to Finn. But it had stopped him panicking. He even agreed that maybe he did need a little help.

Con and Martha and Uncle Thomas — and the little pink tablets — had seen him through the worst of it. And now Finn was…trying.

Better.

He was better. A lot better. They could all see that. Though it was still difficult.

And today, this morning, was Christmas and he needed to make an effort. Needed to show everyone that he appreciated everything that had been done for him. That they did not have to keep putting him first, did not have to put their own lives on hold.

Finn had finally shaken off his preoccupation last night to ask Con about his new book, and Con had said the book was on hold. Said it absently, indifferently.

That was when Finn had finally, belatedly realized just how much trouble everyone was going to in order to keep him glued together. He had been so dismayed, so ashamed he had nearly gone into another tailspin. But this morning, he’d woken to the determination to stop monopolizing everyone’s time and energy.

This morning, when Con had kissed him as he did every morning and said, “Merry Christmas, Huckleberry,” Finn had really looked at him. Con’s was not a kind or friendly face. In fact, he looked like one of those impious Renaissance priests. He had high, elegant cheekbones and a mocking mouth. His eyes were pirate eyes, dark and enigmatic. He wore his pale hair longer these days, and he did not bother with anything but jeans and baggy wool sweaters. He had always looked so tailored and fashionable, even working at home. Something had changed inside Con too. That morning his smile had been reassuring and the expression in his eyes was attentive, grave and…

“Why are you doing this?” Finn had asked dully several times over the past weeks. “Why are you bothering?”

And each time Con had said simply, “I love you.”

This morning Finn had realized that it was perfectly true. The expression in Con’s eyes was love. That wasn’t complicated at all. That really didn’t have anything to do with Fitch. Or with anyone other than themselves.

Finn had smiled back at Con.

Con’s expression had changed. He had lifted his hand and brushed Finn’s stubbly jaw. And they had simply laid there for a few moments looking at each other. Not speaking. Finn’s brain had felt quiet, almost peaceful, as he considered the cool blue shadows in the corners of the white room. The patterned adumbration through white lace. The shaded dips in the snowy duvet and the bisque flannel sheets.

“What are you thinking about?” Con had asked softly.

Shadows and light. But he wasn’t going to talk about shadows anymore. He’d thrown enough gloom on his loved ones. Finn said, “Light. White.”

And Con had smiled, a very white smile, as though this was exactly the right answer.

He would be back in a minute or two with Finn’s breakfast which they would eat in the privacy of this room, as they had eaten breakfast for the last month. And then they would go downstairs and Finn would make a serious effort to be normal.

It was a good day to start because Christmas was always the same at The Birches. Lots of little traditions and routines to carry him through. Last night they had opened presents in front of the giant, flocked spruce tree in the front room. This morning there would be an endless stream of neighbors and visitors in for coffee and pastries, and this evening they would have Christmas dinner. It was a good day in its own right. The memories were happy. Almost entirely happy.

Finn’s stomach growled. Where was Con? It was taking him a long time to get breakfast together.

The door opened and Con was back with the breakfast tray. He was smiling as he set it down on the bed.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Finn said. The fact that he was noticing Con’s expression was probably another good sign.

Con did look satisfied with himself. He nodded at the tray and Finn looked down. White china. Oatmeal, milk, sugar. A white rose in a little glass of snow, a piece of driftwood, three smooth white and speckled stones, a glittery piece of white quartz, a white feather, and a wide, creamy silk ribbon. It was as though Con had been on a scavenger hunt.

Finn picked up one of the egg-shaped stones. It felt cool and grainy to the touch.

“Not quite fifty shades, but…white,” Con said.

Finn made a little face, put down the stone and picked up one of the tiny white berries rolling around the tray like waxy pearls.

“You can’t eat those,” Con told him quickly.

Finn rolled the bead-sized berry between his fingers. “No. What are they?”

“Mistletoe.”

Finn looked up. Con was smiling with uncharacteristic tentativeness. Finn began to smile too. He reached out his hand.

