Rowing and Writing

So the second edition of First Impressions has been out for a few weeks, and I thought I’d talk for a bit about the challenges of writing a story inspired by Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice that not only involves gay men but is also set in the contemporary world. Since ‘gay’ is an historically bounded sexual and cultural identity, the one goes with the other.

In some ways, modern gay life and Austen’s world have a number of things in common, and in fact the idea for First Impressions came to me while I was driving to go for a run with Sacramento FrontRunners/FrontWalkers, an LGBT+ running and walking club. I realized that my life resembled a Jane Austen novel.

Both social milieux are quite small; everyone in a gay community in even a large urban area knows everyone else or knows of everyone else, and likewise it’s obvious from Austen’s novels that everyone in a society knows each other.

In both modern gay urban life and in Austen’s world, life is a constant series of parties and dances with one goal: finding a husband (or at least Mr. Right Now). In modern gay life, these are parties and dance clubs. In Austen’s world, these were bride-finding balls and house parties. But in both, the goal was the same (at least in the crowd I ran with—YMMV).

Likewise, people in both milieux know too much about each other, particularly each other’s mating habits. In a relatively closed society like a modern gay community, it doesn’t take long before one knows who’s done whom. Similarly in the middle-class world depicted in Austen’s novels, everyone knows who fancies whom and, especially, who contemplated misalliances.

Newcomers are regarded the same in both worlds: fresh meat. In my experience in a particular part of Sacramento’s gay community, everyone’s interested in newcomers while they try to place new faces into the existing social ecology. As for Austen’s fictional world, look how excited everyone is in Pride and Prejudice when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley arrived in Meryton, the fictional town in Hertforfshire where Longborne, the Bennet family estate is located. Mr. Bingley’s estate of Netherfield is nearby. Significantly, Mr. Darcey’s estate, Pemberley, is rather further away in Derbyshire, making Darcy both new in the social environment and also an outsider temporarily in the neighborhood. Perhaps significantly, Hertfordshite is one of the Home Counties, ancient counties around London having a certain cachet that would’ve been instantly known to Austen’s readers. Derbyshire is rather further north, in the East Midlands.

A bit of trivia, Chatsworth House, seat of the Cavendish Dukes of Devonshire, was used to film scenes of Pemberley in the 2005 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.

Since my educational background is in the history of biologuy, the Cavendish Labs (named for the British chemist and physicist Henry Cavendish, grandson of the second Cavendish duke of Devonshire) at Cambridge where were crucial x-ray crystallography work done by Rosalind Franklin, leading to the discovery of the structure of DNA. Watson and Crick stole those crystallographs from Franklin’s desk. Nice, eh?

If you’re fan of more recent goings-on (or more recent than the second duke, at any rate), the late Dowager Duchess of Devonshire was a Mitford Sister, the former Deborah Mitford. After the estate was almost ruined by taxes at the death of the tenth duke, Duchess Deborah of Devonshire (try saying that five times fast…) almost single-handedly brought the estate back into the black. At the death of her husband, her son Peregrine because the twelfth duke and she handed him a viable and profitable enterprise ready for the twenty-first century.

If you’ve never heard of the Mitford Sisters, they were among the first to create celebrity culture, young women famous for being famous, decades before Paris Hilton and the Kardashians. It’s too bad so many of Debo Mitford’s sisters became Nazis.

There is one more thing both modern gay communities and the world of Pride and Prejudice have in common: they were both shark tanks.

So what do I mean by that?

One wrong move and you’re dead, at least socially.

I faced one major problem translating Pride and Prejudice into modern gay life, and I’ll address that in my next post.The post First Impressions, pt 1 first appeared on Christopher Koehler.

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It hasn’t quite been a year since I last blogged, but somehow I managed to sit most of the Covid year out. Imagine that. All the trauma, all the drama, and…nothing. From those first heady days of near-hysteria as my husband and I tried to figure out if my husband’s HMO was going to drag him into work on the wards for the first time in almost two decades (he’s strictly a clinician–they had some halfwitted idea of a “bootcamp residency” to turn the internists, pediatricians, dermatologists etc into pulmonologists) to trying to relearn Latin (Ubi dormiunt filii tui?) to trying to prevent my son from playing Halo instead of paying attention to his lessons on distance learning (I gave up)–no blogging. Oh well, we all handled our trauma differently. I ate my feelings. And how are you all?The post It hasn’t quite been a year… first appeared on Christopher Koehler.

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Gail Carriger published Soulless in 2009, and I find it hard to believe eleven years have passed. In that time, Soulless and its sequels have spawned a mighty empire; the Parasol Protectorate has given rise to the Finishing School series, with its elegant threat—Finishing School: when you want someone finished—and the Custard Protocol books, detailing the adventures of the daughter of Soulless’s protagonist and her companions. Buttressed by short stories, novellas, and novelettes, familiar characters swim in and out of the narratives to the delight of readers and critics alike. Indeed, given the splendid critical reception, one may wonder what I think I can contribute. The answer is simple—I don’t intend to review the book, but only the first few pages, and I will review from a narrow perspective.

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t put the book down once you picked it up? In the terminology of the craft of writing, the beginning of any book is called the hook. For those who might not be familiar with the term, it’s exactly what it sounds like—the writer has roughly five to ten pages to hook the reader. Miss Carriger makes brilliant use of every one of them, and this aspect of Soulless it worth examining.

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Put simply, in Soulless Miss Carriger crams a wealth of information into the first ten pages without committing the dreaded and tiresome information dump. In the first paragraph alone, the reader learns that the world depicted in the book is one of balls and vampires, and that the protagonist, Miss Alexia Tarabotti is a spinster by her culture’s reckoning. Furthermore, Alexia has retreated from such a ball to the library, so we know she’s prefers books to her class’s pastimes.

Miss Carriger also lets us know that the protagonist may be on the exotic side for Victorian London, for her name is not a typically English one. Of course, if you’ve read the series you know this to be true, for Alexia makes much of it and much is made of it. But for now, on the first page, this is merely a hint.

Conceptually, this is a lot to take in. From the back of the book, we already know it’s a steampunk novel set in another Victorian London. So Alexia is a well-off spinster who doesn’t like the entertainment of her class and HELLO there’s a vampire in the library.

That’s in one paragraph, dear readers.

The second paragraph is one line, and consists of Alexia glaring at the vampire.

She doesn’t shriek, she glares. From that, it’s obvious that the supernatural is, if not common, then not unexpected. Two paragraphs in, and Miss Carriger has conveyed a wealth of information without trying to explain too much—why do vampires exist and why isn’t Alexia more concerned? Where do vampires come from? We don’t need to know that on the first page and Miss Carriger doesn’t burden us with it, but I remember burning curiosity when I first read it. I wanted those answers and the only way to get them was to turn the page.

By the third paragraph on the first page, we learn that although Alexia is put out by the vampire’s presence, the vampire was mightily glad to see her. Alexia is certainly aware of it as she is without a chaperone and has worn a low-necked gown.

Oops.

We’re provided with more information about Alexia’s culture, a further refinement of the information presented in the first paragraph: Alexia is a part of a cultural stratum of balls and, it would appear, house parties, and she should’ve been chaperoned but was not. So it’s a version of Victorian London different enough to host vampires but not so different from our own that a woman, even a spinster, should have been on her own unescorted. And we haven’t reached the end of the first page.

My educational background is in cultural studies. I was trained to read for things like this. I expect that some, even many, readers picked up on this consciously, but others may not have. Nonetheless, on some level, I suspect readers have a definite sense of the uncanny and want more more more.

By the fourth paragraph—remember we’re still on the first page—Miss Carriger is ready to turn the screw. She reveals Alexia’s most salient characteristic, one that in some ways defines the entire series. Alexia was born without a soul. In short order, we’re informed that any good vampire should know that she’s to be avoided. Significantly, we don’t know what that means, but clearly, it’s something dire, at least for vampires.

Are you hooked yet?

By the first full paragraph on the second page the action heats up further. While Alexia’s soulless state may make her something to avoid, the vampire comes at her. The vampire touches her and—he’s mortal!

We don’t know the how of it or the why of it—again, Miss Carriger doesn’t prematurely burden us with explanations—but somehow Alexia has just turned the supernatural to the merely human. We also know that she didn’t do anything to bring the change about. It was a passive miracle. The predator touched her and the change happened. That’s quite a lot of information to convey. Alexia doesn’t appear to be a magic-user—if there are vampires, why can’t there be magic—and she didn’t have to invoke this power of hers.

The second paragraph of the second page clues us in. Alexia knew it would happen. In fact, it appears that it’s an everyday thing for the soulless. The soulless cancel out the supernatural. We do not yet know just how rare the soulless are. Importantly for the sake of the reader, this isn’t the odd part of what just happened. No, the really strange part of what just transpired was that the vampire didn’t appear to know that there was one of the soulless in London.

So we’re not done with the second page, and we know that the book takes place in an alternate Victorian London where the supernatural exist and that there exists a class of being who can passively neutralize them at the merest touch. Furthermore, our protagonist, as she intimates, is nothing more than the standard edition English prig, and happens to be one of that class.

That’s a lot of information in less than two pages, and as a writer myself, I’m quite impressed.

By the last paragraph of the second page, the vampire’s trying again. Alexia’s outraged, but the source of her outrage isn’t the attempt but the violation of standards of etiquette. They have not, after all, been introduced. This was our warning that we’re about to plunge into a manners….if not comedy, than a book much obsessed with propriety. It is set, after all, in the Victorian era.

The first paragraph on the third page reveals more tidbits. Alexia has never been bitten despite her acquaintance with a few vampires. She is friends with a particular aristocrat who apparently knows everyone. The author does not explain the significance of this acquaintance. Is it important? Only time will tell.

Then the action picks up again as our protagonist defends herself and we are introduced to her taste for parasols. We also learn that while it’s a bit déclassé to carry one indoors, Alexia doesn’t care because it’s also a weapon, weighted with buckshot in its silver tip. Readers know that this is foreshadowing, although of course in the moment the buckshot-weighted parasol produces a satisfying thump that knocks the vampire back.

Vampires can also feel pain, another revelation about the supernatural slipped in without comment at the top of page four. Then Alexia hits him between the legs with that parasol and, indeed, vampires can feel degrees of pain. Alexia may be a proper English young lady—so her culture defines spinster at a young age—and half Italian, she’s nevertheless learned a trick or two from wide reading that is not, strictly speaking, the sort of reading women of quality ought to engage in.

Again, Miss Carriger has subtly larded her prose with things the reader should know about the protagonist without calling attention to it—Alexia’s considered a spinster at a young age, she takes exercise that has made her atypically strong, she knows where to hit a man to make it hurt, and the supernatural feel pain. Significantly, she carries a weight parasol and knows how to use it as a weapon.

This why we keep turning the page.

But back to the action. Alexia may not know many vampires, but she knows how to kill one, because she pulls a long, wooden hair stick out of her coiffure and stabs him with it. Sure, she blushes a very Victorian blush at opening a man’s shirt, but she doesn’t scruple against touching him to render him mortal, or interrogating him to discover that, indeed, he has no idea what the soulless are, and then, after a tussle in which the vampire tries yet again to bite her, Alexia drives the hair stick in with that parasol.

Miss Carriger uses the vampire’s ignorance—which comes back into play much later—to fill in a few blanks for the reader. Vampires are not the only supernatural creatures in this world, for there are also werewolves and ghosts, all of whom had an abundance of soul in their mortal lives. Most know of the exist of the soulless, and all of them fall under the purview of the Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), a division of Her Majesty’s Civil Service. BUR refers to Alexia’s kind as preternatural, and her kind had once hunted the supernatural.

