Saints and Sinners

May 12-14, 2006 is the fourth Saints and Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans. If you write, or are a fan of queer lit, I urge you to go.

Writer Kate Dominic's enthusiastic reports from the 2nd SNS convinced me to go last year. I can't thank her enough for turning me on to it, and this is my chance to pass the favor on to you.

SNS was the best writer's conference I'd been to in ages.

The notes I took at every panel are still relevant. My list of "must read" books grew by pages, especially after the speculative fiction panel. Even though it meant buying a second backpack to carry it all home in, if a writer was at SNS, I bought a book and had him/her sign it. Those copies are never, ever going to a library.

One of the highlights for me was being able to tell writers how much I enjoyed their work. I was a bit shy about approaching some people, but everyone was gracious, and I met almost everyone I wanted to.

While at the conference last year, I hooked up with writers that I only knew through email. Putting faces together with names was a daunting game, but I met a lot of new people when I asked to see their name badges. (Note to self - this can be a very flirty thing to do, so don't get the SO involved next year. He was a little too flattered by the invitation to the foam party. Oh sure, he denied it, but he wore a damn smug smile the rest of the evening.)

The best thing I brought back with me was renewed energy and enthusiasm about my writing. Well, that, and the enduring image of a go-go boy under black lights at Oz wearing a white cowboy hat, white boots, tighty whities, and nothing else, dancing slow, his hands sliding down his bare chest. Sheer poetry.

So, are you in? Write me and let me know if you are. I'd love to meet you there.

A Good Writing Week

My story Rekindle was accepted by Clean Sheets yesterday. I don't know yet when it will be on their site, but I'll add a link when it's up.

I also received the edited version of a story I placed in a print anthology. The editor included a nice note that pushed all the right ego buttons.

Writing, like any art, is subject to criticism. There are people who make scathing remarks, usually for an audience, without investing any time or thought into the piece or their critique. Yet, those are the comments that seem to get under my skin. I'm trying to learn to weigh the impact of critique by the amount of thought that went into it, not by my reaction to it. I have my good days with that philosophy, and my horrible days where I still let every barb strike my heart.

I've never taken praise well, but I'm working on that too. Instead of dismissing the editor's kind words, I'm going to believe that he truly meant it. So this weekend I'll be a contented writer and bask in my victories.

Queuing up my happy dance music. Something blue. I like my happiness served bittersweet.

Challenger Deep

My story Challenger Deep is in the features section of ERWA this month.

Read here and enjoy.

I've had private e-mails suggesting I could get more traffic if I posted my stories in my blog. That's probably true. However, Blogger.Com's refusal to protect writers from theft makes that impossible. There is a blog here on Blogger.Com that outright stole stories off blogs and websites of friends of mine. Blogger.Com has been notified by many people that the blog violates their copyright. Blogger's answer? Come here physically to our offices and show us proof that you own the copyright, and maybe we'll think of shutting him down. That blogger also stole from the BBC. I bet they get better treatment when and if they complain.

So that's why I don't post stories in my blog, just in case you wondered.

Besides, there are a lot of other very cool stories on ERWA. Read. Enjoy.

Thanks.

City of Angeles

The SO and I took the nieces to see the musical City of Angels at UCLA last night. We first saw it years ago and loved the clever dialog and lyrics. The story about a writer being screwed over by Hollywood doesn't play so well here, since most of the audience was probably in the movie business, but no one seemed to mind. It's not exactly a fresh or original concept, and even as a writer I have a hard time feeling much sympathy for writers who whine about book adaptations, but the music makes up for that.

Niece #1 is a theater arts major, so we knew she'd appreciate the incredible staging that switches between "color" and "black and white" as the scenes switch between the story of the writer and the movie of his book. It was all about lighting, which is her big area of interest. Afterwards, I was intrigued by her take on the production, which focused on the technical details. It shows how people can see the same thing and yet have a completely different experience.

Niece #2 was the wild card.

While driving in to work Friday morning, I remembered something about the production - it had a nude scene. The nieces have a sophisticated acceptance of nudity. While in the Ufizzi, they decided to have a scavenger hunt for the biggest penis on a statute. I stood in awe of The Birth of Venus; they debated whether bigger meant overall size, or in proportion to the rest of the body. Mom was shocked when one of them, after staring at a very famous piece of art, commented that "it must have been really cold in the artist's studio."

I debated warning the niece that there would be nudity, but cringed at the vision of her poking me in the ribs through the whole thing going, "Is she the one who gets naked?" "When will she take her clothes off?" Etc.

The other choice was to let her find out when it happened, risking her standing up in her seat and saying, "Holy smokes, that lady is naked!" and bringing the entire production to a screeching halt.

Both scenarios were possible. To make it clear, I wasn't worried about her seeing a naked woman. I was worried about her mouth.

We had a chat with her about proper theater behavior beforehand. And we warned her that nudity happened. As it turned out, in the production last night, the actress wore a white sheet and only flashed the actor while her back was turned to us. As far as the niece was concerned, it was a non-event. I did hear her mutter, "ugh, pasty white man flesh," when another character was getting a massage. She kept it to herself, pretty much, and I honestly had to agree.

It was a great night. Except for having to trek to the Westside (shudder) it was one of those nights when I was glad I live in LA.

Monsters

I don't read many horror novels. Not because I'm a literary snob. I'm no genre elitist. The reason I don't read horror is because I am a huge wuss. Anything I read takes on sinister dimensions after sundown, and then there I am, two o'clock in the morning, eyes WIDE open, pulse cranking, wondering why I do that to myself.

Ages ago, my sister and I would crawl under my grandmother's dining table and pretend to fall asleep while the adults talked. We listened to the family stories the adults would never repeat in front of us - the much debated murder/self-defense/justifiable homicide, the prisoners in the insane asylum, the reluctant bride who was forced to give up table-top dancing in the local tavern.... You know, the good stuff.

My sister would remind me to keep quiet by putting her finger to her lips. As the night wore on, the adults would tell creepy stories of the frovoliki (you would call them vampires), in a classic game of storytelling one-upsmanship. I'd want to leave, but crawling out from under the table would have been an admission of our guilt. Besides, after hearing a few of those stories, closing my eyes in our dark bedroom in the attic of my grandparents' ancient farmhouse was out of the question. My sister must have felt the same way, because she'd clutch my hands, and we'd stare into each other's wide eyes. If someone would have lifted up the long lace tablecloth and said "Boo!" we would have jumped out of our skins.

Those stories, no matter how fantasic, were related as personal histories. If it didn't happen directly to the storyteller, then it was about his mother, cousin, or brother. Every hair on my arms would rise and I would listen carefully to the house beyond the dining room, half expecting to hear the voice of a recently deceased relative calling for me. By the time I got carried upstairs, I was a wreck. If I got lucky, my parents would let me sleep with them, or my sister would slip into the bed with me after the adults closed the door. If not, I'd spend the night with my back pressed so tight to the mattress that it was amazing my skin didn't bond to it. I'd keep the covers tight around my neck, my feet away from the edge of the bed, and I'd hold my breath until the last chime of midnight faded.

As frightened as I was, the next night I'd crawl under the table again to listen. Sometimes, the adults lapsed into Romanian and I really would fall asleep, lulled by the musical language I didn't understand as it was spoken in the deep, rumbling voices of the old world men.

Even though the tales terrified me, there was something comforting about them too, because they always ended with a mere human doing something simple with tools close at hand to thwart the seemingly unstoppable monster. Besides, all those vampires were back in Galsa, not in the US. In the US, the way I understood it, the dead stayed buried. Bubskah once said about a relative, "Well, she's gone, and she isn't coming back." Imagine my relief.

The frovoliki weren't like Dracula. (Don't get me started on the special place Judzja reserved in hell for Braham Stoker.) They were always family or close friends who had gone feral. Sometimes they had died (or were considered "dead" to the family), but most of the time they simply mysteriously vanished (and were presumed dead) and then turned up again in a wild state. Those prodigal sons of the dammed tried then to entice family members into leaving the safety of the home- not a good idea if the family stories were to be believed, or into allowing the frovoliki into the house - a worse idea.

That makes sense, if you think of vampirism as an allegory for disease, and the threshold of the house as a symbolic (and literal) barrier against illness. One member of your family, who had been away and probably in contact with strangers, could infect everyone under your roof. The real monster was carried in the blood, the lungs, or in the bite of fleas, but the monster people saw was the returned-from-the-dead family member.

I think the reason why the frovoliki stayed in Galsa and didn't travel with my family to the US was because the frovoliki would have been so out of place here. Modern life wouldn't have tolerated them. Science, medicine, and electric lighting have taken the micky out of most monsters. Now in books and movies they're heroes or misunderstood defenders of mankind. They had to change. But they aren't monstrous anymore.