 

Christmas Coda 26

Glen and Nash from IN PLAIN SIGHT

 

 

Nash did not have any holiday traditions. He had holiday habits. Christmas dinner with his parents every couple of years. New Year’s parties with work colleagues. Gifts of booze to male colleagues and gifts of coffee to female colleagues. He probably hadn’t bought a Christmas tree since he’d had college roommates to help decorate it.

So that had been the first question. “Should we get a Christmas tree?”

Well, not the first question. The first questions had taken place while Glen was still in the hospital recovering. Those had been the big questions: where are we going to live and who’s giving up his job? A two-part question really. And he’d known the answer before he asked.

He would transfer to the Salt Lake Division and work out of Pocatello. He told himself Glen required every penny of his health insurance right now, so that meant Glen needed his job more, but the fact was, Nash was embarking on a new life and that meant from now on his job was just that, a job. He’d sell his house in Fredericksburg and move in with Glen.

“Are you sure?” Glen had asked more than once. As happy as he was, he was afraid Nash was making a mistake. And if Nash was honest, he occasionally wondered too. But then he would think of that terrible, terrible time when he had not known whether Glen was alive or dead, and everything seemed clear again.

His house was still on the market — it was not a good time to try and sell — and it had taken six months for his transfer to go into effect, so he and Glen had been living together for less than two months by the time the holidays rolled around.

They were still getting to know each other so they were a little careful with each other. Well, a lot careful.

Glen had admitted once, revealingly, “It’s like we’re doing this backwards.”

“Do you mind?”

“Compared to the alternative?”

That was exactly right. They were starting from the standpoint of knowing they loved each other and wanted to be together. But could you really love someone you didn’t know?

It seemed the answer was yes, because Nash did believe he loved Glen. More than he had ever loved anyone in his life. Every morning that he woke up beside Glen was a good morning. It just felt right. It felt like he was finally home. It didn’t matter who technically owned the real estate. He felt Glen’s smiles in his chest. He felt at peace listening to Glen’s quiet breathing in the night. And his not quiet breathing made him smile. He liked talking to Glen over breakfast and not talking to him over breakfast. They didn’t have enough dinners together, but he enjoyed those too.

He was regularly adding to the small store of everything he knew about Glen. He now knew that Glen liked basketball and photography and fishing and camping. He was an Independent, a non-church-going Protestant, and he did not want children. He did not care about marriage, but he cared very much about commitment. He was close to his family and generally spent the holidays he didn’t work with them.

Which brought them full circle.

“A Christmas tree? Sure,” Glen had said. And then, “I don’t have any decorations or anything. But if you want a tree…”

“I just thought maybe you would,” Nash said hastily. Now he felt silly. He never bothered with this kind of holiday stuff.

Glen had looked undecided, and then he’d said, “Well…”

Nash joked, “Are we the kind of guys who get a Christmas tree?”

Glen stared at him and then he’d seemed to relax. “I think we are. I think we should…” Then he’d stopped looking self-conscious.

“Should get a tree?” Nash said.

Glen had said, “Should start building our own traditions.” He’d looked so serious and hopeful that it had been all Nash could do not to grab him then and there.

That was it exactly. They needed to build traditions together. Their own traditions.

And just the process of picking their first tree was instructive.

“Real or fake?” Nash had asked.

“Real.” Glen had been definite.

“Do we chop our own or —?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not a lumberjack.”

Glen had laughed. “That’s okay. I’ve had my fill of lumberjacks.”

Nash had spluttered, but moved on. “Flocked or unflocked?”

“It kills the scent.”

Nash had volunteered, “But it is pretty.”

“Flocked it is,” Glen had said easily.

“So. The important question. How big?”

Glen had met Nash’s eyes and started to laugh. Nash had grabbed him then.

Glen’s mother had supplied a handful of family ornaments that probably qualified as heirlooms. They had bought the rest themselves at the drug store. Pretty, frosted gold balls, ropes of shiny red beads, and a few silly things — glass balls with bewildered-looking moose and nervous reindeer.

Not every decision would be made as quickly, and not all the compromises would be as easy, but as Nash sat on the sofa in front of the fire that night, arm around Glen’s shoulders as they admired their handiwork, he felt truly at peace.