After killing the vampire, Alexia intended to make her escape without anyone any the wiser, but she’s interrupted and resorts to feigning unconsciousness, even enduring the application of smelling salts.

Then Miss Carriger cranks up the drama again, because who else happens to be in attendance at this ball but Conall Maccon, the Early of Woolsey, werewolf head of BUR, and his beta, Professor Lyall? Lord Maccon is gruff, rough, full of bluster, and worst of all, Scottish. Professor Lyall is quiet, calm, and gets things done. Best of all, there is history between Lord Maccon and Alexia to ratchet up the dramatic and, Miss Carriger hints, the romantic tension. Alexia is chagrined to see Lord Maccon, even though she blushes ever so slightly at the sight of the relentlessly male Lord Maccon, and relieved to see the professor.

It’s a lot to fit into ten pages and none of us had a chance. The hook in Soulless gets my vote for the best in fantasy and science fiction because it contains the entire the novel. It just takes a few hundred pages to work out the details.

Soulless also contains one of my favorite exchanges ever:

The Earl of Woolsey glared at her. “Cheap clothing is no excuse for killing a man.”

“Mmm, that’s what you say.”

Signed,

Christopher Koehler

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So we’re almost out of April and despite my best efforts, I’m not much closer to self-publishing anything. I’m reasonably I certain I updated you all, but in case I didn’t, best beloved, the short version is that Dreamspinner, my publisher since 2011, stopped generating royalties statements and stopped paying me. I have the email trail in which I had to ask to me paid money that belonged to me to prove it, too.

My contracts were quite specific about the exact days after the close of each fiscal quarter Dreamspinner would generate royalties statements and the exact days they would pay me. So what’s the big deal about royalties statements? It’s how writers keep track of how much they’re owed from which vendors for which titles, and for a publisher to stop tell a writer that is a huge red flag, particularly when it’s contractually obligated. Furthermore, Dreamspinner didn’t tell anyone they would be missing the date. The date of the royalties statement came and went with no communication. I had to contact my publisher after it missed the second contractually stipulated date of payment to ask about it.

The long and short of it was that as soon as Dreamspinner missed the first date—again, contractually stipulated—to generate and send me a royalties statement, it violated all of my contracts, rendering them null and void. Yet Dreamspinner didn’t start communicating this to its authors until late last fall. That doesn’t inspire trust, and so on Christmas Even 2019, I requested my rights back. That was proforma because in violating my contracts, I already had my rights back. But now I have it in writing.

Okay, that wasn’t a very short version, was it?

Since my backlist isn’t available to readers if it’s not published and it does me no good if it’s not available, I thought I’d self-publish.

Only I haven’t, and it’s the end of Aprl.

Some of it’s obvious–covid-19. I find myself distracted from time to time. Some days I’ll write two thousand words (that’s a lot for me) and other days I spend on Facebook with others in my reading and writing community simply trying to maintain human connections.

But a lot of it’s family stuff. My son had trouble at school beginning last fall, and it took me until early March to resolve it because it involved lawyers and banging my head against a wall when the school district would very much liked to have 1) pretended nothing was wrong; then 2) pretended it was my son’s fault; and then 3) pretended that it had no responsibility whatsoever to find an alternative placement for him. Both federal and state education law beg to differ and I retain (yes, present active indicative because this is an ongoing issue) a really good attorney who was more than willing to point that out to the district–over and over and over again.

We didn’t come to a resolution until the week before the school district closed for the corona virus shutdown. It’s a funny district, fantastic if you’re gifted but a bit dodgy if you’re in special ed like my son is due to severe ADHD. Anyway, on March 11 the district announced that it didn’t see the need to shut down. On March 13 I got a shrieking text that read COME GET YOUR KID EVERYBODY OUT MOVEITMOVEITMOVEIT. Like it was the last chopper out of Saigon or something.

Yet my dearest, darling husband wants to know why all of Dreamspinner titles haven’t been self-published yet.

I guess he forgot about the two short stories I published with MLR?

So the long and short of it is, I’m about five chapters into re-editing First Impressions and I’m wondering if finding a new publisher for my backlist might be the better idea so I can focus on writing new material. It has become clear that I cannot do both.

So how’re you folks handling shelter in place? That actually assumes you in live in a state that’s taking it seriously, if you’re American. If you’re not American there’s a very good chance your government’s doing a better job. It could hardly be doing a worse job, could it?

Anyway, how’re you keep yourself out of trouble? I listen to a lot of music. Much to the surprise of this 80s child, I’m listen to Orville Peck these days.

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Book Blurb:

As the epic trilogy hurtles toward its conclusion, the fightfor the future isn’t over yet. It could lead to a new beginning, or it mightspell the end for the last vestiges of humankind.

The generation ship Forever has left Earth behind, but apiece of the old civilization lives on in the Inthworld—a virtual realm thatretains memories of Earth’s technological wonders and vices. A being namedLilith leads the uprising, and if she succeeds in setting its inhabitantsfree, they could destroy Forever.

But during the generation ship’s decades-long voyage, humanity has evolved.Liminals with the ability to connect with the world mind and theInthworld provide a glimmer of hope. They’ll have to face not onlyLilith’s minions, but also the mistrust of their own kind and persecution froma new government as homotypicals continue to fear what they can’tunderstand.

The invasion must be stopped, the Inthworld must be healed,and the people of Forever must let go of their past and embrace whatthey’re meant to become.

Series Blurb:

Humankind is on its way to the stars, a journey that will change it forever. Each of the stories in Liminal Sky explores that future through the lens of a generation ship, where the line between science fiction and fantasy often blurs. At times both pessimistic and very hopeful, Liminal Sky thrusts you into a future few would ever have imagined.

Excerpt (non-exclusive):

Kiryn Hammond-Clarke floated in the darkness of space,stars he’d never seen in person twinkling against the velvety black depths.

The voice came to him from out of nowhere. “Can anyonehear me?”

In his dreams, he could hear. Like when Belynn let himride in her mind.

The voice repeated, sounding stretched and thin. “Isanyone out there?”

In the distance, a single star glowed brighter than allthe others, though it was still just a small golden dot.

Kiryn reached out toward the light, his hand naked to thecold of the void.

Ice crystals formed on his arm, hardening it in place. Thecold reached into his bones like knives of frozen glass. It raced up his bicep,the burning cold fire of the void.

He snatched back his arm, but he was too late. The freezinggrip reached his heart, and he screamed silently—

Kiryn awoke with a start, sitting up in bed in his dormroom drenched with sweat. He ran his hands through his dark hair, letting themcome to rest clasped behind his head.

First Light flashed past in the trees outside his window,brightening up the room.

The world was utterly silent.

The silence, his constant companion since birth, wasparticularly soothing after his rude awakening. It wrapped itself around himlike a blanket, a suit of armor, a barrier between him and the hustle andbustle of the outside world.

Between him and emotion.

He held his arm out for inspection, half expecting it tobe blackened by the void. Instead, it looked perfectly normal. Warm and tan,halfway between his mothers’ sepia and white skin tones.

He shivered at the memory.

The bed moved under him, and his date from the nightbefore sat up, his mouth moving soundlessly.

The man was handsome, a Thyrean sent to the university atMicavery for his higher schooling—long limbs, blond hair shaved short, warmbrown eyes.

His name was Dax. Or Zack. Or something.

Kiryn’s lipreading was decent, but he hadn’t bothered tospend too much time learning this one’s name. Dax or Zack hadn’t seemed to mindmuch.

Kiryn pointed at his ear and shook his head.

The man’s mouth closed, and he blushed. “Sorry. I forgot.”

That one was easy enough to read.

He grabbed the piece of cotton paper and a pencil Kirynkept at his bedside just for that purpose and scribbled something out longhand,then handed it over to him.

It’s Dax. And are you okay?

Kiryn stared at him. Did you just read my mind?Maybe there was a little Liminal in him. He laughed, wondering not forthe first time what it sounded like from the outside. It felt clunky andawkward on the inside.

He sighed and took the paper and pencil.

Dax’s hand lingered over his for an extra second beforeletting go.

Bad dream. Class in fifteen minutes. He hesitated,then scribbled, Dinner?

Dax took the paper, and a grin lit up his face. His eagernod needed no translation. I work at the hatchery until six. Meet me there?

Kiryn nodded and grinned.

Dax slipped out of bed and pulled on his trousers andwhite shirt, the V-neck showing off his chest to perfection.

Kiryn sat back with his hands behind his head, admiringthe view.

He leaned over, kissed Kiryn on the cheek, and mouthed,“See you.”

When Dax left, Kiryn grabbed a change of clothes andheaded down the hall to the dorm bathroom. He hopped into the shower, using thearomatic red berry soap bar his mom and mamma had sent him from the Estate. Thesmell transported him, and he closed his eyes and imagined himself standingamong the long, even rows of red berry vines that arched across the hillsides.

His parents worried about him, out here alone, but it wasAndy who had insisted he go.

When Kiryn had been born congenitally and profoundly deaf,Andy and Shandra had learned sign language from the world mind in vee.

There were so few other deaf people in Forever. So fewlike him.

The day before he was set to leave for university, tocatch the public wagon headed for Darlith and then Micavery, he’d had a hugepanic attack.

His parents had sat him down along with his sister,Belynn.

“I’m scared. Why do I have to go away?” He was fidgeting,nervous.

“You have to go.There’s nothing here for you.” Andy indicated the Estate, where the family hadbuilt a thriving agricultural business on the backs of Trip’s and Colin’searlier work.

“You’re here.” His hands signed it while his kneebounced up and down.

Andy shook her head. “This is our place. You need to go.”

He flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was such aburden.”

“No.” That was emphatic. “That’s not what I meant.We don’t want you to get trapped here, working on the Estate for the rest ofyour life. There’s a whole world out there for you to explore.” She looked upat Shandra, who nodded.

“I’ll go with him,” Belynn said and signed it at the sametime, but he could hear her inside his head too.

Mom could do that, too, of course, but she had to touchhim to do it.

“You’re not ready.” Shandra glared at Belynn and shook her head.

“I’ve been with Kiryn in every vee class since I was born.I’m only two years younger than he is. Let me go with him to help.”

Kiryn frowned. He wasn’t sure he wanted his little sistertagging along after him, cramping his style. If he decided to go.

Belynn’s hand found his, palm to palm, and he could feel her emotions. We can takecare of each other. That thought was private, just for him, inside hishead.

Maybe so.

Andy looked at Shandra. “They could take care of eachother.” She echoed Belynn’s thought and touched Shandra’s hand. Somethingpassed between them.

Shandra looked at him and then at Belynn, uncertaintyclear on her face. “We could… try it.”

Belynn squeezed his hand. “Yes!”

“For a semester.” Andy kissed Shandra on the forehead.

Kiryn thought about it. It would be nice to have someoneclose by, just in case. Someone who really knew him. “Okay.” And it would be alot less scary.

Now he was here, and Belynn wouldn’t be far behind.

Where are you, big brother? Belynn’s insistent voice.

I’ll be back in a minute. He pulled the towel fromits wooden peg, dried off his hair and shoulders.

A couple of the other guys in the dorm, Stave and Trevor,waved on their way to their own showers. Cute as hell, but straighter than theold antenna on Micavery’s village green. Well, except when Stave got drunk onred berry wine….

Kiryn grinned. He pulled on his trousers and shirt andpadded back to his room. Belynn was waiting for him on his bed. “How did youget in?” he signed.

They touched palms, the emotions flowing between them andsynching.

“Easy. Aric at the front desk is a sucker for a prettygirl.”

“Like I said, how did you get in?”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “Come on. We’re going to be late.” She tugged him off the bed, and Kiryn barely had time to grab his carry sack before she had him out the door and down the hall.