If I were to write a horror story, I think I would first take a good look at the world I built as a setting. I'd need to figure out the reasonable fears of the society. By reasonable fears, I mean that it was reasonable for my great grandfather to worry about being buried alive, but I'm comfortable with the idea that medical science will pronounce me truly dead before my body is ashed. It is reasonable for me to fear being hit by a car or being electrocuted by a downed powerline. In the 1800s, anyone who worried about that would have been considered mad. When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, a body cobbled together from parts of other bodies was horrific. Now implants and donated organs are considered a miracle of modern science and a boon to mankind. For something to be horror, it has to horrify the characters and their society.

Monsters reflect the psychological needs of the society that "creates" them. They are a release valve, a way to talk about forbidden desires and taboo subjects. The words coded into the stories of some monsters is lost to us because we don't understand the society that spawned them, or over time the tale was poorly translated and sanitized so that the monster is no longer what it once was. A monster has to fill a need in the society it terrifies. They have to fit together. Otherwise, the story won't work.

My last step would be to expose the underbelly of my society. I'd find out what agents of change would rock my society to its core. I'd have to know what government or religion repressed so harshly that it seethed under the surface. The best possible horror for my society would probably be found in its darkest reflection. "Here, There Be Monsters." Indeed.

Another weekend, Pissed Away

Not really. I got a lot of writing done.

I received rejection notices from two editors, but I'm not upset about either one.

In the first case, I realized after I submitted that the editor was looking for M/M erotica geared towards a female audience. Guess I shouldn't have dwelt on the money shot in all it's sticky white gloppy glory. That, when you really get down to it, is the difference between writing for a male reader or a female one. Most women (this is a gross generalization) aren't all that fascinated by men's cum. Men (more sweeping generalization) are damn proud of it. There's no right or wrong about that, there's only difference.

In the second case, the editor said my story didn't fit the anthology I submitted it to, but she liked it, and asked if she could keep it mind for another anthology. My answer? "Yes!" I was hugely flattered that she liked it. Like Mr. Wilde said, I can live off a good compliment for days. So I'm floating was if my story were accepted.

I should have been busting my butt this weekend to work on some short stories, but I couldn't get motivated. So I slaved away on my novel instead. The nice thing about writing this one is that I have such a clear sense of how much story I can tell, and how it will flow together, that I'm not sensing any backtracking issues. Sure, I'll have to tweak little things at the end, but on the whole it's working well.

The only chapters I have left to do in the novel are the bad ones. Bad emotionally. If there's no conflict, there's no story. Unfortunately, conflict means putting your characters through hell. Those are the hard chapters to write. Sometimes, when I'm done writing for the night, I'm so depressed that I feel like someone beat me. So you can see why I'm putting that off. But I'm out of happy scenes, so bring on the angst!

A Thoughtful Piece on Gay Marriage

I was very pleased to see this letter to the Denver Post by former Broncos player, Reggie Rivers. It's nice to see someone who isn't afraid to speak his mind. I think I'll send him an e-mail thanking him for his words, because I know he's probably getting plenty of hate mail from people who disagree.

And in other good news, Maryland's Supreme Court also recognized that discrimination against gays is wrong.

Its a good day.

A Little Dissent

I know that the SO reads my blog, but he rarely comments on it. I heard about the soccer one though.

SO: "Look at you, pretending that you can watch a soccer game in silence."

ME: *adopting wide-eyed innocent look* "But I can."

SO: "No you can't."

ME: *Getting a little pissy* "Yes. I. Can."

SO: "Dissent!" *triumphantly whips out yellow caution card he's obviously prepared in advance*

After laughing far to long, and way too hard, at his feeble joke, he slid the card back into his shirt pocket.

SO: "You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that. You should know better than to argue with a ref."

I rolled my eyes. Geek wit. Worse- referee geek wit.

SO: "Oh, more dissent. Watch it." *laughs more at his wit as he pretends to reach for his yellow card.* "But seriously, unlike those idiot parents, you do understand the rules of the game. Have you ever thought of reffing?"

Oh good god. Never trust a man with 40 volunteer referee spots to fill.

ME: "You know I'd red card (eject from the game) the first spectator that questioned one of my calls."

SO: *sobering up* "Yeah, you would."

ME: "Although.... Power.... Excellent."

I wonder how I'd look in one of those uniforms.

Who Do You Write For?

I don't mean as a matter of self-fulfillment.

I'm talking about audience.

Through my writer's lists, but mostly in erotica, debates crop up over the differences in writing for a male reader versus female. There are writers who swear that there should be no difference. The story's the thing, so to speak. I can see that, and I agree to a point, but those writers tend to write hetero stories from the POV of their physical gender. That makes me wonder how much thought they put into gender differences.

Sex isn't the dividing line between the audiences. I've written well received stories targeted for female readers that have been pure raunch from word one, and I've written deeply romantic pieces for male readers that got more fan mail than sexually explicit ones.

While I strongly believe that every person is an individual, there are some generalizations I make when targeting an audience. If I'm writing for women, I don't worry as much about a slower pace in the beginning of a story. I still fret over it, but I recognize that women have more patience with slower pacing if the story is compelling on an emotional level. That makes sense when you think about the way women use fantasy to shut out the real world from their minds before they can lose themselves in sex.

For women, I use lush words. Sound is important, from music to tone of voice. Temperature and weather get mentioned too. Body language matters as much as dialog. I lavish attention on emotional reaction or "feel" rather than a tactile description.

When I envision a man, gay or straight, as my reader, I play up different senses. Men and women seem to believe that men are more visual than women, but I can show a woman silk to get a reaction from her, whereas I have to let a man touch it. Scent plays a big role, as does color. For men, I try to keep the pace tight from the beginning.

None of this changes the core of the story I'm telling, just the way I describe things, the senses I try to engage, and the pace. The story is the thing, but there's more than one way to tell it.

Soccer

This weekend, despite the rain, soccer season continued across LA.

The SO is a referee, and sometimes I go along to be his tiny cheering section. How many times have you heard "Good Call Ref!" unless it was delivered in an incredibly sarcastic tone?

With rare exceptions, the kids don't question calls. They simply play the game. The problem is the parents.

There have been games where the SO has had to sprint for his car after the final whistle, or get an escort off the pitch. I've seen a player's mother grab and shake a teenage referee after a game. We occasionally sit down to dinner with the referee staff, and the stories passed around the table are discouraging. And yet, those men, women, and teenagers still give up their weekends from September until March to be out there for the kids.

I read several years ago about a girl's team in Ohio that was so disgusted by their parents' behavior that they demanded a game in silence. No adult was allowed to speak during play. They could clap, but that was it. Those girls were brilliant. I'd like to see silent weekends more often.

Unfortunately, it doesn't happen.

So I stand on the sidelines and have to hear not only the horrible things parents say to their children, but the crap they spew at the SO. It takes every ounce of willpower not to point out that being in an offsides position does not mean that the player is offsides. (Not that the parent could see if the player was offsides from their position near the center circle. That's why the assistant ref on the sideline is lined up with the second to the last defender, so that they can see when a player is truly offsides. But that major point seems to escape most parents.) I have patiently reminded enraged spectators that the referee clearly signaled advantage, meaning that he saw and acknowledged a foul, but to stop play would mean taking a developing play, and a possible scoring opportunity, from the team that was fouled. But since those parents wouldn't know the hand signal for advantage if they saw it, and they have no idea what advantage means, they keep trash-talking the referee. What a wonderful example they set for their kids.

This weekend really tested my ability to stay silent. One father questioned every call the SO made or yelled "It's about time you called that, Ref." And their team was four goals ahead! By the third quarter, the teeth marks in my tongue were probably permanent. So I turned to the idiot and said, "Gosh, they're always looking for more volunteer referees. Why don't you sign up to be a referee next year?"

He looked shocked, and then shook his head. "Naw, it wouldn't work out."

Because you obviously don't even know the basic rules of the game, asshole?

No, I didn't say it, but I thought it. I wouldn't want to be one of those mouthy spectators.

Step Away From Your Computer

Writing is a solitary pursuit. Even if you have a writing partner, you sit down alone to work. One of the cures for the isolation is an internet group and writer's list. I belong to several - for erotica, for speculative fiction, for queer writers, etc. and they are fantastic resources. I've raved any times in this blog about the best writer's community in the world, the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. My other lists are good and useful in their own ways, but none comes close to ERWA.

Even in LA, it's difficult to find other writers to meet face to face. For someone who lives in a small town, it can be almost impossible. That's why the internet is so wonderful. Somewhere out there is a group for a writer who has a hard time finding other writers.

But sometimes you just have to step away from your computer and talk to another human face to face.

This past Saturday, I was blessed to have a small gathering of writers over at my place. This is the second time I've hosted, and I plan to try to do at least two a year from now on. There is no substitute for sitting down over a meal and discussing writing. Not that we limited our far-ranging discussion to stories, writing styles, or the business of writing. We talked about everything and had a great time doing it. One thing about writers - they tend to be very curious, intelligent people. If they don't know something, they want to find out. Never a dull moment of conversation with a group like that. Although the party went very late into the night, and I drank more wine than I usually do, my mind was so full of ideas and conversation that it was hard to get to sleep.