“God rest ye merry gentleman,” sang Josh Groban from the media cabinet. “Let nothing you dismay.”

Until that moment Nash had always imagined joy as something big and bright and noisy. But in fact joy was also as small as the gleam of firelight on two pairs of slippers, obscure as the reasons for love, and quiet as two people who did not need words.

 

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Coda 25

Keir and Rick from IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

It rained Christmas day.

Rick originally had the day off. So had Keir, but the resigning and then unresigning had cost him his place on the holiday roster, so Rick gave up his spot too. At least that way they could share the misery.

And it was miserable.

It started out mildly miserable, dragging their weary asses out of bed and into the station. The final day of four twelve-hour shifts. But things cheered up a little there. Some of the guys and gals had brought in cookies and cakes and fudge. There was decent coffee for once. And Santa gag gifts. Rick got a mug that said Good Cop. Keir winked at Rick and whispered, “Does that mean I can be Bad Cop tonight?”

Keir got a T-shirt that read Undercover Cop. Rick had murmured, “Under covers duty, huh?”

It was all talk anyway. They knew they were both going to be too tired to do more than fall into bed and kiss each other goodnight.

So much for the good times. The day turned seriously miserable with a domestic dispute that deteriorated into a homicide. Deke Johnson, 45, violated his restraining order and shot his ex-wife Harriet, 40, before their three kids and the family dog — right in front of the Christmas tree, no less.

The sad truth was, in addition to a rise in traffic accidents, family disputes and child custody battles, violent crime spiked around the holidays. Not just robberies and home invasions, but good old-fashioned homicide. Add a little melancholy and a lot of booze to the seasonal punch, and you had a recipe for one hellish witch’s brew. And the City of Angels had a bad habit of getting drunk off her ass every Christmas.

Johnson didn’t deny murdering his wife, and he didn’t seem to care about being arrested. He did try twice to break free so he could explain to his hysterical kids why he’d had to shoot Mommy. The second time, Rick, who was royally pissed off at the idea of some self-centered asshole killing his ex in front of his own kids, knocked him down, and Keir leaped to intervene. The uniforms pretended not to see anything, and Keir hustled Rick outside.

The night was cold and smelled of smog and rain and eucalyptus. They walked past the crowd of neighbors and sightseers and crime scene technicians, around the side of the house, stepping over the dog bowls and tricycles.

Rick leaned back against the dripping siding and drew a couple of deep breaths.

Keir kept one eye on Rick and one eye on the wet, shining walkway, to make sure they were not disturbed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Rick knew exactly what he was thinking, and he knew exactly how Rick felt.

“Sorry,” Rick said finally.

Keir shrugged. “It’s a fucked up night. Even if it is Christmas.”

“Sometimes it feels like we’re just garbage men. We’re just here to clean up the mess.”

It was startling to hear that from Rick. Keir was usually the one the job got to. He said firmly, “No way. We’re the guardians at the gate. We’re keeping the wild things out tonight.” Not all the wild things, but they were only human. They did what they could. He hooked his arm around Rick’s neck and brought their heads close together. Their warm breath mingled. Keir said softly, “And tomorrow we start three days off.”

Rick nodded.

The rest of their shift was mostly uneventful. It was ten o’clock by the time they stopped off to eat on their way home. A Chinese Restaurant in Van Nuys. The place was dimly lit — emergency and Christmas lights only — and nearly deserted. Christmas music was playing. They got a booth way in the back. They ordered their dinner and then quietly, circumspectly, held hands across the table until the waitress started down the aisle with their meals. When she left, they went back to holding hands.

Every time Keir looked across the table, Rick’s gaze met his, and they smiled tiredly at each other. Not the best Christmas ever. But they were together and somehow that went a long way toward keeping it from being the worst Christmas ever.

Rick broke open his fortune cookie, read the little piece of paper, and laughed. He nudged Keir’s foot under the table.

Not the best Christmas ever. But looking good for the best day after Christmas ever.

Christmas Coda 24

Today's Christmas Coda features Ethan and Michael from SORT OF STRANGER THAN FICTION. You can read it over at the Live Your Life, Buy the Book blog.

I hope you enjoy it!