Buy Links:

Publisher: https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-shoreless-sea-by-j-scott-coatsworth-11294-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07T5C8DWY/

Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/164108149X/

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-shoreless-sea-j-scott-coatsworth/1130902598?ean=9781644051382

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/za/en/ebook/the-shoreless-sea

iTunes: https://books.apple.com/hn/book/the-shoreless-sea/id1469137456

Google: https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Shoreless_Sea.html?id=2-6dDwAAQBAJ

QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/book/the-shoreless-sea/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/44313588-the-shoreless-sea

Giveaway:

Scott is giving away a $25 Amazon gift card withthis tour, along with three eBook sets of his Oberon Cycle trilogy. For achance to win, enter via Rafflecopter:

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d4778/?

Author Bio:

Scott lives between the here and now and the what could be.Indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine,he devoured her library. But as he grew up, he wondered where the people likehim were.

He decided it was time to create the kinds of stories he couldn’tfind at Waldenbooks. If there weren’t gay characters in his favorite genres, hewould remake them to his own ends.

His friends say Scott’s brain works a little differently –he sees relationships between things that others miss, and gets more done in aday than most folks manage in a week. He seeks to transform traditional sci fi,fantasy, and contemporary worlds into something unexpected.

A Rainbow Award winning author and Science Fiction Writer’sAssociation (SFWA) member, he runs Queer Sci Fi and QueeRomance Ink with hishusband Mark, sites that bring queer people together to promote and celebratefiction reflecitng their own reality.

Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworthauthor/

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/jscoatsworth

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ/<h2></h2>

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Gather ’round, best beloved, and hear the tale of how your author met his husband.

This was back in the day, 1991, when Sacramento Pride-A Commercial Opportunity (all rights reserved, void where prohibited, product may settle during shipping, lather rinse repeat) was called the Lambda Freedom Fair, and had not yet been given over entirely to commercial activities. In other words, it was still a small, community-oriented event that require the purchase of a ticket to get into.

It should be noted that I’d seen He Who Must Not Be Contradicted for some time before we’d actually met face to face at various parties at Pepper Spray U, my alma mater. I assumed he was a particularly hairy freshman. I’d taken to crashing parties held by the bisexual, gay, and lesbian graduate student group (and this was the early 90s, so the group was considered progressive for mentioning bisexuals) because the undergrad group was hopelessly silly. I didn’t play spin the bottle in high school and didn’t intend to start in college. So when I saw He Who Must Not Be Contradicted at those same parties I didn’t think much of it. After all, I was an undergrad at those parties, why couldn’t he be?

This was toward the end of my junior year and I seriously question the advisability of a relationship, because I’d be leaving in a year for grad school, but daaaamn, Skippy, that boy was hot. Keep in mind that at this time, I didn’t even have so much as a name. So March, April, May, and early June passed with me seeing He Must Not Be Contradicted at parties but never getting up the nerve to talk to him. The tension was deliciously agonizing back then, but now it only sounds tiresome.

So one fine June morning I decided to go to the Lambda Freedom Fair with a friend. And who do we run into? Yes, that’s right, my future husband with a mutual friend. My friends and I all get to talking, and I realized that if I didn’t get this guy’s name I deserved to be pathetic and alone for the rest of my life. With a name I could at least start pumping people for information, amiright?

“They’re obviously not going to introduce us. Hi, my name’s Chris.”

“Yeah, they’re kind of rude. My name’s…”

The first and last time I was brave, which became an issue later, but we celebrate 28 years together in July, so it wasn’t that big an issue.

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@ChickadeeRevisions tweeted a graphic with a topic a day for June and I thought it would be a great way to introduce myself as a writer to my many new followers and perhaps give my older followers a chance to learn something new about me. Not only that, it might get me back into the habit of semi-regular blogging.June Romance Writer Challenge

Of course no sooner did I get started then I got sick. It’s now June 10 and I’ve posted the June 1 topic, so I can already tell that this will be a summer-long project. But I don’t mind if you don’t.<h2></h2>

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Dear reader,

As you’re no doubt aware, the European Union (EU) has instituted sweeping new privacy laws (GDPR) that any webpage or blog that might possibly collect personal information of anyone subject to EU laws information must comply with. If you’re like me, you’ve had to re-grant or re-certify permissions on many of your favorite blogs.

This blog does not collect any personal information such as visitor names, email addresses, IP addresses, or other sensitive information. Some information may be stored by the Word Press platform, and the comment form, a third-party extension, may or may not collect this information, but if so, this information is not stored by the blog and are not accessible to me, the blog owner.

</h2><h2>If you post a comment, Word Press stores your email address and IP address. That information is visible only to me, the owner of the blog. I do not collect email addresses to send newsletters or in direct marketing. I use analytics to track traffic to the webpage and that involves the use of cookies.

</h2><h2>I use third-party plug-ins for the daily running and maintenance of the blog, and those plug-ins may collect and store date about users and commenters.

</h2><h2>From time to time I do participate in contests with other authors or run contests of my own but your participation in such contests is entirely optional. Should you participate in such optional contests, your email is stored with your implied consent only for the duration of the contest and used only for the purposes of winner notification and prize delivery. You do not need to participate in such contests to read my blog.

</h2><h2>This blog does not participate in any Affiliate programs (e.g. Amazon Affiliates). Those blogs listed in the sidebar are those that I find valuable or that belong to friends. They change from time to time.

</h2><h2>If you to have your data erased, please contact me. You’ll be asked to verify this request, and then your data will be erased. I also a plug-in to export GDPR data and am in the process of learning to use it. I appreciate your patience.

This statement will also be posted under a Privacy Policy tab.

</h2><h2>Sincerely,

</h2><h2>Christopher Koehler

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Go on, tell me I’m wrong

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So we’re on vacation, the family and I. Savannah. Sure, it’s pretty, although a lot of the shine comes off when you remember that at least in the historic parts it was built by slaves.

Anyway, we’re visiting the Mister’s Ancestral Home for our son’s spring break. The mancub’s not the most stable soul in the world, and he spent a good five minutes before breakfast arranging his boxer briefs just so.

Well, something just set them and him off, because he flipped out. Okay, so the head banging is worrying, but I’ve seen it before and it’s within tolerances.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

The toilet overflows.

Why am I the only one who knows how to work the shut-off valve?

Anyway, I’m in a hotel room in Savannah with an overflowing toilet and my son’s losing his shit (ha!) because his undies are in a twist.

This is my life today. I can get wound up (that’d be two of us) or I can laugh my ass off.

Oh, and it’s starting to stink in here.

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This entry is part 1 of 1 in the series Flash Fic Friday

I’m trying something new with my blog, in part to update it more frequently and in part to increase its interest. While I won’t always publish flash fiction, when I post flash fic, it’ll be Fridays. 

Farm Boy is from a dream I had recently, and I plan to turn it into a YA novel when I’m done with my WIP (more about that later).

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Farm Boy

</h3><h3>Jared sat in chapel, his head bowed. He believed not a whit of what was said in this building. Well, there’d been that one time they’d had that Wiccan lady in for services. Her words made sense. She’d spoken of the seasons and the rhythms of the earth and sky.

</h3><h3>But Providence Hill School required that all students entrusted to its care attended chapel at least once per month, and seeing as how today was his last chance, Jared sat in the pew, head bowed, as fought to recall the Wiccan priestess’s words. It had been several months, after all.

</h3><h3>So he sat in the pew, seemingly lost in contemplation, lost to the world. He knew what he looked look. He knew what people saw. They saw the farmer’s kid, already big for his age. They saw the boy everyone thought couldn’t read. Easy pickings, they thought, because he wouldn’t fight back. He knew he could crush them, so he didn’t try.

</h3><h3>He was finished with that. He knew the lessons his mother’s new husband had taught him…just as he remembered his mother’s as he boarded the plain for school.

</h3><h3>“You’re a big man already, Jared, even if you’re still a boy inside. Please be careful. You’ll be taunted and teased just because of who you are.”

</h3><h3>Jared had frowned. “Because we’re farmers, Stan?”

</h3><h3>“Because you stand out, Jared.” Stan had put his arm on Jared’s shoulder and guided him to watch the sun set over their fields. His, actually. They’d been his father’s and Stan was upfront that all of it was held in trust for him. Stan had his own acreage the next county over. “You’re big, and you’re smart. People will notice that.”

</h3><h3>“I see.” Jared had nodded.

</h3><h3>“They might not appreciate that combination, not with your looks thrown in there. You’re the spit and image of your daddy, and he was a handsome man.” Jared had looked over at him. “You may not remember, but we do, your family’s friends.”

</h3><h3>Jared pulled his hat lower on his head. All this talk of virtues made him squirm. It made Stan chuckle, a deep rumbling noise that hit Jared in his belly. He shoved that away. Not now. Not ever.

</h3><h3>“No, you be careful at school. Don’t let the teasing get to you. Don’t lash out at if it does. You could hurt somebody. Working your land has made you strong, and I think you’ll realize that once you get there,” Stan had said, and he’d been right.

</h3><h3>But Mama had told him, whispered actually, before he got on the plane, “Be kind, be gentle, but the time may come when you have to stand up for yourself. When that happens, always remember you’re a Foster. We don’t take crap from anyone.”

</h3><h3>Providence Hill School had certainly been a new experience, and Jared learned that anew each day. Only the riding lessons kept him from being too homesick at first. Horses, he knew. He hadn’t known too many of the games besides the usual—football, basketball, baseball—and hadn’t been much good at those. But Jared was strong and was learning to play rugby, a game all but made for guys like him.

</h3><h3>Jared also hadn’t known the other games people played, the vicious ones the prefects and the teachers never seemed to know about. “They’re just joshing around, Jared,” the Headmaster told him. “It’s all in good fun.”

</h3><h3>Jared passed the bruises off as rugby-gotten, but somehow he never had any fun with those games. That morning? That morning he would put a stop to them.

</h3><h3>That morning? That morning he sat in the middle of the pew some of his favorite tormentors liked to pretend belonged to them. It was time to set them straight on that score.

</h3><h3>He snorted to himself. Straight. As if.

</h3><h3>Five guys a class or two above him, yet even so, only one was bigger. Somehow they didn’t see that. But Jared knew they would before chapel started for the morning, oh yes they would. He allowed himself a smile as continued to consider the wiccan’s words. It was spring now, early spring, the time when the earth began to shake off winter’s sleep, a time when new things surged to life.

</h3><h3>“You can’t sit here.”

</h3><h3>With his heart pounding in his ears, Jared said softly, “I can.”

</h3><h3>“Dude, it’s our pew. Everyone knows that.”

</h3><h3>“There’s no plaque.” Jared looked up to see Tony, team captain of the junior varsity baseball team glaring down at him. Jared’s heart beat fast. Not because of the confrontation, however. But because it was Tony.

</h3><h3>Tony was why Jared did this. “I’m sitting here. There’s room on either side. I don’t think you’ll take up the whole bench.”

</h3><h3>Jared continued to pray, or pretend to, as Tony and his guys regrouped. There weren’t so many of them, really. Just four of them besides Tony. There was Geoff, Aaron, Danny, and Beth, who had a better arm than any of them. Of all of them, only Aaron came anywhere near him in size, and even then it was a close call.

</h3><h3>Jared hear them whispering, and then suddenly Aaron pushed past him to the end of the pew, followed quickly by Beth and then Danny, who tried to hit him on the neck on the way by. Jared reached out faster than a striking snake and grabbed.

</h3><h3>Suddenly Danny gasped and bit his lip to keep from crying out. He clutched his elbow.

</h3><h3>“Fuck,” Danny hissed. “That’s my pitching arm.”