I can't imagine having writer's block after a night like that. I woke early and wanted to dive into a million projects. I learned, I helped explain, I gossiped. It was lovely. Try it some time. If nothing else, you'll give your keyboard a rest.

I Must Write a Story About This

I've written that I'm not sure where inspiration comes from, but when someone posted this picture on one of the forums I read, and asked for a caption, not only did I think of a great caption, but I'm inspired to write a story.

And yes, that is a urinal.

My caption: FTD announces their new Golden Showers bouquet.

To see the rest of this artist's work, click here.

Orbiting In Retrograde

My story Orbiting In Retrograde has been added to the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association's Treasure Chest, a real honor.

Just me in one of my quirky moods. I was thinking, at the time I wrote this, about the importance of touch, and how it can be so much more sensual than "the act." Donno if I got there, but I tried.

Speculative fiction erotica is hard for me to write, because you're building worlds while delving into libido and balancing the two is difficult unless you're going to limit your speculative fiction to setting, which doesn't make it true speculative fiction, or throw in a casual mention of a space ship, or your character fucks an alien. (Which happens in Helen Madden's Alienated, but her story is about so much more than fucking an alien that seems insulting to talk about it on that level.)


My other story, Kells, was also added, so I'm on a roll.

Roses

I watched the Rose Bowl last night the same way I watch any TV show – in ten to twelve minute segments separated by half hour breaks.

I’ve always preferred college football over professional, but I can’t claim to be much of a football fan at all. Football was something to sit down and watch with Pops and pretend that counted as having some sort of relationship with him. You could never go to a live game with him. A former football player, he sometimes forgot himself, stood up, and acted out the hits, grunting a bit as if he were feeling each one. It was bad enough to live through it at home. Being with him while strangers could see him was too humiliating to bear. It wasn’t as if he ever acknowledged that we watched with him, nor did he try to explain the game, help us appreciate it, or even share his admiration for plays. Football was his own little world. The most we were allowed into it was sit on the sidelines and watch him watching the game.

I am a big fan of soccer, maybe because I played the sport (poorly) and can appreciate footwork I tried to copy but tripped over and set plays coming together in ways I could never envision while my team was on the pitch. If anything, I enjoy the differences between American football and the sport the rest of the world more correctly calls football, considering that they are derived from the same game.

In soccer, a great tackle is all ball, no player. In American football, the ball is the least of the concerns. It’s all player. American football is nothing but a series of set plays. Soccer is a perpetual motion that develops (hopefully) into set plays.

And, of course, there are the players. With the exception of Lacrosse, no sport offers as much eye candy as soccer.

What I did see of the Rose Bowl last night was my favorite kind of football. Even someone with my limited appreciation of the sport could see that there was so much more to the game than simply brute strength pushing against raw muscle. (Hmmm, may have to rethink that eye candy comment.) Even I could see the strategy of going without a huddle and managing the clock and for god’s sake, USC, didn’t you have someone upstairs alerting you through your headphones to take a time out and get that touchdown reviewed? Lord knows every USC fan watching the game was screaming it loud enough from the bars in Santa Monica that you should have been able to hear it in Pasadena.

Ahem.

Anyway, from what I saw of it, it was a good game. Every time I wandered back into the TV room, the lead changed. Kicks were good, kicks were bad. Rugby type lateral passes were sometimes a horrible idea, and sometimes quite brilliant. (A little late maybe, but hey, the officials let it go, so I should too.) I wondered if Pops were watching. I knew he was probably on his feet, channeling the defensive line. I even wondered if he was rooting for Texas or USC, or if, like me, he was simply enjoying the game for the beauty of sports.

Gotta Love It

The SO called this morning and told me to open the trunk of his car.

Inside: THIS!


"Happy Birthday!" he told me. "A little something extra, since you never got one from your parents."

My eyes got that certain manic gleam that he fears, er, knows so well. But, since he wasn't there to see it, I chortled with fiendish delight.

I bet I can make something innocent go horribly wrong, I told myself. I could imagine the manufacturer insisting, "It simply isn't possible to melt steel with the chemicals that were in that set, I tell you. A baby could eat that stuff and not even burp!"

My inner Wednesday Aadams is about to be unleashed.

Then, in the voice of a person who's had a couple days to regret an impulse buy, and to reflect on the fact that my parents aren't stupid, the SO asked, "You're not going to catch the house on fire, are you?"

I could have assured him, but where's the fun in that?

"Well.... I'll may try not to."

Now when he gets back from his trip and finds out I haven't gone to the market or done laundry or clean, he'll just be grateful that there are no char marks on our walls. Diminished expectations. They make it that much easier to enjoy life.

It's so nice to be with someone who totally gets me. And yet hasn't learned not to leave home alone with stuff like this.

Muhahahahaha.

It's a slippery Slope

I am deeply committed to caffeine, but picky about the mode of delivery. Until it's possible to get a direct IV drip, Diet Coke and espresso are the only ways I'll take it.

For my birthday, the SO gave me a Gaggia espresso machine to replace my cheapo Krups. He's trying to make up for being out of town for my birthday three years in a row, even though he knows he doesn't have to. This is the way our relationship works: He has a job he loves, despite all the travel that puts him in places like Fargo in January and Hades in August. I miss him when he's gone, spoil him when he gets back, and never complain about him being gone for birthdays, Valentines, or other special days. He, in turn, tells me I'm wonderful and makes sure we have fun when we are together. It's a simple plan for domestic bliss, but it works for us.


The Gaggia is quite the step up in home espresso brewing technology from my Krups. I'll admit to being a little intimidated by a machine that came with an instructional CD. The short films on the art of a perfect 30 pound tamp, a perfect pull, a short pull and a long pull (so you could see how it looked when you screwed up) were narrated in terse, authoritarian tones. There was a short essay on the importance of a perfect grind for your coffee beans. If (the voice almost sighed) one were to resort to pre-ground beans, there were also rules for storage and handling.

The espresso gauntlet was thrown.

My first pull was declared better than the Krups machine produced, but not the almost syrupy brew I wanted. We set aside my pre-ground coffee (LavAzza espresso) and tried the sample of LavAzza in Blu sent with the machine.

Success!

Not only was it dark and intense, both in flavor and texture, but it sported that elusive sign of a perfect pull - a light brown froth of crema on top.

The only problem was that my regular coffee cups, which weren't outsized mugs, didn't fit under the two nozzles. Sticking my head directly under wasn't an option - if a cup wouldn't fit, neither would my head, and I didn't want to scald the inside of my mouth. Worse, it would be damn near impossible to count out the perfect twenty-one second pull while holding my mouth to the burning spigot.

So I went in search of true espresso cups. I thought they would be easy to find. Like Big Foot though, pictures may exist, but it's a little harder to put your hands on the actual thing. I went to Starbucks and Gloria Jeans, where I found a single demitasse that seemed ridiculously expensive. Macys had the right sized cup for a little less, and they had four, but the cups were delicate china rimmed in gold filigree. Apparently I'm a bit of a minimalist, because to me, that gold ruined the look of the cup. Besides, I'd have to wash them by hand, and treat them with kid gloves, and I'm not that kind of a girl.

I finally found my perfect plain cups in restaurant quality porcelain. They came with saucers. All demitasse cups come with saucers. Who uses saucers? Anyway, the new cups, as you can see from the picture above, fit perfectly under the nozzles.

Except...

They're too small for my spoons. I can't stir in sweetener. There may be muy papi (to mix my languages) Italian men who can gulp down a shot of espresso without adding sugar, but I can't. Yet, I can't bring myself to buy special spoons just for that.

I see this as the slippery slope to becoming a total girl.

First I buckle in and buy dainty demitasse spoons that fit my tiny espresso cups. Then I rearrange my cluttered silverware drawer so that I can find my tiny spoons in the morning. The next thing you know, I have hand towels in the bathrooms, scented candles through the house, and we end up replacing the kitchen appliances to match the stainless steel facade of my lovely new espresso machine.

I'm thinking about asking the SO to return my Gaggia machine to the store. We simply can't afford the lifestyle it demands.

Just let me pull one last shot.

Festival of Lights

Since I missed the big family Hanukkah party, and was still dragging from my cold all week, my chances to get a latke (potato pancake) were dwindling.

Oh sure, you can make latkes when it isn't Hanukkah, but they don't seem right any other time. Besides, holidays lose something when the unique parts of the celebration are made into everyday things. For example, pinatas used to be cool, specifically a part of Mexican culture and only for Christmas. Now you can go to a park in Ohio on a Saturday and see kids whacking their favorite TV character to death with a bat and then scrambling to grab and eat the spilled entrails. Somehow, that isn't the same.

The end of the year and my persistent cold were dragging me down into a serious case of the blues. The SO announced that, as usual, he'd be out of town on my birthday. I was exchanging e-mails with people I didn't like over matters that no longer interested me in arguments that had long devolved into absurdity. The worst part was the temptation to tell those people that they were no longer worth my attention - which is a lousy thing to say to another human being when you think about it. Yet, I truly wanted to unleash my Dorothy Parkerish nastiness on them and shred their egos.