</h3><h3>“And the next time you try to hit me with it, I’ll make sure you can’t use it for a week.” Jared yanked the still-whimpering Danny down by his good arm and looked him in the eyes. “Got that?”

</h3><h3>Danny’s eyes, suspiciously shiny, widened, as if he had just noticed for the first time, that Jared topped him by almost a foot. “You didn’t have to hurt me.”

</h3><h3>“Spoken like a true bully. You’re all fight until you realize your intended victim can beat the crap out of you.” Jared shoved him into Beth.

</h3><h3>Geoff eased on by, doing his best not to touch any part of Jared. “I don’t want any trouble, man.”

</h3><h3>“You got amnesia or somethin’?” Jared said in a folksy, down-home manner he knew made people think of pigs and dueling banjos. “You shoulda found something else to do during the fall semester, because now you’ve got trouble in spades, little buddy. You and me are gonna be best friends.”

</h3><h3>Jared looked up to find Tony staring at him. There wasn’t all that much room between him and Geoff, but he’d damned if would budge so much as an inch. “You. Sit.”

</h3><h3>“There’s not much room.”

</h3><h3>“You said this is your pew, Tony, so you sit yer ass right down. I have had enough garbage out of all of you.” Jared glanced down the row, sure he had their attention now. He held up his hands. “Any of you feel free to answer. See my hands? I can end you. I own a sizeable fraction of a backward county in a state you think you’re too good for. I’ve got pigs, so I know what to do with spare corpses.”

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Copyright 2016 Christopher Koehler

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All That Is Solid Melts Into Air releases today, so I thought I’d best post a glossary of rowing terms to help you all out, if only because info dumping in novels isn’t part of the best-practices matrix. Also, because I kind of did that in places alreayd.

ATISMIA makes the sixth novel I’ve set in and around a boathouse, and it’s at long last occurred to me that perhaps I should provide a glossary and commentary on the terms I’ve been using with such giddy abandon. While any of these could easily be looked up on the internet, you’ll never find my obnoxious inimitable commentary anywhere else.

The only pace is suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die

+/- : This indicates whether or not a boat is steered by a cox’n or not., the + indicating the presence of the cox’n, the – indicating the cox’n’s absence. An uncoxed boat is usually referred to as a blind boat because its occupant(s) cannot see where s/he (in the case of a single) or they (in the case of a double, pair, or coxless quad or four) are going.

In terms of notation, a coxed four would be written as a 4+, while a coxless quad would be written as 4-. How do you tell the difference between a four and a quad? Ha! You don’t, except by context because they race in different events and because I’ve never heard of an uncoxed four in sweep rowing (see ‘Sweep rowing’ below)

At the ready/At the catch: Rowers sit at the catch position ready to take the first stroke as soon as the cox’n tells them to, or in the case of a single rower, as soon as the starting judge or ref makes the call (at the top or front of the slide, shins vertical, oar blades in the water).

Bisweptual: a switch-hitter, a rower who swings both ways, i.e. someone who rows both port and starboard in sweep rowing. What did you think it meant? I row both sides.

Blind boat: boats without cox’n, indicated on paper with the number of seats in a boat along with a minus sign, so when I’m in a blind quad, it would be indicated as a 4(-).

Bow ball: a small rubber ball affixed to the boat front that provides absolutely no protection in the event of collision if the boat is moving under any pressure stronger than paddle pressure.

Bow deck: the front deck. In a collision, it will collapse like an accordion.

Bow-loader: a coxed four in which the cox’n is seated in the bow facing forward instead of the stern. The cox’n is typically very close to the waterline and suffers greatly reduced visibility. The best cox’ns in bow-loaders quickly learn to tell what his or her rowers are doing by sound and by the motion of the boat, and will be the first to die in case of a collision. Bow-loaders are also called coffin ships, owing to the fact that in a collision the boat’s carbon-fiber hull will crumple like paper.

Bow pair: the two rowers sitting at one and two seat in a boat with four or more seats.

Bow princess: The poor sucker who rows bow. A certain amount of attitude is tolerated because whoever rows at bow will die in a collision and everyone knows it, unless it’s a bow-loader, in which case it’s the cox’n who’ll bite it and they’ve all got plenty of attitude as it is.

Bucket-rigged: in sweep rowing the standard configuration for rigging a coxed four (or an eight) is port-starboard-port-starboard stern to bow. But what if one of your starboards is your best stroke? Or what if you have an imbalance of power between your rowers? You can compensate for these by changing the configuration of the rigging on the boat.

For a starboard-stroked boat, it would look like starboard-port-port-starboard. Viewed from above, this might look a bit like a bucket. To compensate for more powerful rowers you’d change the rigging to adjust where they would be seated in the boat.

There’s not much point to bucket-rig an eight because there are more places to shift rowers to.

Catch: at the top or front of the slide when the blade of the oar catches the water.

Catching a crab: When a rower feathers the blade before it is fully extracted from the water, the current generated by the boat’s passing can grab the oar and pull it perpendicular to the hull, sometimes quite forcefully. When such a crab throws a rower from the boat, it is a called an ejection crab. The idea is that a crab has grabbed the blade of the oar. Google “ejection + crab” or “rowing + ejection + crab” for a video of this phenomenon.

Check it down: (chiefly American) A command to stop the boat’s forward motion by putting the oars in the water such that the oar blades are perpendicular to the surface of the water. The British equivalent is “Take the run off,” once again proving that the British can’t speak English.

Cox’n: God. Just ask him or her. To a cox’n, rowers are meat that moves the boat. Cox’ns in men’s and women’s crew have different personality types. Note, not male and female cox’ns, but whether or not they cox for men’s vs. women’s crew.

Men’s crew, male or female cox’n: “Is that how we row? No, goddamn it, it’s not! Pull your fucking oar through the water….stop sucking!”

Women’s crew with the same cox’n after practice: “Why did you say those things? I thought you were our friend?”

Before I’m accused of anything, that’s more or less a direct quote from one of the best cox’ns I’ve ever rowed for during a conversation about why she prefers to cox for men’s crews. Seriously, this woman is the oarsman whisperer and a true lady on land, but on the water? She’ll cut a bitch and her knife is a carbon-fiber racing shell.

Different crews, different personalities, different styles of coxing. Some people react better to verbal abuse than others. When I cox—and let me tell you, it’s hilarious to observe given my size, although I’m a decent cox’n—I generally ask what my crew prefers.

Eight: A coxed sweeps boat with eight rowers. This is the big time, the most powerful of the boats. One of these, rowed well and at full power, is a thing of beauty, and awe-inspiring to behold. If you get in its way when it’s at full power, it will fuck you up because it’s basically a dreadnought.

Note: You’ll notice that there’s no mention of coxed vs. blind eights. That’s because there are no blind eights. They move too fast and they’re too powerful to risk the health and safety of both the crew and anyone who happens to be on the water around them. That’s not to say I haven’t rowed in one…

Engine room: Seats three through six in an eight. They have a lower impact on the set of the boat than the bow pair or stern pair. This is where you put the big, muscular guys who can’t hold a beat. I generally row in the engine room, usually at five or six.

Ergometer (or erg): a rowing machine that mimics the rowing stroke. While there are other models, the Concept-2 indoor rower has a virtual monopoly in the United States and for good reason…the others suck. The C2 uses air to create resistance. I’ve liked using a water-rowers—uses water, rather than air, to create resistance—to rowing a toilet bowl.

Erg testing: Rowing a set distance for time, or a set time for distance, to see which rower wins.

Feathering/feather the blade: On fully extracting the blade from the water, the rower turns the blade parallel to water with a flick of the inboard (closest to the boat) wrist. The blade is squared, or returned to the perpendicular before the catch.

Fours: A boat that seats four rowers, either coxed or not.

Head race: the primary style of racing in the autumn in North American and Europe (although there are some spring head races), head races are time-trial races in which crews compete to complete a set course—generally between 4k and 8k—in the shortest time possible within their age group (see “Master rower” below).

The most famous in the United States is the Head of the Charles Regatta rowed on Boston’s Charles River; the largest in North America is Canada’s Royal Canadian Henley in St. Catherine’s, Ontario; the most prestigious in the world is the Royal Henley Regatta (its first royal patron was Prince Albert the Prince Consort; now the patron is always the reigning Monarch) rowed at Henley on Thames in Oxfordshire; the longest non-insane head race that I’ve heard of is Melbourne’s 8.6k Head of the Yarra. The bug-nuts craziest head race is the Netherlands’ Ringvaart Regatta and is 100k. No. Just…no.

Juniors (novice, jv, and varsity): High-school rowers. Owing to the physical demands of the sport, rowers seldom start before high school.

Masters rower: a rower over twenty-seven years of age. The term ‘master’ in no way refers to skill. It’s also a catch-all term, as masters rowing is age handicapped.

Master refers to 27-35, then comes seniors, veterans, grand masters, etc. That said, there is a move away from terms toward Masters A (27-35), Masters B (36-42), Masters C (43-49), all the way up to Masters J (80+).

This may well be due to clarity, as these terms actually mean something concrete, as well as allowing for the addition of Masters AA (21-26). It was noticed a few years back that there was no category for rowers immediately out college. Rowing is the oldest varsity sport, dating back well before the Civil War in the United States and to the late eighteenth century in the United Kingdom (Eton College’s Monarch Boat Club and Windsor School’s Isis Club both existed by the 1790’s). AA was added by US Rowing within the last ten years. Um…duh?

The reality is that there is a very real and noticeable decline in physical ability roughly every five to seven years in this most intense of aerobic sports and we have a vested interest in retaining rowers. There’s a formula for calculating age handicaps over age 80, and since it’s a non-impact sport, people can essentially row until they die.

Octopod: This is the Sasquatch of rowing, an eight rigged for sculling. There’s no technical reason it couldn’t be done. It just isn’t.

On the paddle: the lightest of strokes, moving the boat but not at all fast. Also referred to as paddle pressure.

Pair: the smallest sweep boat, consisting of one port and one starboard rower.

Port: in nautical terminology, port refers to the left side of the boat, but since rowers sit backward relative to the direction of motion, port is the rower’s right side and a port rower’s oar sticks out to the right. A port rower’s outboard hand will be his or her left hand. Due to this reversal, sweep rowers lose the ability to tell right from left.

Quads (+/-): a sculling boat that seats four, either coxed or uncoxed. I’ve only ever seen and rowed a blind quad. These boats fly. Think of a clipper ship and you won’t be far off.

Ratio: Speed of the drive (when the oar’s in the water) vs. speed of the recovery (when the oar’s out of the water); a measure of the efficiency of the stroke. The boat is at its slowest at the moment the blade of the oar enters the water; the boat is at its fastest just after the blade leaves the water when it’s released. The faster the drive, the faster the boat goes. The slower the recovery, not only do the rowers have a chance to breathe, they don’t slow the boat with catching too soon.

River launch: launching from a river as opposed to a dock. Rowers carry the boat out into the water and climb in via the process described in Poz.

Rushing the slide: when rowers have abandoned any pretense at ratio (see ‘ratio,’ above) and rush up the slide toward the catch during the recovery. If you’re in front of a rower rushing the slide and attempting to maintain ratio you face 1) a very real chance of an oar handle to your kidneys 2) a subtle pressure to join the people behind you in rushing to main the ‘normal’ feel of the boat, because you can definitely feel the rowers crowding you from behind.

An example about why I’m almost never allowed to row stroke seat: a nice pace for a masters boat out for a pleasant morning’s row might be between 22 and 26 spm at perhaps half-pressure. That means 22-26 strokes/minute and roughly half the power one could exert (an extremely subjective measure), not so much that you’d would be exhausted before turning around, but you’d feel it when you stopped.

Then those rat bastards in the bow start rushing and no matter how much I grouse to the cox’n and how much she bitches them out for it, it does not good. Then I, being rather passive-aggressive, start dropping the stroke rating without telling anyone. Instead of 24 spm, we’re now rowing at 20, or even 18 (that’s pretty slow, but not as low as I take things in my single…sometimes I row at a 12-14 to challenge myself; super hard strokes, very long recovery). To maintain the all-important ratio, ideally you’d make each stroke more powerful and each recovery longer, but with this crew what it would do was make the slide-rushing so incredibly obvious that even those dullards would be forced to realize what they were doing, usually when their oars started hitting those of the rowers in front of them.

How is this avoided, you ask? By paying attention to stroke seat and to the rower immediately in front of you. Don’t zone out.

Sculls/sculling: Sculls are the oars used in sculling, from whence the practice of rowing in a small boat with two oars draws its name. Sculling is one of the two major forms of rowing, the other being sweep rowing.

Sequence: The rowing stroke is an essentially smooth circular process but can nonetheless be broken into parts: leg drive -> backswing -> arms -> arms -> backswing -> leg drive ad infinitum et ad nauseam.

Single: a boat seating one person and requiring sculls instead of sweep oars.

Slide: also known as the tracks, the parallel metal rails on which the seat travels during the stroke.

Squaring the blade: turning the blade perpendicular the water’s surface with a flick of the inboard (closest to the boat) wrist. Rowing on the square is 1) an exercise in frustration; 2) a drill to teach novice crews to control the oar handle on the recovery; 3) a way to show off by more advanced crews.

Starboard: in nautical terminology, the right-hand side of a boat, but since rowers sit backward relative to the direction of travel, a starboard rower’s oar will stick out to the rower’s left. A starboard rower’s outboard hand will be his or her right. Sweep rowers quickly lose the ability to tell left from right.

Stern deck: the back deck of the rowing shell. Also, where particularly hulking cox’ns sit. Your author has coxed boats one more than one occasion. Your author is also a foot taller and one hundred pounds heavier than the standard-issue cox’n. On such occasions, the bow of the boat generally doesn’t touch the water.

Stern pair: in sweep rowing, the rowers sitting at seven and eight who set the pace for the rest of the boat.

Stroke: 1) the act of taking a stroke. 2) the rower, generally port, who sets the pace for the boat.

Sweep rowing/sweeps: This is what you think of when you hear ‘rowing’—one rower, one larger oar, bigger boats, although a sweeps boat can be a single pair (one port and one starboard rower). No one really knows why it’s called sweep rowing, but the consensus is that you sweep the water along with your oar.

Taper: Tapering isn’t by any means unique to rowing, but it shows up from time to time in my work. The goal is to reduce the training volume but not the intensity. In other words, the workouts are shorter, but every bit as hard. This maintains blood volume—and oxygen-carrying capacity in this most aerobic of sports—but reduces fatigue and muscle damage ahead of competition.

Unisuit: the single-piece uniform of competitive rowers, generally worn by high school and collegiate rowers. Other than a slightly padded seat, a unisuit is indistinguishable from a wrestling singlet.

VO2-max: the amount of oxygen extracted per breath. Olympic-caliber rowers have the greatest VO2-max of any competitive athlete.

There are probably things I’ve left out, but hopefully this will be enough to help people navigate the rowing babble in Poz and ATISMIA and my other publications. I’ve tried to keep it to keep the esoterica to minimum, but inevitably something will shine through, and maybe that’s okay. Also, Google.

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So this happened. 

Poz was named by the American Library Association to its Rainbow List for 2016, specifically for YA literature. It’s probably easiest if you search for my last name rather that scroll through. On the other hand, if you do that, you’ll miss all the other great books, like the one authored by the incomparable Dahlia Adler. Full disclosure: she’s a friend of mine. 

http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/Harmony_ALA2016_Badge_Poz-300x300.jpg

Even better, Poz is on sale by my publisher through January 23, 2016. Because Harmony Ink Press is suave like that.

http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/Harmony_ALA2016_SaleFBpost-300x300.jpg

Please check out my colleague Nyrae Dawn‘s The History of Us, because The History of US made the Rainbow List, too.

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So as I was preparing to put the holiday wreath on my front door yesterday, I dug the new wreath hanger out of its box. I took this picture:

http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/IMG_4745-225x300.jpgWreath Hanger

Leaving aside the fact that the lighting’s terrible and the tile floors of my hallway are boring and beige and on my husband’s hit list–seriously, he wants to redo them in anything that isn’t tile–does that not look the female reproductive tract? Ovaries, fallopian tubes, birth canal?

Or is is just me?

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So I arrived in San Diego last night with Amy Lane and Kim Fielding. We drove down, and damn did we ever have fun.

ROAD TRIP.

Okay, so we stopped at virtually every Starbucks we could find along the 99–clean bathrooms, caffeine, decent(ish) food. Someone–several someones–referred to it as MacDonalds for grownups. Fair enough. 

I admit that I got carried away at the grocery store, so buying snacks for the drive turned into more of a catering situation. I won’t bother to list all the ways I went nuts with food, but the dark-horse favorite was red seedless grapes. Nutrition for the win!

Who knew.

Very different feel from the Disneyland Expeditionary Force of my sophomore year of college, but that, best beloved, is a story for another time. Nonetheless, it was still a good time in a minivan.

We arrived in San Diego around 9:40 pm, and damn, it was hot and sticky. The hotel is a bit past its prime, but the room is nice enough. Two beds, kitchenlet. I’m rooming with Posy Roberts. She’s good people.

So here’s the view from the balcony.

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Sunrise On Mission Bay

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Poz Blog Tour

Below are the dates for my upcoming blog tour in support of Poz. Poz will be released on January 8.

Buy link 

(so far, the only buy link I have is my publisher’s. Apparently it’s a little too early for Amazon, but there will be one. You can pre-order the title from Dreamspinner, including in the Kindle format.)

Blurb:

Remy Babcock and Mikey Castelreigh are stalwart members of the Capital City Rowing Club’s junior crew, pulling their hardest to earn scholarships to rowing powerhouses like California Pacific. Just a couple of all-American boys, they face the usual pressures of life in an academic hothouse and playing a varsity sport. Add to that the stifling confines of the closet, and sometimes life isn’t always easy, even in the golden bubble of their accepting community. Because Remy and Mikey have a secret: they’re both gay. While Mikey has never hidden it, Remy is a parka and a pair of mittens away from Narnia.

Mikey has always been open about wanting more than friendship, but Remy is as uncomfortable in his own skin as he is a demon on the water. After their signals cross, and a man mistakes Remy for a college student, Remy takes the plunge and hooks up with him. After a furious Mikey cuts Remy off, Remy falls to the pressure of teenage life, wanting to be more and needing it now. In his innocence and naiveté, Remy makes mistakes that have life-long consequences. When Remy falls in the midst of the most important regatta of his life, he can only hope Mikey will be there to catch him when he needs it most.

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Poz Blog Tour Schedule

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This is a biscotti recipe from everyone’s favorite coffee house just off the CalPac campus. Remy Babcock, who just matriculated at CalPac last fall, can’t seem to eat enough of them. But since you won’t meet him until January 8 and when you do, he’ll still be in high school, I’m getting ahead of myself…

Stained-Glass Biscotti 

I call it “stained glass” because you can put virtually any dried fruit in it and it will turn out to be both colorful and delicious.

½ C butter, softened—the recipe says you can margarine, but that’s one of the vain and empty works of the devil, so please don’t

2 C sugar

4 large eggs

1.5 tsp grated lemon rind

½ tsp vanilla extract—for the love of all that’s holy, use real vanilla, not the fake stuff

¼ almond extract—ditto

5 C flour—I like unbleached white flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt—your call. It’s not a custard or a yeast bread so the salt’s not mandatory, but some baked goods taste funny without a tiny bit of salt.

¾ C dried cranberries

¾ C dried cherries (can be hard to find but cherry-flavored cranberries don’t cut it. Costco sells dried cherries)

½ C candied orange rind (I hate candied orange rind, so I’ve used chopped, pitted dates, golden raisins, or chopped, dried apricots at various times. Dried blueberries would look and taste good, too. White chocolate morsels are a wonderful substitution, as well.)

¾ C whole blanched or slivered almonds, coarsely chopped

1. Beat butter at medium speed with an electric mixer until creamy; gradually add sugar, beating well. Add eggs one at a team, beating mixture after each addition. Add grated lemon rind and flavorings, mixing well.
   
2. Mix cranberries, cherries, whatever substitution you choose for candied orange rind, and almonds in a bowl.
   
3. Combine flour and next three ingredients in a bowl; add to butter mixture, beating only until dry ingredients are moistened.
   
4. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface; flour or better yet, oil hands with cooking oil and kneed dough to finish mixing; kneed the dried fruit mixture in.
   
5. Divide dough in half; shape each half into a 14 x 2-inch log on a lightly greased cookie sheet (a silicone baking mat works well, too). Flatten each log slightly.
   
6. Bake at 325 degrees for 30-35 minutes or until golden. Cool on cookie sheet for 5 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
   
7. Cut each log diagonally into 1/2-inch thick slices with a serrated knife using a gentle sawing motion to prevent the biscuit from ripping.
   
8. Toast at 325 degrees for ten minutes; turn biscuits over and toast for an additional ten minutes. Remove to wire racks to cool completely.
   
9. If you don’t like food that fights back, skip the toasting and go right to enjoying the biscotti with a beverage of your choice.
   

You can find Remy along with his boyfriend Michael here.

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Poz

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Check back here tomorrow for one of the dessert courses as some of your favorite m/m romance authors host a New Year’s Eve progressive dinner. I know! All of the fun without risking being on the road with all of the crazies. 

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Did I mention the prizes?

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Today is such a gas, because I get to welcome my dear friend ZA Maxfield, and yes we really do know each other. We socialize. We’ve met each other’s children etc. She’s good people, and she’s here to promo a new book, My Cowboy Homecoming. Just to make sure she has your full attention, there’s even a contest buried somewhere on this webpage…

Say hello, ZAM:

Cowboys. I just love them! I’m celebrating the release of the third book in my “Cowboy Hearts” series, My Cowboy Homecoming with a blog tour!

Stay tuned for daily drawings for copies of ebooks from my backlist as http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/CoverArt-192x300.jpgwell as a Rafflecopter for a $25.00 gift certificate at the end, on Christmas. We can all use a little something extra on Christmas, can’t we?

So without further ado, here’s My Cowboy Homecoming!

Blurb:

Love can heal the deepest wounds…

A sense of duty brings a soldier home…but a passionate cowboy makes him want to stay.

After his brother’s tragic death, Tripp has to leave the army and return to New Mexico to take care of his mother while his father is in prison for arson. Seeking work at the J-Bar Ranch, Tripp is immediately drawn to injured cowboy Lucho Reyes, whose foot was accidentally crushed by a rescue horse. But will the sins of the father interfere with the desires of the son? Tripp’s father may be responsible for the death of Lucho’s grandfather.

Now Tripp must balance caring for his mother, repairing his father’s damages, and trying to win the heart of a man who has every reason to hate him and his family…

Buy Links:

Amazon: http://amzn.com/B00H87S3G6

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H87S3G6

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-cowboy-homecoming-za-maxfield/1119617890?ean=9780698175020

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/my-cowboy-homecoming/id778766723?mt=11

All Romance eBooks: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-mycowboyhomecoming-1685890-237.html

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Z_A_Maxfield_My_Cowboy_Homecoming?id=HV2YAwAAQBAJ

Excerpt:

Chapter One

The road home was less auspicious than I thought it would be. Traffic slowed to a bare crawl outside Las Cruces, and the overheated bus had started to smell.