Trying to rise above my worst self every day isn't an easy struggle.

Friday, I came home from work, collapsed on the bed for four hours of necessary napping, and then dragged myself into the kitchen. There, fortified with a double shot of espresso and some Airborne, I started my latkes. Honestly, I wouldn't have left the bed if I hadn't committed to making dinner for friends.

While the SO sliced the brisket and put in into the oven for its second cooking (the secret to any great brisket), I pulled out the food processor. Latke purist will tell you that hand shredded potatoes are the only way to go. They're right - but screw it, I was tired.

Some people prefer a hashbrown style latke, while others like a solid pancake. I'm between worlds.

I put the shredded russet potatoes on a paper towel to drain. Wax potatoes, to me, have a weird, rubbery consistency when shredded. Russets, however, are the essence of bland food. They don't have a flavor. So I grind Yukon gold potatoes with onions into a puree for the binding batter. Adding a few beaten eggs, some matzoh meal to soak up the moisture the potatoes exude, a couple cranks of the pepper mill, a toss of kosher salt, and I was ready to go.

Some people almost deep fat fry their latkes. That's gross. Some oil is needed because oil is, after all, one of the symbols of Hanukkah. (The other being light. The two are intertwined in a story that I tell poorly, so won't relate it here.) Besides, to make latkes with a crunchy exterior, you need some oil in the pan.

Some people top with applesauce, but we prefer a dollop of sour cream and mushrooms that have been sauteed in butter and wine. Occasionally, we'll be really swank and use some caviar, but it wasn't in the budget this year.




The rule of the house has always been, "He/She who can stand to eat the hottest food gets the most latkes." If it were just the SO and me, we'd stand in the kitchen eating latkes as soon as they came off the griddle. The brisket would be forgotten and used for sandwiches the next day. But with guests as witnesses, we had to pretend to have some class, so we piled the latkes on a plate and them brought them out to serve with the brisket.

Our place smelled of hot oil and brisket, and was filled with the laughter of friends playing cut-throat dreidle for gold foil covered chocolates that none of us would ever eat. Laughter is like light. It chases away dark moods and thoughts. We're always so busy, but holidays remind us to meet with friends, laugh together, and share what we have. So no matter how tempting it is to make latkes out of season, I think I can wait for next year. I like to keep them special.

Denied

Christmas Eve here in the South Bay, it was 78 degrees, cloudless skies - perfect. Except for my raging sore throat. By the time we sat down to our traditional Christmas Eve dinner, my nose was so stuffed up that I gasped like a fish out of water between bites.

Not my sexiest look.

Christmas morning the sore throat receded into the background, but I feared sneezing more than anything because the strafing left my throat so raw that I couldn't talk for several minutes afterwards. I went through the chills-overheated-chills cycle. My chest ached after coughing fits.

Even though I felt crappy, I almost went with the SO to the not-our-family-really-thank-goodness gathering. I'd been looking forward to the entertainment/ glimpse into lives I thankfully didn't have to live. More than that, following that party, the SO's true family was moving over to his mom's house for the first night of Hanukkah. The equation was pretty clear. Stay home = miss out on latkes, brisket, and kreplach soup. That was powerful incentive to drag my butt out of bed.

The SO was a little suspicious about the convenient timing of my illness. He knew how much I usually dreaded Christmas with the train-wreck family. He even tried a few experimental sniffles and coughs to see if he could get out of going. The lure of latkes proved too strong though, so he packed up the gifts for his nieces.

"If you're feeling up to it, I'll swing by and pick you up on the way to Mom's so you don't miss out on the fun part of the day. Call me," the SO said on his way out.

What a guy.

I felt worse through the evening, not better, so I never made the call. But as I looked at my assembled collection of pharmaceuticals to fight off this thing - airborne mega-vitamins, decongestant, pain reliever, NyQuil, throat lozenges, antihistamine, and Tylenol PM - it occurred to me that I finally got what I always wanted for Christmas. A chemistry set.

I Can't Wait

The SO and I have a mutual understanding - I lucked out with his wonderful family, and he has great holiday horror stories to tell his co-workers about mine. He's made peace with the fact that my parents are killjoys, if you call mumbling 'can we go now' under his breath from the moment we walk in the door making peace with his fate. What he can't forgive is the bad cooking. His mom packs us a Thanksgiving survival bag to bring along the years we go to my parent's house and we take turns sneaking out to the garage for bites of the contraband.

There is one day a year where this gets turned around on the SO. Christmas Day. We join the rest of his family at his sister-in-law's mother's house. Somehow, a couple years back, we made the guest list. Ever since, we've tried to figure out how to disinvite ourselves, but to no avail. If we don't do something fast it's going to be tradition. (We're seriously considering divorce for his brother and sister-in-law as an option. Sure they're happy, but at least we'd be freed from the Christmas Day onus.)

A streak of schadenfreude (meaning "damaged joy." It's a German word. Go figure that the Germans of all people would have a word in their language for deriving joy out the misery of others.) has mated with my gallows sense of humor and produced a bouncing baby spirit of Christmas gone terribly awry. I can't wait for Christmas morning this year. Picture Gomez Aadams watching his train set as the two locomotives hurl down the track, destined for collision, and you know the expression of manic glee on my face.

Here's the set up:

Don't worry about how these people are related to me, because they aren't, which is part of what makes it so fun. Now matter how many racist jokes they tell, or how many fights they have on the front lawn, I'm secure knowing they don't share DNA with me. The SO is only distantly related by marriage, but that's still too close for his comfort. The sister-in-law somehow transcended her upbringing to become a very nice, classy, intellegent person. We think she was a foundling, because there's no way she's related to those people either.

The sister-in-law has a sister who is a Jehova's Witness. I don't know much about her beliefs, except that she's against commercializing the birth of her lord and savior Jesus by giving Christmas gifts - a lecture she uses to explain why she doesn't bring gifts for anyone. She does, however, accept them. Even though we aren't related, she gives us the stink-eye for not bringing "love gifts" for her four demon spawn to rip open Christmas morning. She does the same thing for birthdays. She's managed to claim the haughty moral ground by taking gifts but never giving them in return. How does she do it? And is she really a Jehovah's Witness, or is she just a greedy bitch? If I could stand talking to her, I'd ask some probing questions- like does her faith have any doctrines other than gift scamming?

But wait, this family gets better. Last year, they gave each other boxes of bullets as gifts. AND liter sized bottles of Jack Daniels. What a combo! At the time, I remember whispering to the SO, "If anyone here runs out to their truck to grab their handgun for a little impromptu target practice using the empty beer can collection in the back yard, I'm leaving."

Now that I've had a whole year to think on it, I'm seized with curiosity. How can you top whiskey and bullets? What lethal gifts will they come up with this year? The imagination reels.

I'm betting heavily on the home version of a meth lab. Or a guest appearance on Cops.
Either way, it's the one day a year I get to smile smugly at the SO, cuddle close, tickle his earlobe with my lips, and purr quietly, "Want to spend next Christmas at my parent's house, baby?" and watch him struggle with the tempation to say, "Yes."

Oh Canada, We're Not All Like This

I thought when the other voters in this country re-elected Bush, I couldn't be any more embarrassed by Americans. Now I'm positively humiliated.

Reads this for yourself, but I'll repeat the worst of it:

"So have the Canadians gotten a little too big for their britches" - Fox News host Neil Cavuto.

I realize that the current administration has zero respect for sovereign nations, but the host of a news show? Oh wait, he's on Fox. Scratch the 'news' part of my comment. If we believe (a big IF for the current administration) in the assertion that all men are created equal, then we should respect the governments that citizens of other countries choose, and we should respect the right of those governments to put the interests of their citizens ahead of US interests. What is good for American business is often very bad for the rest of the people living on this earth with us.

MSNBC host Tucker Carlson let loose the following pearls:

"Anybody with any ambition at all, or intelligence, has left Canada and is now living in New York." - Sorry, but no. People who give up and leave are usually the losers, not the winners in society. Not to say that perfectly nice, smart, great Canadians haven't emigrated, but chances are, if you were doing well in Canada, why the heck would you leave it for the United States, of all places?

"Canada is a sweet country. It is like your retarded cousin you see at Thanksgiving and sort of pat him on the head. You know, he's nice but you don't take him seriously. That's Canada." - Wow. Condescending to people in need and a country all in one swipe. That's talented, in a miserable excuse for a human being kind of way. Did Jesus say stuff like that too?

"It only eggs them on. Canada is essentially a stalker, stalking the United States, right? Canada has little pictures of us in its bedroom, right?" - I'm sure that Canada has long regretted setting up house next door to the U.S., but who else would buy it now? They'd have to put up with Americans throwing their trash talk over the border.

"It's unrequited love between Canada and the United States. We, meanwhile, don't even know Canada's name. We pay no attention at all." - And he's bragging about this? We should be deeply ashamed about our xenophobia, not reveling in it. And trust me pal, Canadians don't love us, except in that special, pitying way you save for your obnoxious, drunken, ignorant, crass family members when you see them on Thanksgiving.