Just like on every bus, everywhere in the world, people were packed in tight. They stared ahead expressionlessly, as if that cramped, anonymous ride was the best they could expect because it probably was.

All four westbound lanes had been forced into one until at last we reached what seemed like a flare-lit city of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances. Uniforms covered the highway like ants at a picnic.

When I saw the wreck, my heart gave a lurch. An old yellow school bus with “Iglesias Angelica Bautista” written on the side had been hit head-on by a double tractor-trailer truck. The impact had scattered debris all over both sides of the highway.

A single battered high-top sneaker lay in the middle of the street, blood-spattered and abandoned. I couldn’t take my eyes off it as we drove past.

The front of the wrecked school bus was crushed like an accordion. No way the driver survived the crash. There were others lying still and lifeless beneath sad yellow tarps. EMTs raced between people lying side by side in a makeshift triage area.

I tried to make myself do the deep breathing the army shrinks taught me. I thought about trying the other bullshit stopgap measures I was supposed to deploy before going to the little pills they gave me for anxiety, which I’d thrown away anyway. I tried repeating nonsense rhymes and visualizing my happy place, but the fact is, if you’ve been in a sniper’s crosshairs long enough, it’s hard to convince yourself there’s nobody trying to kill you anymore.

I was home, goddamnit. I wasn’t in danger. Except . . . we’re all in danger all the time. We just don’t know it.

As we inched past the wreck, even I—with the knowledge of how random and tragic fate could be—shook with shock. I couldn’t take my eyes off that shoe lying by itself in the street because my brother used to wear those same Converse high-tops when he was about five. Chucks. I got annoyed every time I heard his little feet padding after me as I tried to run away and play with my “big kid” friends.

Wish I had that now.

Wish I had time to play with him and a chance to know him, now that we were both out from under our father’s thumb, but while I’d been deployed to the valley CNN once called the most dangerous place on earth, my brother got killed on the I-10, exactly like the poor bastard who was driving that bus.

Random.

The stifling heat made the Greyhound nearly unbearable. A woman on the seat behind me cried out to Jesus, starting a prayer that three or four of the other passengers echoed. Instinct, still honed to razor-sharp readiness, lifted me to my feet, even though the bus was moving.

“Sit down,” said the old man next to me, whose skin was gray with age and probably cigarettes. Tattoos littered his forearms, including one I recognized, the Devil Dog. Marines. “What do you think you’re going to do out there they aren’t already doing?”

I shrugged and sat.

He studied me. “Just get back?”

“Yeah.”

That got a laugh. “I thought so. You look it.”

“How so?”

He just stared at me then, and something passed between us. Anxiety and fatigue and that indefinable pinch of pain, as if our lives were too small now, and it hurt to walk around in them.

“Yeah.” I glanced away.

I sat still, even though every cell in my body was telling me I should do something. It was both my nature and, up until recently, my job to keep order. Yet now my TOS was up, and I was going home.

In spite of everything, I stayed still.

It seemed like it took forever to pass the accident.

“Lordy, Lordy.” The woman behind me cried softly. “Sweet Jesus, help your children in their hour of need.”

I let my old, cold friend discipline flow through my heart and I looked away.

Maybe I’d built up this illusion that home was a place made of safety and order, but that goddamn shoe told me different.

Anyhow, that’s why I was late getting into Deming.

***

I scanned every face on the street, looking for my mother, when I got off the bus. I don’t know why I thought she might come. She was afraid to drive the single mile to church. Venturing as far as Deming was probably more than she could take.

After Dad landed himself in prison, I hoped she’d start going out again, just to the grocery store if she needed to. I guessed she didn’t, because she wasn’t waiting for me.

The dirty, gray bus station emptied out quickly. It was little more than a stop off the I-10 in a hot, dry collection of buildings generosity made me call a city. Deming had little going for it besides its proximity to the highway.

I’d hiked my duffel over my shoulder and was working out how I’d find my own way home, when somebody called my name.

“Calvin Tripplehorn?”

I followed the sound and found a cowboy standing behind me. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t say why. “Who’s asking?”

“Jimmy Rafferty.” He held out his hand, but I let it hang there while I tried to process his face. His eyes narrowed. “From the J-Bar? Your mama called the ranch. I’m here to give you a ride.”

I hesitated before I gave him my hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“This way, son. I need to pick up one of the hands from the ER in Silver City. He’s going to think I left him to find his way back by breadcrumbs or some such.”

I fell into step beside him, consciously matching my stride to his leggy, rolling gait. He was all cowboy, lean and rangy. He looked about forty or so. He wore some hard road on his face, but he was good-looking in his way.

“You know my mother?”

He stopped to look at me. Screwed up his face. “I can’t say I do.”

He was proving to be a bit of a character. “Then why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you know to pick me up?”

He raised his brows. “Do you need a code word or something? I’m not here to kidnap you and sell you into white slavery or nothing. Nobody told me—”

“I mean”—heat suffused my face—“why are you here if you don’t know my mother?”

“Oh.” He grinned. “Boss asked me ’cause your mama and Emma Jenkins are friends. I guess she didn’t know about Emma not living at the J-Bar no more.”

“Ah.” The Jenkinses. Neighbors for as long as I could remember. Emma used to invite my family to the J-Bar on the Fourth of July. They always made a party of it, throwing a big barbecue and chili cook-off. I think a summer picnic at the J-Bar was where I first realized cowboys flipped my switch as opposed to . . . er . . . cowgirls.

I loved the J-Bar. I’d wanted to work there.

“How is everyone?”

“Crandall passed.” Jimmy informed me solemnly.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Crandall Jenkins was the kind of man whose loss would be felt keenly by everyone he ever came into contact with. “Emma didn’t sell up, did she?”

“Nah. She wanted to spend time with her girls and the grandkids. Speed Malloy and his partner Crispin are running the place now.”

I missed a step. Speed Malloy made my pants tight back in the day. I could barely be around him without sporting wood. “His partner?”

“His life partner.” Jimmy stopped and faced me, hands on his worn leather belt. “You got a problem with that? Get it out of your system.”

“No sir, not me.” I didn’t out myself there on the street, but I wasn’t going to let him think I was a homophobe. They probably got that shit a lot.

“Malloy told me to pick you up, on account of he talked to your mama. I’m just doing what I’m told.” He stopped beside a battered old crew-cab pickup truck. “Drop your bag in the back and we’ll be on our way.”

“Thank you.” I did as he asked and climbed into the cab beside him. After the hot, close quarters on the bus, it felt as nice as a limousine. Not that I knew what limousines were really like.

“You back for good?” he asked.

I nodded. “My mother needs me more than Uncle Sam does at this point.”

He peered at me like he was trying to see inside. “I guess things ain’t been too easy for her lately.”

“You know about my dad?” I asked.

Jimmy’s mouth tightened right up. “Some.”

My heart sank. “I’m nothing like him.”

He glanced away first. “Ain’t going to be easy to gain people’s trust after what him and his pals did.”

“I don’t need people’s trust.”

He keyed the ignition and the truck started up. “You will if you want to build a life here.”

Christ, what an awful thought. Building a life there. “I don’t know what I want, yet.”

He shot me a cryptic smile. “You’ll figure it out. You’re still young enough, Calvin.”

“‘Tripp,’” I corrected automatically. “People call me ‘Tripp.’”

“Okay, Tripp. Call me ‘Jimmy.’” He nodded before pulling out into the street.

The ride from Deming to Silver City takes a little under an hour. Because of the change in elevation, the desert, with its infrequent clusters of agave and cactus, gives way to a forest of junipers and piñon trees. No matter how many times I’d driven up that road I was always surprised by the change in landscape. It was stark and beautiful one minute, and lush green the next.

The area hadn’t changed much since the day I’d turned eighteen and left for good.

Eight years.

The afternoon shadows lengthened until I no longer needed my Oakleys. I pushed them onto the top of my head as we pulled up in front of the Regional Medical Center. A lone man rested on crutches out front—another cowboy, taller, broader, and darker than Jimmy, wearing a straw hat that shaded his face. He bent his leg at the knee, keeping his foot—which was encased in a sturdy black soft cast—from bearing his weight.

“Aw, shit. I was afraid that foot was busted.” Jimmy said, stopping the truck at the curb. “That’s Lucho. Go help him into the truck, will you?”

“Sure.” I jumped down from the passenger seat, leaving the door open so I could help the man in. “Front seat okay? Or would you be more comfortable in the back?”

“Back, please.” Polite.

Good-looking too. A sharp sizzle of awareness passed between us and I smiled as I opened the back door.

His eyebrow lifted.

Okay. So I checked him out. I was guilty as charged. He eyed me appreciatively in return. He had dark hair, tan skin. Coca-Cola eyes that watched my every move from beneath lashes thick as a doll’s. That dark gaze lingered on my package before traveling slowly upwards. His brief quirk of a smile sent the unmistakable message that he liked what he saw.

Message received and noted.

I held my hand out, so he handed over his crutches without taking his eyes off mine. I put my arm around his waist to steady him and pretty much lifted him into the truck so he didn’t have to put his weight on his foot.

Was it my imagination? Or did he lean into me a little more than necessary? I caught him closing his eyes.

“Pain?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You smell good.”

Breathless, I let him go, but it was like I was in some kind of trance. My reluctance to end contact came from pure biological imperative. He felt so good. He smelled like sage and horse and the sick sweat of pain, but his muscles were solid and his body lean and strong. His was the first man’s body I’d held close in so long.

I did not want to let go and he didn’t want me to. We stayed there, looking into each other’s eyes until I heard Jimmy clear his throat.

Startled, I stepped back. Lucho gave me a playful push and another long, slow perusal that felt exactly like a juicy lick up my dick. I shook myself out of my stupor and gave up a huff of embarrassed laughter before I stepped away.

God.

I’d never come on to anyone that hard in my life.

It must have been the timing. Everything was out of whack with me coming back home like that. With the accident and the apprehension of what I’d find when I saw my ma again.

With strangers picking me up when it should have been family.

I put my hand out to shake. “Folks call me ‘Tripp.’”

Instantly, he lost all warmth. “You’re Calvin Tripplehorn’s son?” His voice was dangerously soft.

“Not so’s you’d know it.” I’d meant the words as a joke. He didn’t take it that way. The fire in his eyes simply died and he let my hand hang there, untouched until I drew it back.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded and removed his hat. Without it I could see his lean, fierce face was etched with shadows and pain. I stood there too long, staring. Cataloguing tan skin, high cheekbones, a chin with more than a day’s growth of beard.

He had a long, straight nose that made him masculine and beautiful at the same time. Stark and lovely, like New Mexico itself.

His expression and gone from interest to disdain in the space of a second, and I guessed I knew why. The Tripplehorn name probably came with a warning label around these parts. “Okay to close the door?”

“It’s fine.” His eyes had narrowed with suspicion, but he had lips like a kid’s, soft as Cinnamon Bears, and I was heartsick that I’d probably never get to taste them. That was the kind of immediate effect Lucho had on me. Desire and despair, all at once.

As he ran the fingers of one hand over the soul patch on his chin I asked, “Need anything else?”

He shook his head sharply and then looked away. “Not from you, Tripplehorn.”

My dad’s name, his goddamn shadow, loomed over me, though I hadn’t even gotten home yet.

“Be nice, Lucho.” Jimmy’s bark was a warning, like we were kids in the backseat and he was going to say, Don’t make me stop this car.

“Give me a break, Rafferty,” Lucho growled. “I don’t gotta be nice to Calvin Tripplehorn’s kid.”

Closing the door between us, I hesitated before getting back into the truck. How had I forgotten the gut-churning taste of shame?