If you're from Canada, please, there are Americans who hold your country in high esteem. You recognize that homosexuals are human beings. You try your hardest to make health care available to all (I realize your system has problems, but at least money isn't the deciding factor in the value of a human life for you). You have a vibrant art scene that nurtures budding artists. You have a culture that is distinct from the US, if only Americans bothered to find it and respect it.

And even though the Republicans and their paid mouth pieces have forgotten, I remember what Canada did for our embassy people in the 1980s in Iran.

Thank you.

We truly don't deserve you. And you never did anything to deserve us, either.

My Day In Pictures

I'd rather have the argyle socks

This time of year, even if you don't want to, you're doomed to think about family.
(Note the vat of boiling oil below, poised over the front door)

My parents are deeply suspicious of fun. They can't prove that the Bible forbids it, but as a precaution, they always make sure that any attempt to enjoy life is heavily counterbalanced by guilt and disapproval. That isn't to say that they aren't decent people. But if you're ever worried that your party may spin out of control as too many guests have too much unbridled fun, invite Pops over. Within an hour, everyone will be sitting quietly on the couch, clutching their hands together, and desperately eyeing the door.

Christmas morning was when their aversion to joy was really driven home. Five years in a row, the sole thing on my Christmas list was a chemistry set. My parents probably believed, quite rightly, that I'd blow up the house, but that was beside the point. It was the ONLY thing I asked for. Score? Brown and rust argyle socks- 5 for 5. Chemistry sets- 0.

Once, Mom bought a toboggan. It was the "big" gift that Christmas, meaning that we got stocking stuffers and nothing else but the toboggan, because it was something that we could all share. How very Brady Family Christmas of us. (Okay, so we were typical spoiled American brats. But come on, even desperately poor parents try to get one thing their kid wants.)

We packed into the car bright and early Christmas morning, because no one was ever allowed to sleep past 7AM, even on weekends, in Pops' army, er, house. My siblings and I sat in the back of the car in the complete stunned silence of kids who knew they'd been screwed over, and yet were condemned to fake gratitude.

The car tires crunched over snow as we pulled out of the driveway in our gold Plymouth stationwagon. We drove past a steep, icy hill half a block from our house. Other early risers slid down it on rubber tubes and flattened cardboard boxes. Their shrieks of laughter cut through the chilly air, mocking us.

As soon as we pulled onto the interstate headed for the mountains, my siblings groaned and schooched as far from me as they could. Put me on a winding mountain road, and I could puke up last week's lunch. I also showed a promising talent for respiratory ailments and hives. (I used to think I was allergic to the entire world. I have since narrowed the source of the irritation down to the old gold vinyl back seat of a station wagon coupled with the fourth rendition of the song *Black Socks* from Hee-Haw while the family dog's toenails dug into the meat of my upper thigh.)

Miraculously, I didn't get sick on that drive, but just to be safe, even before the car came to a complete stop, both sibs vaulted out of the car.

Pops got out and slapped his mittened hands together. "This is it."

You would have thought he'd brought us to the Olympic bobsled run. Instead, it as a pathetic wanna-be hill with a gentle slope that was covered in four feet of pristine Rocky Mountain powder.

Our dog crouched in the back corner of the car, barring her teeth, but Pops dragged her out into the snow anyway. She gave him a baleful 'what did I ever do to you' look and shivered.

Pops took the toboggan off the luggage rack plopped it down into the snow. "Take it on up."

My sibs and I grabbed part of the cord and began our uphill trudge through waist-high (on me) powder. A quarter of the way up, we stopped to pant. Even though we lived at altitude, the air at ten thousand feet was thin. I got woozy. As we gasped, puffs like dragon's breath curled out of our mouths. My big sister pretended to put a cigarette to her mouth.

"None of that! None of that!" Mom screeched.

Smoking, along with drinking, gambling, card playing, rock and roll, and make-up were contraband in my parent's house.

Daring, my sister rolled her eyes, getting a snicker from the rest of us, but she was wise enough to turn away from the parents before she did it.

My nose ran and my fingers were already stiff from the cold by the time we reached the top of the hill. Our parents followed us up. We got on the toboggan. The snow sounded like rubbing balloons under the sled.

I don't know who set the rules for packing a toboggan, but I, being the youngest, was up front. That's right- hurl a child face-first down a hill with the weight of her entire family plummeting behind her on a sled with no brakes. Even at seven years old, looking down the hill at a clump of trees, car, and a boulder covered in snow waiting at the bottom of the hill, I knew it was a bad, bad, bad idea. I struggled to rise as Pops shouted out, "Here we go!" He gave us a mighty push.

Thank goodness a four foot base of unpacked powder has all the surface friction of a cobblestone street. We moved maybe an inch. Soon Pops was huffing and struggling to get us moving. He suggested that we get start off in a downhill slant.

Right. As if. I might have packed a mogul under the front of the toboggan with the toe of my boot while no one was looking. Possibly. It hardly mattered though, because as we piled on, the toboggan sank lower into the powder. It wasn't going anywhere.

Never ones to give up easily, my parents kept us at it for several hours. They made us tamp down a route, then climb back up the hill to try, try again. They sent the sled down with just the kids, just the adults, and finally one by one. As darkness fell, we were finally allowed to admit defeat. Not once had one of us traveled from the top of the hill to the bottom on the sled. Cold, wet, and miserable, we packed back in to the car. The snow acumulated on the dog's fur melted. All that excitement and wet dog smell? Yep. I puked.

We had one more "fun" outing with that toboggan before it mercifully got put up in the rafters in the garage. We moved almost every summer, so we'd hold our collective breaths as the movers carried that thing past Mom and she'd get that certain gleam in her eye, but thankfully by Christmas she'd be on another family togetherness kick, usually involving matching sweaters.

Last time I visited the parents, I caught a glimpse of the toboggan in their garage. Mom saw me shivering and said, "Remember the good times we had out sledding? WE should do that again."

Frankly, Mom, I'd rather have another pair of brown and rust argyle socks.

Random Lobster

When I lived in places like Colorado and Oklahoma, I spent whole summer days wandering around with similarly feral children. Since we usually lived out in the middle of nowhere, I was lucky to have a kid my age within bicycle riding distance. If there was, it was a boy, which was great, because we often had similar ideas of fun- fort building, exploration, picking tics off our legs, and poking dead critters with sticks.

Since then, with the exception of opossums, I've grown an aversion to looking at dead animals. I certainly wouldn't go poke one with a stick. If I'm driving, and there's carnage in the road, I squint my eyes real hard until I'm past it. It's not that I'm sqeemish. I remember walking into a neighbor's garage in Colorado when I was seven or eight and seeing a buck suspended from the rafters, dripping blood into a galvanized steel bucket, and not turning a hair. I just don't like the idea that someone probably loved the animal that died on the road and will never know it's fate. They might be wondering day after day if Fluffy is going to come home. I know that when my dog disappeared four years ago, it was several months before I stopped calling the pound, and eight months before I could part with his pillow. (I suspect the cats heavily in his disappearance. Skitters was way too nonchalant about the whole thing.)

Sometimes, though, roadkill is so compelling that I have to look. Case in point - this morning, on PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) in Playa Del Rey around the Ballona Creek wetlands, there was a lobster in the median.

This was one of those times I wished I had a camera on me. Picture an asphalt road with a dusty median. Between the wide yellow lines, on it's back, with eight little feet up in the air, is a lobster. I have a fairly wild imagination, but I admit - I was stumped.

Thermadore the Lobster obviously did not crawl out of the Ballona Wetlands and meet his/her cruel fate. How do I know this? Well, for one, it was bright red, which meant it had been cooked. Cooked critters don't crawl. Second clue - Thermadore had a honking big claw, which was held shut by a thick blue rubberband. Pacific lobsters don't have claws. This guy was obviously an East Coast transplant.

So someone lost a fully cooked lobster. In the middle of a road. Several miles from the nearest grocery store, restaurant, house. I haven't checked lately, but I'm convinced that lobsters are fairly pricy. It's not likely that someone would put a full bushel of cooked lobsters in back of his truck, and as he bounced along the construction zone on PCH, one happened to fly out. But how else did it get there?

I may obsess on this for days.

I just hope that someone in Venice isn't dialing the pound right now, hoping against hope that their beloved pet lobster will be home for Christmas.

I Need A Full Scale Model of This

I'm sure that the designer of this envisioned something Christmasy and slightly old fashioned that would appeal to people who don't have enough knick-knacks cluttering their space.

Me, being, well, me, sees a vat of boiling oil to be poured on invaders.

Does anyone know where I can get the full sized version of this? Not that I would ever think of actually using it.

Much.

Christmas is Coming, the Goose is Getting Fat...

Loki and Skitters have submitted their Christmas wish list to me. They want (demand):




I see a big hairy spider, they see a cat toy.

and:




As if they aren't destructive and insane enough already.

and:




I'm thinking NO on the tarantula and catnip.