Old memories came back to me with a violent shove. I was “crazy Cal’s” kid.

Pretty soon I’d forget what it was like to be decorated army sergeant Tripplehorn—to earn respect by following orders and keeping a professional attitude and working my ass off. Nobody around these parts was going to give me that chance.

“C’mon kid,” Jimmy coaxed.

A ride was a ride. As soon as I’d climbed up into the passenger seat, Jimmy cranked up the radio and took off again.

Nobody talked until my family’s place came into view, and even then, I simply stared. It was hard to sort out what I was seeing. The manufactured house was still there, but the screen door hung askew. Out front, weeds choked what was once a pretty garden. The chicken coop had fallen down. There was no sign of life anywhere.

“Man.” Jimmy frowned at a dust devil blowing across the packed dirt of what used to be an exercise ring for horses. “Your brother really let the place go.”

“Ya think?” I said sourly.

Concern for me shadowed his eyes as he framed his next, careful question. “You planning on fixing the place up?”

I felt exhausted already. “If my mother doesn’t want to leave, I guess I’ll have to.”

I’d thought Lucho was asleep, but he snorted derisively from the back seat. “Maybe you ought to just burn it down. You Tripplehorn motherfuckers got a lot of experience with arson, after all.”

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About the Author

 Z. A. Maxfield started writing in 2007 on a dare from her children and http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/AuthorPhoto-150x150.jpgnever 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.”

Readers can visit ZAM at her website, Facebook, Twitter, or Tumblr.

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So when I was at GayRomLit in October, the conference hotel had two workout rooms. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to use the one that had the rowing machines but the signage was ambiguous and I probably would’ve ignored it anyway. Unfortunately that workout room only had water rowers.

Rowers depend on resistance to provide the workout. Okay, not controversial statement. The Concept2 rower (usually called an ergometer or erg), used by about 99% of the rowing world, as well as CrossFit, most gyms, and people who have any self respect, derives its resistance from what is essentially a giant bungee cord that is easily replaced. Actually most pieces on the C2 erg are easily replaced, and my erg at home is now made up almost entirely of replaced parts. I have Frankenstein’s ergometer.

That resistance is supplemented by an adjustable fan that most people set way too high. I usually see resistances between 5 and 10 at CrossFit or gyms. To put it in perspective, that’s equivalent to rowing a rowboat or coal barge. No one needs that much wind resistance. it only courts injury. Rowers row between 2 and 4 to put it in perspective.

So what’s my beef with toilet–I mean water–rowers? They use water to create resistance, water in a sealed chamber. There appeared to be no way to lower the resistance. There was a sort of belt, but it didn’t do anything. It was like rowing a–wait for it–toilet bowl.

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The round critter behind the wood is the sealed water chamber, ie, the toilet bowl.

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So Harmony Ink Press will release my next novel Poz on January 8, 2015  [full disclosure: watch this space, because the date's changed three times already]. There’s a meme going around Farcebook called Eight Terrible Titles in which authors randomly scroll through their works in progress and where the cursor stops, that becomes one of the terrible titles. I thought it would fun to do with Poz.

So here we go!

1. Abject misery wasn’t anything I needed to share. 

2. I found it hard to think when I looked at him.

3. Yeah, I’d downloaded Grindr.

4. Greetings from Sodom!

5. Red blotches everywhere.

6. I’ve gotten so used to ignoring him it barely registered.

7. Nice job, you sick fuck.

8. That shoe fits you, Cinderella.

</h2><h2>And because I’m so in love with Remy and Michael, the romantic leads in this story, here are two more bonus titles which aren’t even remotely random.

9. “Mikey—Michael—I can’t really think when you’re doing that,” I said, my voice rough

10. No one wants to catch your disease.

</h2><h2>So there we have it, eight terrible–or tantalizing–titles, plus two bonus teasers. Stay tuned for blurb and cover reveals.

<h2></h2>

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So I was tagged by the lovely and talented Ariel Tachna over on Facebook for that 7-7-7 game where you go the seventh chapter of your work in progress and post the first seven lines of your seventh paragraph or somesuch.

Instead of posting in on Facebook, I thought I’d make post it on my blog for maximum coverage. This is the first seven paragraphs from the seventh chapter of Poz (unedited draft). Poz tells the story of Jeremy “Remy” Babcock, a high school student and rower, who in his desperation to shed his unwanted virginity makes some colorful choices the summer before his senior year in high school and contracts HIV. Despite the gravity of Remy’s situation, it’s nonetheless an uplifting and life-affirming story.

Poz has been accepted by Dreamspinner Press and will be released in November or December of this year. Updates to follow as they’re available.

~unedited draft~

note: Geoff is Remy’s twin brother.

Josh, the stud who’d cruised me at the boathouse, remembered me, all right. First of all, my phone lit up—lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve—when I turned it back on after class. Buzz buzz buzz! with a bunch of incoming text messages.

J: Hey pretty, of course I remember U http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-includes/images/smilies/icon_wink.gif

….

J: U there?

….

J: Text me back, brah.

….

“You’re getting ready for bed?” Geoff sounded surprised.

What could I say? “It’s been a long day.”

“Did you just whine?” He bumped me with his shoulder.

“Probably. All I want to do is crawl under the covers and sleep for a week.” At this point, I probably couldn’t have slept even with a face full of sedatives. I wanted to do something under the covers all right, but as close as Geoff and I were, there were some things we did not share. “Unfortunately I have to be up bright and early and ready to scull until I achieve perfection, and then help with a learn to row clinic I was drafted into.”

I must have made a face, because Geoff gave me a look of purest concern. “I thought you liked luring innocent young lads and lasses into a life of torture and rowing.”

“This is an adult learn to row clinic, actually.” I had to smile at Geoff’s phrasing, because he was right. “I’m just doing it because I get paid. One of the masters coaches is in charge. I’m just driving a boat.”

“You’re coxing?” Geoff laughed. “This I have to see.”

“You know where the boathouse is. Come watch.”

“Don’t you get too far out on the water to see much?”

I’d taken my contacts out by this time, so I looked over my glasses at him. “First day. We won’t get that far,” I muttered darkly.

I could tell by his smile that he was thinking about it. “Can I bring Laurel?”

“Of course.” I gave him a look. He knew how much I liked her. “The more the merrier. If the water’s calm, you might even be able to hear me doing a bad job of keeping my patience. The real fun, however, will be the coaches trying the same thing and they’ll have powered megaphones. You’ll hear them loud and clear.”

Geoff pulled his phone. “I’m telling Laurel about this right now.”

“The more I think about this the more it says something sad about us all that this is the most entertaining thing we can come up with.” I shook my head.

“Remy, we’re under eighteen. We can’t drink, we can’t get into clubs—okay, you and I can, but our friends can’t—and we’re not the type to spend the summer stoned. Let’s face it, Davis in the summer is quieter than a grave. Watching you not blowing your stack, or better yet, not screaming and swimming for shore? Best game in town.”

I had to admit Geoff was right. It just sucked to hear it put so bluntly. “Okay, there’s nothing I can say to that, but Geoff?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you dare wear as much aftershave as you’re pouring into your hand. Some on the cheeks, some further south, and that’s it. The idea is to make her go hunting for that elusive scent, not to choke us all in a cloud of it.”

I was the recipient of the one-fingered mudra of contempt, but he poured about half of it down the drain and then followed directions. “Why am I taking advice from a gay virgin?”

“Because I’m right,” I said around my toothbrush.

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Today I get to welcome Michael Rupured and his latest, Happy Independence Day. So…Welcome, Michael!

Thanks, Christopher, for allowing me to show off the cover for my upcoming release from Dreamspinner Press here on your blog. By far, the most exciting part of the publishing process—at least for me—is seeing the cover for the first time. For my next novel, to be released August 20th, artist Christy Caughie created a gorgeous cover. To celebrate, I’m conducting a giveaway. Keep reading for details.

http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/CoverARt-200x300.jpg

Blurb:

Terrence Bottom wants to change the world. A prelaw student at Columbia University majoring in political science, his interests range from opposing the draft and the war in Vietnam, to civil rights for gays, to anything to do with Cameron McKenzie. Terrence notices the rugged blond hanging around the Stonewall Inn, but the handsome man—and rumored Mafia hustler—rebuffs his smiles and winks.

Cameron McKenzie dropped out of college and left tiny Paris, Kentucky after the death of the grandmother who raised him, dreaming of an acting career on Broadway. Although he claims to be straight, he becomes a prostitute to make ends meet. Now the Mafia is using him to entrap men for extortion schemes, he is in way over his head, and he can’t see a way out—at least not a way that doesn’t involve a swim to the bottom of the Hudson in a pair of cement flippers.

Cameron is left with a choice: endanger both their lives by telling Terrence everything or walk away from the only man he ever loved. The Mafia hustler and the student activist want to find a way to stay together, but first they need to find a way to stay alive.

Preorder here:

Paperback: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5311

Ebook: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5310

The Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village is the setting for much of the action in Happy Independence Day. Who/what started the Stonewall riots?

There were no television cameras or smartphones at the scene in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969 when the Stonewall Uprising began. Details come from eyewitness accounts, and vary. The specific incident is subject to debate, but a common thread is the excessive use of force by the police that angered the 200 or so patrons inside the Stonewall Inn. Some say the crowd went wild after a drag queen got roughed up for refusing to strip down for a gender check. Others say the victim was a defiant lesbian. I suspect both accounts are true. Considering the layout of the Stonewall Inn, the number of people present, and the ensuing chaos, the conflicting reports could reflect where the witness was standing when the fighting broke out.

GIVEAWAY!!!!

To give you a reason to visit the other blogs helping me celebrate my new cover, I’ve come up with a Giveaway and a quiz about the Stonewall Inn and the 1969 uprising that made it famous. Find the answers on the blogs participating in my cover reveal and giveaway (links below). Comment on my post on any of the participating blogs by midnight, July 31, 2014 for a chance to win a signed copy of the prequel, After Christmas Eve (U.S. residents only; ebook available for international winners—one winner per blog).

What is the Stonewall Inn?

What was the legal environment in 1969 for NYC homosexuals?

Who owned the Stonewall Inn?

What made the Stonewall Inn a magnet for homosexuals?

What happened at the Stonewall Inn on the night of June 28, 1969 to cause the uprising?

How long did the Stonewall Uprising last?

• Tali Spencer’s Brilliant Disguise
  
• MA Church’s Decadent Delights
  
• Charlie Cochet’s Purple Rose Tea House
  
• Eden Winters’ Magnolias and Men
  
• Shira Anthony
  
• Christopher Koehler
  
• Prism Book Alliance
  

More about Michael

Find out what Michael’s up to by visiting his web site (http://rupured.com), following him on Twitter (@crotchetyman), or by email (mrupured [at] gmail.com).

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That makes it sound like an after-school special from the 80s and it’s not. A Heart For Robbie is a book near and dear to her heart, and to mine, and that’s why I’m humbled that she has allowed me the chance to host her for the release day blog hop.

A Heart For Robbie

BLURB:

Waiting for someone else’s child to die so yours can live is the worst kind of Hell.http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/HeartForRobbieALG-200x300.jpg

Celebrated Young Adult author Julian Holmes pits the heroic characters in his Black Heart series against all different kinds of monsters. But when a critical heart defect threatens his son’s life, he finds he has no champion. No amount of books, classes, or practice can prepare Julian for the fight to save his beautiful son’s life.

Suddenly there are hospitals, transplant lists, and the nightmare of insurance red tape to navigate. In the midst of his trouble, Julian meets Simon Phelps, the insurance coordinator for Robbie’s case. Simon lives so deep in the closet he might never find his way out, but he dreams of exactly what Julian has. Then one night, drunken need and desperation brings them together, and a new fight begins.

My two cents:

I mentioned in the author’s note to Settling the Score that we all more or less know each other, or at least many of us know a goodly number of us, and that holds true for me and JP. We talk about an amazing range of subjects, and this book has come up many times. While I certainly can’t say I was there from the beginning of this novel, I’ve heard a lot about it and the blurb alone brings a tear to my eyes. I know what it’s about and this one’s going to get you, but I also know it has a happy ending. I’m serious, my fellow citizens of Romancelandia, when I tell you that you have to read this one. If you buy nothing else this week or even this month, treat yourself to A Heart For Robbie.

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Please Welcome Sue Brown

Please welcome Sue Brown, everyone. I adore her. I first met her after I started gushing helpless over Nothing Ever Happens and The Night Porter. I still think NEH is one of the most amazing books ever, and amazingly enough, she found something in Tipping the Balance that grabbed her. We traded signed copies and bonded. If you don’t love her as much as I do then, then there’s something wrong with you and I don’t think we can be friends. 

Sue has a new book out–always cause for celebration–and she’s been kind enough to stop by and promote it. So I hope you’re as excited as I am for the debut of Stormin’ Norman, Book 4 of the Lyon Road Vets. Look for Stormin’ Norman on June 9, 2014.

Blurb:

Dan had been Jesse’s partner for many years, and always there for Jesse on his return from difficult assignments. However, after breaking his promise not to leave again, Jesse learns to his cost that Dan can be pushed too far. When he returns home, broken in body and spirit, Jesse finds his house empty and Dan in the arms of someone else.

To fill his life, Jesse decides to get a dog. His friends and neighbours take him to choose a http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/Stormin-Norman-600x900-200x300.jpgpuppy. What he doesn’t expect is for Norman to choose him. As Jesse takes on a new job, with Norman’s assistance, he realises that Dan isn’t far away, and he still loves him. Dan has moved on with his life. Can Jesse do the same?

Excerpt:

Jesse knew he was being scoped out from the minute he entered the bar. It was his job to be vigilant, to be aware of any potential danger to himself or others. The man with his gaze fixed on Jesse had the potential to be dangerous, but it had nothing to do with harm and a whole lot to do with a sexual package wrapped up in lean muscle and topped with dark eyes and tousled hair.

He had come to the gay bar knowing it would be quiet this time of day. He just wanted a beer and a chance to unwind without being hit on by hopeful women. In this bar, he could head off any potential interest easily enough and relax. The guy watching him was destined to be disappointed, even as cute as he was. Jesse wasn’t interested.

The barman stopped polishing the glasses and grinned at Jesse. “You’re back again. It’s been a while.”

Jesse inclined his head. It had been ten months, three weeks and five days. He was anal enough to keep records of his whereabouts in case his handler needed to know.

“I’ve been working. It’s good to be back.” He scanned the pumps, searching for the real ale. “Hobgoblin, please, Sean.”

The barman gossiped about the recent gas explosion in the pub down the road Jesse listened with half his attention, keeping an eye on the dark-haired bloke in the corner. 

The man didn’t disappoint. As soon as Jesse had his beer, he came over and sat on the bar stool next to Jesse. To give him credit, he didn’t piss about.

“Hi, I’m Dan.”

Jesse assessed him carefully. He was older than he’d appeared in the shadows—early forties maybe, the start of lines around his eyes and a sprinkle of grey at his temples. Not Jesse’s type. Jesse was in his mid-thirties. He usually went for men younger than him, searching for uncomplicated hook-ups and nothing more.

“Hi.” Jesse didn’t say any more, hoping his off-hand tone would tell the guy he was wasting his time.

Dan ordered another beer and turned back to him. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“I’ve been away.”

“Do you want a beer, a chat, and then see what happens?”

His approach caught Jesse’s attention. Normally blokes started off with “Do you wanna fuck me?” Nine times out of ten Jesse said no.

“I’m not the marrying kind,” Jesse said.

Dan blinked. “I asked you for a beer, not a ring.”

Jesse shrugged. “You’re older than me. I thought I’d get that off the table.”

“Thanks,” Dan said drily. “So all older men are desperate for a ring and kids. I’ll remember that next time I ask for a hook-up. I’ll only go for the younger twinks.” He got up and smiled sadly at Jesse. “Sometimes a beer is just a beer.”

Dan walked back to where he’d been sitting.

“He’s a nice guy,” the barman said.

Jesse frowned. “What?”

“Dan. He’s decent and he’s not looking for anything from you.”

“You overheard that?”

Sean nodded as he wiped the bar down. “He’s a great bloke. A little shy. He comes in here most days for lunch. It would have taken a lot of courage for him to talk to you. You could have just said no.”

Jesse was tempted to tell Sean to fuck off. He’d only come in for a pint and a chance to think. It wasn’t up to him to be nice to the punters. But, and it cost Jesse to admit it, he had been a dick to Dan. He’d been used to dealing with a different type of person over the last few months. Men who had lost their souls. Perhaps Jesse had too. He’d forgotten how to have a simple conversation. He glanced over at Dan who was now reading a newspaper. “Yeah, I didn’t mean to be such an arsehole.” He swallowed the rest of his beer. “Another Hobgoblin and whatever he has.”

“Dan. His name is Dan.” Sean grabbed a couple of glasses.

“You’re very protective of him. Sure you don’t want him for yourself?”

Sean rolled his eyes. “Quite sure, thanks. Mischa would have my balls strung up if I played with any of the clientele.”

“You’re still with that old bear?” He received a smack to the head and turned around to see Mischa scowling at him.

“Not so much of the old, dickhead.”

Jesse saluted him. He’d known the bar owner for years. This was one of the few places he returned to time and again. “Yes, sir.”

Mischa squinted at him. The man was obviously still refusing to wear his glasses. “What have you done this time?”

“Behaved like a dick to one of your clients.” Jesse nodded towards Dan, who was oblivious to the conversation.

“Then you’d better deal with it, boy.”

Despite the fact that Jesse was far from a boy, definitely not Mischa’s boy, and that he took orders from one person only, Jesse got off his stool and took the beers over to Dan. He sat down in front of him. Dan continued to read the newspaper and ignored Jesse, even though his body language screamed he knew Jesse was there.

“Hi, I’m Jesse.” He waited patiently for Dan to acknowledge him. When Dan eventually glanced over the top of his newspaper he said, “I’m not going away.”

“Aren’t I too old for you to condescend to talk to?”

“I’m sorry. I was…” Jesse searched for the right way to put this. “I came in for a beer, not company. I guess I’m not used to a beer being just a beer.”

Dan hesitated, then he nodded. “So what changed your mind?” His tone was still cold and flat.

“They…” Jesse tilted his head to indicate the men at the bar who were pretending not to watch, “pointed out I was being a dick.”

“Yes.”

Expecting more than that, Jesse waited and when nothing was forthcoming he pushed the beer towards Dan. “Here.”

“No thanks. I should go back to work.”

“What do you do?” Jesse always asked that. He got people to talk about what they did, then he brushed away his own job as unimportant.

“I’m a financial advisor. I work for myself.”

“So, if you wanted to take the afternoon off, you could?”

“If I wanted to,” Dan acknowledged.

Jesse understood he was going to have to work for forgiveness. He could, of course, just walk away. He’d apologised and bought Dan a beer. That was more than enough.

Then Dan smiled at him and all thoughts of exiting stage left vanished in the wake of that smile. Dan’s whole face changed. The crinkles around his eyes became true laughter lines, and Jesse caught a glimpse of someone he wanted to know a little better, and not just over a few words in a dim bar.

“All right. One beer and then I have to go back to work.”

Jesse grinned back. “Cool. Tell me about your job. Is it interesting?”

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want to know or are you just trying to find something to say?”

“What would you like to talk about then? Politics, religion, the weather?”

“No to politics and religion, unless you tell me you are a left-wing, atheist type.”

Jesse shook his head. “Er, no. More centre and agnostic.”

“Just promise me you’re not a right-wing, every Sunday at church and we’ll be golden.”

Jesse shuddered at the thought. “I can promise you, I am definitely neither of those things. God, even the thought.”

“My parents are church-goers. You have no idea what it’s like to go to Sunday lunch with them.”

“Is it painful?”

“Let’s just say I’ve found a way to escape from them as soon as we finish eating. They keep trying to force the remains of the carcass on me.”

“You don’t like roast?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Ah.” Not a mark in Dan’s favour. Jesse liked meat. Both kinds. And he’d never met a sane vegetarian. “I don’t envy you the Holy Roller issue. My parents are dead. I don’t have that problem.”

Well now, how had that tidbit slipped out? Jesse normally didn’t give away personal information.

Dan leant forward. “I’m sorry, Jesse.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Yes, one sister, but I don’t see her very often. She’s in Australia.”

Dan tilted his head. “You must be lonely.”

“Sometimes. But I work away a lot and when I’m not I’m chilling out. I often go on cruises.”

“Cruises? Like couples wearing ballroom dresses and penguin suits?”

Jesse wondered if Dan was taking the piss. “Gay cruises.”

“They have cruises for gay guys?”

“Well, yeah. Have you not heard about them before?”

Dan’s blush was obvious even in the dim lighting of the bar. “I had no idea. I guess that makes me sound stupid. Do they really have cruises just for gay guys?”

Jesse scrolled through the photos on his iPhone and handed it over. “Here. This was the last cruise around the Med.”

Dan scanned through the photos, his eyes opening wide at some of the more explicit images. “You look like you… enjoyed yourself.”

“It was okay.” Jesse shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d go again.”

“I’ve been so busy setting up my business I haven’t had time for a holiday in years.”

“Fair enough. Another beer?”

Dan stood. “My turn. Same again?”

Jesse relaxed back in his seat, turning so he could watch Dan get the drinks. His attention was caught by a young guy in the corner, much more his type—early twenties with blond hair and a pouty mouth. Just the sort of bloke Jesse preferred to hook-up with. Then his gaze was drawn back to Dan. The man had a nice arse when he leaned on the bar. Lithe and shapely like the rest of him. Dan glanced over his shoulder and smiled at him. Jesse returned his grin. This was more than an okay way to spend the afternoon.

~~~

Where the story started…

http://www.christopherkoehler.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/Harry-Series-test-200x300.jpgHairy Harry’s Car Seat

Amazom.com: Amazon.co.uk: All Romance eBooks

Peter Mitchell walked away with from his marriage with two things: a suitcase and Hairy Harry, the family pet.

When Harry becomes ill, Peter is faced with one of the hardest decisions he’s ever had to make… saying goodbye to his best friend.

Evan Wells is the locum vet who attends to Harry and Peter is surprised at how quickly they become friends. Peter finds himself looking forward to Evan’s nightly phone calls and the meals they share together. He knows Evan is gay but it doesn’t bother him until Evan confesses his attraction to him. Peter has to admit to himself that he’s not as adverse to the possibility as he thought he would be, and that does bother him.

Book 2: Bob, the Destroyer of Leeds

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</h3><h2>Book 3: Hazel Takes Over</h2><h3>Amazon.com

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Author Bio:

Sue Brown is owned by her dog and two children. When she isn’t following their orders, she can be found plotting at her laptop. In fact she hides so she can plot, and has become at ignoring the orders.

Sue discovered M/M erotica at the time she woke up to find two men kissing on her favorite television series. The series was boring; the kissing was not. She may be late to the party, but she’s made up for it since, writing fan fiction until she was brave enough to venture out into the world of original fiction.

 Come over and talk to Sue at suebrown.stories@gmail.com.

Her website can be found at http://www.suebrownstories.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/suebrownstories

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/suebrownstories

Blog: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.com/

Email: suebrown.stories@gmail.com

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