But what do you get for the human who has everything? May I suggest a donation to:

NO/AIDS Task Force. Why do I give to this organization while I live in LA? It doesn't make sense, does it? Except that their two big fund raising events were wiped out this year. However, if you'd like to make up for my lack of local giving, give to the LA group.

GIRLS, Inc. If you follow news of hate groups in this country, you've seen that fundamentalists are calling for people to stop buying American Girls dolls for their daughters because the company donates money to GIRLS, Inc., which supports girls of every sexuality and urges them to be true to their hearts. The fundamentalists wants girls to be taught to deny anything but a rigid self-view. Make up the difference, support love.

Children of the Night. Gets teenage prostitutes off the streets of LA and gives them job training. These kids usually leave home because of sexual abuse. They'd rather have sex with strangers than be raped by family. The world is an ugly place. Make it better for the most vulnerable.

Give blood. Give time. Give a little of yourself.

Doing It For Free

The debate about giving away work for free flares up annually on every writer's list I belong to. A reasonable position is that with so much free stuff out there, it's hard to get people to pay for stories, so none of us should give any story away for free. The other side of the argument is the belief that exposure and publication credits have value, so writers who do give away free work get paid in other ways than cash.

I'm solidly in the middle on this one.

Most of the free stuff out there is worth what the reader pays for it. A lot of dreck is floating around the internet. Many people think that they can write, but few can write well. Some readers are content with the dreck. Some readers can't tell the dreck from the sublime. Some prefer the dreck. They aren't my audience, so I don't worry about them.

There are free sites with well-earned reputations for posting quality work. The Erotica Readers and Writer's Association and Velvet Mafia are great examples. Clean Sheets recently began paying for stories, but I'll include them in this group. Having a story on these sites is good exposure to the kind of reader I want. Quality site = quality audience. I'm proud to say I have stories on Clean Sheets. ERWA is the world's best community of writers, and when they ask for a story of mine, I'm thrilled to contribute. (Still working on VM. One of these days, the stars will align between VMs chosen theme and one of my stories, and I will finally have something worthy of submission.)

If a site charges to read my story, I damn well expect payment too. For some reason, there are sites that expect to get content for free but make a business out of distributing it. I don't make a living off my writing, but I expect recognition that what I produce has value. It truly pisses me off when they dare tell me that they pay in exposure. I can expose myself, thank you.

Many people want to write, and some are desperate to be published, so it's impossible to stop the flow of free stories. As long as there are free stories, it's going to be harder for writers to convince people to buy works. On the other hand, I believe that there are people who recognize that true talent is a rare thing in this world and it deserves to be rewarded. But I also doubt that they'll be looking for gems in the dungheap. So choose your markets carefully, and consider what you're getting in return if you decide to give away your work for free.

Then do what you want. It's your path, not mine.

Freakonomics

I'm a bit of an economics buff. My college didn't allow majors in business to have a minor in another field of business, so while I had the credits for a minor in economics, it was undeclared. I adored my econ classes, but that damn B I earned in monetary theory dropped me from Summa to a mere Magna Cum Laude. Ah well, the things we do for passion...

I read Freakonomics, by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J Dubner with geeky pleasure this summer. I love the way it proves most conventional wisdom is conventional foolishness. Pseudoscience and shouting headlines can lie, but numbers don't.

Fast forward to last weekend. I was having friends over for dinner, so I thought I'd spruce up the hovel a bit.

My mother hoped with all her heart that eventually I would turn out to be a girl after all. Two years of ballet, three of ballroom dance (no wonder I adore the movie Strictly Ballroom), cotillion, modeling courses, a stint as a cheerleader (first person to laugh finds out how lethal of a weapon a pompon can be), and one narrow escape from drill team (blue eyeshadow. Eek. To quote Kurtz from Heart of Darkness, "The horror! The horror.") failed to do the trick, and yet there I was, actually contemplating buying handtowels for the bathroom. As if mere handtowels had enough mojo to tip the scale for the rest of our place from neglected to fabulous.

Thankfully, I snapped out of it. My naturally miserly,er, debt-adverse ways, proved strong enough to overcome the pull of estrogen. As I regained my senses and got a good look at the crap women buy to decorate their homes, I had a moment of Freakonomics insight.

The entire world economy is based on parties.

Somewhere, there's a factory that exists only to create paper umbrellas for drinks. There's another that churns out holiday themed tchotchkas to serve as centerpieces. Hell, the Christmas light industry alone probably supports a small nation.

A woman throws a party, and she's supporting a family of four across the globe. She might spend fifty bucks on food, but another two hundred (easily) goes into candy dishes and napkins that match the paper plates.

Don't get me started on weddings. They truly are a travesty of good sense and taste. People put more thought into the chair covers than their future spouse. If anything threatens the sanctity of marriage as a pillar of civilization, it's the over the top, queen-for-a-day wedding syndrome. But at least all that lovely money gets spread around to florists, photographers, and cake stylists. And, back to my monetary theory class, the faster we divorce and remarry, ratcheting up the stakes of the celebration each time, the faster the velocity of money moving through our economy. God help us if the music ever stops and everyone sits tight with what they have in their wallets.

Thank goodness my friends aren't that swank. Either that, or they've learned to live with diminished expectations when they come over. They won't eat on china, handtowels are non-existent, and I don't have matching glasses, but at least the conversation will be priceless.

Looking for That Certain Special Something

When I read the call for submissions for a lesbian science fiction anthology, I had every intention of sending a story to the editor. Now that the deadline is fast approaching I've changed my mind.

I have a story. I love speculative fiction and enjoy writing in the genre. Beyond that, the sex explores two of my favorite senses - touch and smell - to the edge of fetish. Technically, I'm sure that the story is good.

But...

I suppose this shows that I do have my artsy-fartsy side, because my problem with the story is that it feels as if it came from my fingertips, not my soul. ("Oh brother," you're allowed to sigh while rolling your eyes at me. ) When I read through that story, it leaves me cold. It bothers me that I feel no connection to my characters. The work lacks that certain unidentifiable something that makes a story special to me. If I could only inject it with that elusive quality, I'd gladly submit it. But I don't know where to begin to find it. Stories either seem to have it, or they don't. No amount of rewriting can fix it.

So even though I'm trying to build up a CV and I'd like to be in this anthology, I think I'll pass on submission. I'd rather have fewer pieces I was passionate about than a lot of souless stories published.

More Random Weirdness

Famous Edward, my favorite chef in the whole world, works at a funky Japanese-French fusion wifi cafe that features an incredible bakery. I love Edward just for himself, but it doesn't hurt that he shows up on my doorstep with gifts of green tea cheesecake or real croissants.

This picture on their cake boxes has me baffled. Clearly, this is a dire warning. However, it isn't repeated in English anywhere on the box. Oh sure, I could ask someone what it says, but where's the fun in that? I'd rather guess.

WARNING: Cake platform is not to be used as a frisbee.

WARNING: You're uncoordinated. Any attempt to carry this cake into a room on one hand will only end in tragedy.

WARNING: Tossing cakes with lit candles can cause your guest with the outsized hand to emit obtuse golden triangles around an invisible convergence point.

WARNING: It's always fun until someone loses face.

Rejection Letters

On one of my writer's lists, someone posted a question about how we handle rejection.

Many people say, "Oh, I write, but I never let anyone see it." That‚'s fine. We all write for personal reasons. Publication isn't every writer's goal.

Submission is a huge leap. Some people never recover from that first experience because they make the decision not to. They decide that their ego is too fragile, or that they have too delicate of an artistic temperament to withstand the criticism.

Some rejections I handle better than others. I submitted three stories to one anthology because I wasn't sure what approach they wanted to the theme- subtle or overt. They took one story and rejected the other two. I did the dance of joy for the acceptance and shrugged off the rejections. Then I put the rejected stories in the mail to other editors. (One has been placed already. The other made the first round of cuts and I expect news back soon.)

Some rejections I know I deserved. I knew the story wasn't ready, but the deadline was looming, so I sent it anyway. Looking back, I'm grateful those stories didn't see the light of day as they were. The editor saved my reputation. I'm trying not to humiliate myself like that any more.

I'll admit that a few rejections get under my skin. I have yet to figure out why I get so down about some while others hardly affect me. For the ones that I take hard, I set a deadline to mope. Three days of the blues about does it.

Now I'm particular about editors I'll submit to. Since I'm picky about who I'll work with, I submit less, but my acceptance rate is much higher. Part of that is that I'm submitting better stories, but it's also because of the editors I submit to. If the editor is published, I read their writing. I read their other anthologies. I do my homework and check reputations.

Many writers obsessively study rejection letters. We try to find deeper meaning in every word of what is basically a form letter so that we'll understand the true reason why our story didn't make the cut. It doesn't work any better than reading tea leaves. (Your story's got the GRIM!)

So here's my checklist:

Writing is art, publishing is a business. Was my cover letter artsy-fartsy, or was it a professional business letter?

Did I follow the guidelines exactly?

Was my story the best it could be?

Did I fit the theme? (this one can be subjective)

If I pass all of those, I figure that my story didn't grab the editor, it was too similar in plot or style to something they already accepted, or it simply wasn't meant to be. Notice that there's no place on that list for "They don't understand my art," or, "Those talentless bastard hacks," or, "It's a conspiracy by the elitist New York establishment." If that's the way you handle rejection, then you aren't ready to submit. But if you never submit, you'll never know the satisfaction of your first Yes. So set aside your inner diva, get a professional attitude, find the right market for the right story, take a deep breath, and let your story go.

Here's The Thing

I spend 2 and a half to 3 hours a day in my car. That's life in L.A.

I'm telling you this so that January 2nd, when you watch the Rose Parade on TV and notice that it's 75 degrees in L.A, and the only snow to be seen is on the distant peak of Mt. Baldy, you aren't tempted to pack up and move here. As if I need another car in the lane in front of me.

But if you do, please remember that we do not suffer novice drivers here. The only unforgiveable sin in L.A. is fucking up traffic, but there are a few other bad habits you must break before you venture onto the mean streets here.

First off - don't use your horn. Only Westsiders use their horns, and that's because they're not from L.A. and don't belong here.

Second - merge means every other car goes in turn. Every other car. One from your lane, one from the lane next to you, then another from your lane. Got it? It ain't rocket science.

Third - learn appropriate Space Proxemics. One and a half car lengths is enough at any speed up to 45. Any faster, and you can give yourself several car lengths of cushion. No more. Here's a hint - if five cars jump in front of you every block, you're missing every light, and the driver behind you is getting increasingly aggressive, close up the damn gap! And BTW, the sensors for the traffic lights are embedded in the asphalt right near the crosswalk, (those are what those big circles on the ground are) so pull your damn car all the way up to the line. You do not need two car lengths between you and the intersection. If the lights have cycled three times, but you have not gotten a green, and the line of cars behind you stretches a mile, roll up over the sensor. Thank you.

Fourth - if you're Physics-ly challenged, here's a clue - I can not drive faster than the car in front of me. If I accelerate, traffic in front of me will not magically speed up too. So sitting on my rear bumper and throwing your hands in the air as we miss every light isn't going to do you any good. I'm stuck behind the person driving too slow, or we're all stuck in heavy traffic and no one is going anywhere fast. Grow up and live with it. Either that, or use the potty before you leave home.

Fifth - leave your Puritan morality behind. Oh I know - you're going to to teach us all a lesson. 55 is the upper limit of speed. You can go less than that speed if you want to, and to prove it, you're going to sit in the fast lane doing 50. Hah! King of the World! Those of us stuck in the lane behind you took a vote. You're the Grand Marshall of the next Prig Parade. Remember, when you wave, it's sweeping elbow, elbow, and then turn wrist, wrist, wrist. Go home and practice it right now.

Sixth - don't be Passer-Agressive. These are almost always men. Even though there is a mile of empty lane behind me, this guy always has to shoe-horn his way into the tiny space between me and the car ahead. Congratulations Sir, you are now one car-length closer to your goal of becoming a total dick.
The second type drives along at varying speeds. You can almost hear him singing "la-la-la" as he searches like the Flying Dutchman for some elusive address. After following behind him for five blocks, as his speed steadily decreases to 15mph, I give up and try to pass. This is evidently the final straw in his life. It's personal now. Passing him is a direct challenge to his ED manhood. So he hits the gas. Fine, if he'll drive that speed, I'll be happy behind him. I slow down. So does he. I speed up. So does he. Because I betrayed him, he will never, ever, allow me back into "his lane." Sir, this isn't personal. I just want to get to work. Sometime today would be nice.

If Only I Had Some Vacation Left...

If you're in New York, and I know that I have several readers who are, please stop by the Independent and Small Press Book Fair and say hello to Greg Wharton from Suspect Thoughts Press. (info below)

If you go, I promise to be insanely jealous of you for at least three months. And here's an offer you can hardly resist: write me back and tell me how incredibly nice Greg is, and how many great books you bought, and I'll add on another two months of pure green-eyed sulking.

With Ian Philip's permission, I cut this from the Suspect Thoughts newsletter:

Greg is going to New York City for the first weekend in December for the Independent and Small Press Book Fair. So if you'’re there, please stop by. No, I didn'’t say "“buy."” Honest, he'’d love for any and all to hang out at the booth. Create a crowd. A scene. Make those hordes of usually queer-uncurious wonder what all the fuss is and stop by to buy. He'll be upstairs on the second floor, in one of the back rooms. I know, the publisher of Suspect Thoughts in a back room in New York--how shockingly pre-Giuliani of him!

Okay, here's 411 from Greg himself:

"San Francisco'’s fearless queer publisher Suspect Thoughts Press ("“Best Brand-New, Badass, Superqueer Press" -- SF Bay Guardian) is coming to New York for The Eighteenth Independent and Small Press Book Fair. Along with piles of magnificent books specially priced for the Book Fair, Suspect Thoughts Press."’ New York authors Jennifer Natalya Fink, Thomas Woolley, and Emanuel Xavier will be appearing for meet and greet book signings.


Saturday, December 3, 3:00: Emanuel Xavier (Americano, Bullets & Butterflies)
Sunday, December 4, 2:00: Jennifer Natalya Fink (Burn)
Sunday, December 4, 2:00: Thomas Wooley (Toilet)


Since its inception in 1988, The Independent and Small Press Book Fair has served as a lively exploration into the world of independent publishing. Over the years, it has grown in size and ambition, but the core purpose remains the same: to draw greater attention to an essential sector of the publishing industry. The Book Fair will take place on Saturday, December 3 (10am to 6pm) and Sunday, December 4 (11am to 5pm) at the Small Press Center, The General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, at 20 West 44th Street (between 5th and 6th Avenues) in Manhattan. Admission to the Book Fair is free and open to the public.

Saturday, December 3 (10am to 6pm)
Sunday, December 4 (11am to 5pm)

The Independent and Small Press Book Fair
Small Press Center
The General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen
20 West 44th Street (between 5th and 6th Avenues), Manhattan
Phone: 212.764.7021
URL: http://www.smallpress.org

So go, have fun, support small presses!

Erotica Readers and Writers Association

I may be a few days late on this, but why limit thankfulness to one day?

As a writer, I am very thankful for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. It is, hands down, the finest writer's community on the internet. I belong to several lists for speculative fiction writers and queer writers, but they don't begin to offer what ERWA does.

The ERWA website alone is worth a visit, but the lists are its true strength. The writers list is an excellent source of information on everything from grammar questions to publishers. Storytime offers writers a chance to have their work critiqued. It is a workshop unlike any other I've been to. Writing can be isolating, so having access to the ERWA community is fantastic for me. There's nothing I like more than chatting with other writers.

There are many other things I'm thankful for that sound trite but aren't. I have a roof over my head, clothes to wear, food, and clean water. That puts me at a standard of living far above 90% of the other humans on this planet.

And I have love.

Everything else is simply icing on the cake. I'm thankful that I understand that.

A Small Mea Culpa

I know, me apologizing. Shocking.

Fresh green beans sauteed in olive oil, fresh lemon juice, and a little sprinkle of salt is my contribution to the T-Day festivities tomorrow. Some years I make mushroom pie too, but I have diminishing expectations for the holidays this year, so the family will have to be content with the 500 other dishes on the buffet.

I went to Whole Foods early this AM, but it was already packed with power Moms and d-girls, which partially explains why, in the crush at the counter, things got weird.

After I got my three pounds of fresh green beans, I picked up a few other things that smelled good, including a bagette that was fresh from the oven. Steam rose in rosemary scented curls off the crunchy crust. How could I resist?

I didn't expect to buy so much, so I didn't have a basket. Everything was balanced precariously in my hands.

This is where the apology comes in.

Dear Sir in line in front of me at Whole Foods - I did not mean to sexually assault you with my bagette. It was an honest mistake. Of course, when I looked down and realized that it was pressing against your muy papi ass, which was plated up so nicely in those tight, faded jeans, I immediately pulled it away. As my face reached approximately the temperature of the sun, I mumbled an apology that probably sounded more like a really bad pick up line than a heartfelt mea culpa. So I'm sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.

Signed - the women wearing the black t-shirt and red face, who was holding an impressively long, thick, hot bagette.

BTW - how long was that thing rubbing your prostate before I noticed? I'm wondering, because you didn't say a word. Nor did you move. Nor did you glance back at me. Just sayin'.

Yay for me!

I sold two short stories in the past two weeks, both to editors I really admire. I'm on a roll.

Now, if only the editor I sent my novel to would contact me....

Dear Proselytizers Who Knocked on My Door This Morning:

Ladies, even at the best of times, I do not extend warm fuzzies to people who interrupt my writing time. I am less kind when I was in the middle of an incredible zone, typing out a scene that was clicking so good that I got out of bed early to get it into the computer, and you pulled me out of it. What’s more, you came by so frickin’ early that your caught me B.C. – before caffeine. The SO is smart enough to lay low until the espresso IV drip is flowing, and you should be too.

It’s a beautiful Southern California day today, and you decided to ruin it by forcing your religion on unsuspecting folk. The early morning hours were probably a tactical choice on your part – catch people while they’re still befuddled. But you came to my door.

Can anyone say Open Season?

Signed:

Your local curmudgeon.



Normally, I pretend to be polite because it’s a great game I play with my heavily tainted karma. Not today, ladies.

There you were, dressed in gawd-awful floral print dresses, and the ugliest sensible shoes ever produced. I almost puked on you just for making my eyes bleed. Then you said Good Morning in a chirpy voice that shot through my brain like a brad from a nail gun. Your Bibles were clutched tight in your little talons, your fake pearl necklaces (are you even AWARE of what a pearl necklace means in my world?) tight around your throats.

I simply stared at you. No encouragement.

You quaked a little.

A touch of a smile quirked on the corner of my mouth. Maybe this was going to be fun after all.

Like any cheesy door-to-door salesman, you launched into your memorized spiel.

MISSIONARY: “I’m sure that the recent events here in the United States have saddened you – the hurricanes, and other tragedies. And maybe you’re feeling confused over what these events mean.”

ME: “I know exactly what they mean. God is punishing red states for perverting his word of love. God is punishing red states, especially Florida, for letting a Bush into office. And he’s going to keep doing it until you all repent for your hate sins.”

MISSIONARY: *sputtering*

ME: *slamming door closed with no small amount of satisfaction.*

Sometimes you get random rewards in life for no apparent reason. I don’t need to look into it deeper than that. Life is good. Now, where was I in my story....

Sighing for Texas

Texas codified hate in the latest election, but they're hardly unique. Many states are racing to prove that they, too, long for the days when it was okay to simply hate someone, and make sure "those people" know it by writing that hate into law.

Churches and other hatemongers have done a great job of making this an issue of "extra rights" for gays, but anyone who thought about this for a moment would see that this is not extra rights. I have the right to marry my SO. Why shouldn't my theoretical next door neighbor be able to marry hers? That would be equal, correct?

The argument is always that homosexuality is a sin. Says so right there in the Bible. But that makes it a religious argument, doesn't it? Why should my next door neighbor be forced to practice your religion? This is America. Freedom of religion, correct?

Don't even start on that sanctity of marriage sham argument. The only threat to any marriage comes from inside. Abuse, infidelity, and emotional neglect are internal problems. If your hetero married neighbors don't affect your marriage, either will homosexual married neighbors. And if marriage is so key to a healthy society, shouldn't we be encouraging everyone to take part?

The problem here is that this is a logical approach, and most people don't want logic. They want gut level reaction. They want retribution.

So where does all this frenzy of hate come from? I think we can look back to the last big civil rights question America faced for the answer.

When schools were forced to integrate, some whites fled public schools to spare their child the trauma of sitting in class next to a child of color. The private schools available at that time were generally religious based, usually run by very conservative religions. They got their hooks into those young minds, and boy, did they plant some nasty seeds.

Of course, it's no longer fashionable to be publicly racist, even in many small towns, but being homophobic? Well, that's perfectly fine. The lower you feel your lot in life, the greater the need to hold someone lower. Think of the power. You can stop a person you don't know who lives miles away from you from getting married. Wow. What a rush. It's also petty and small minded, but it's government sanctioned pettiness, so that makes it perfectly okay.

So much fear is behind this. People who are strongly homophobic are either closeted, self-loathing, and fearful, or they were raised to think of homosexuality as a learned perversion.

Those who are afraid that their children will "turn" homosexual believe that if they make the castle walls strong enough, their kids will be protected. But even the most ignorant person out there has a creeping suspicion now that homosexuality is in the fundamental wiring of the brain. A God level trait. Something passed on in the genes. In the panic to comfort themselves, and deny any DNA level responsibility, people are lashing out at the homosexual community. If they drive homosexuality back underground, so the thinking seems to go, even if their child is homosexual, they will never act on it, because they will have learned to hide it.

This is like asking your blue-eyed child to wear contacts to make their eyes brown. It may hide those blue eyes from the world, but the child will know. And every morning as they face the mirror, they will know that their parent hates them for those blue eyes, even though the child can do nothing to change them and didn't choose to be blue eyed.

Parental rejection like that kills a human soul.

I can be optimistic and pray that these kinds of segregationist polices, based on sex rather than race, will never stand the ultimate test of the courts, and thus will force national acceptance of gay marriage in law (not at a societal level). I'd rather people abandon their hate, but I don't see that happening any time soon. Too bad. There's a kind of internal peace that comes with acceptance and love. Who taught that? A lot of religious leaders. Buddha comes to mind. But so does Jesus. I wonder if any of these Christians have heard of him?

Gender

At night, as I sneak out into the backyard for a smoke (yeah yeah, bad for me, blah, blah blah.) I find myself contemplating gender.

What kicked off this navel-gazing was a box on a form. I stared at the damn thing and tried, with all the powers of my rather wild imagination, to figure out why my gender mattered for a computer service. After a moment or two of furrowed brow, I blithely skipped the question. Unlike paper forms, computers can make sure you Xd every damn box though, so there was no moving forward without declaring the contents of my panties.

I checked Male just for the hell of it and hit enter.

Back not so long ago in the US, gender was an important category, because you had different rights depending on your sex. Females were an underclass, and they had to make sure that no women were sneaking through and getting male privileges (like decent pay, credit, voting, the right to own or sell land, etc.). Theoretically nowadays we’ve worked out that inequality issue, but the boxes remain. Why?

And why are there only two boxes? This country is obsessed with a Boolean model of the universe where everything is black or white, on or off, male or female, right or wrong. We have no tolerance for gray. We’re so obsessed with the idea that there are only two distinct genders that we manipulate the genitals of children who don’t fit the mold and force them in to category A or B. We never let them grow up as they are and leave the decision to them. Heaven forbid we let them exist in the zone of betweeness, even if it pleases them. And we make life miserable for adults brave enough to reclaim their personal gender identity if it exists outside those boxes.

Why isn’t there a box for “None of your damn business, Nosy Parker,” and another for “I’m too complex to fit into your narrow world view.” Hell, I’d settle for a box labeled “Other.”

I was at a writer’s conference where a published author stated that when she was done with her novel, she went through and arbitrarily changed the gender of her characters. I had two reactions to that – at opposite ends of the scale. At first I thought, “Wow, so she believes that people are people are people, and gender is irrelevant. Cool.” My next thought was, “Are her characters so one-dimensional that their gender has no bearing on their basic personal identity? Not cool.”

Regardless of sexual preferences, my characters are influenced down to their cores by their mental gender. Physical gender is also incredibly important to the definition of who those characters are. Maybe it’s because I write sex, and sex and gender are tangled together, but I can’t imagine arbitrarily changing the gender without it completely changing that character. We’ll see. After all, I checked the M box on that computer form. Somewhere, somehow, that must have deep consequences – the ramifications only becoming clear at the peak of some world-changing calamity.

Either that, or gender truly doesn't matter.

Veteran's Day

A simple note of thanks to veterans of the US Armed Forces. I do appreciate what you do, what you represent, and your service to this country.

And a personal note to E.L.F in Iraq - We don't always see eye to eye politically, but you're still on top of my prayer list.

Thank You Kansas!

Dear members of the Kansas Board of Education:

Thank you so very much for forcing, er, offering intelligent design instead of science to your students.

See, I have a niece who wants to be a doctor. She isn't world'’s greatest student. Normally, she wouldn't have a shot at medical school. Math and science aren'’t her best subjects. (Either is empathy. She laughs when her sister gets hurt.) Yet, thanks to your foresight and wisdom, at least she won't have to compete with anyone from Kansas for those coveted medical school slots.
Whew!

No smart, kind-hearted, empathetic Kansas kid is going to get in my niece'’s way. Forget the cure for cancer coming out of Wichita. In fact, since critical thinking and science are the basis for most high paying jobs, even if my niece decides on another lucrative, challenging career, no Kansas child will be able to compete with her.

Don't feel bad. There are meat processing plants and mega stores that offer part time, no medical benefits, no retirement benefits, minimum wage careers for Kanasas kids to look forward to. They didn'’t really want to go to college, did they?

So thank you again, members of the Kansas Board of Education, for taking away the future of every child in Kansas. We salute you. Now go help Pat Robertson threaten those people in Pennsylvania who dared vote out their school board for bringing intelligent design into their schools. Our little niece is going to need all the head start she can get.

My Glamorous Writer's Life

I know that the mental picture everyone has of a writer's life is the basic wood paneled library in a hunting lodge in the woods. Erotica writers get more of the Cleopatra fantasy. Cleopatra of Liz Taylor ilk though, not the grittier ROME version. Muscled, nearly naked men fanning me with ostrich plumes, lunches of oysters and caviar, scantily clad women performing lusty tribal dances for my amusement, a bed draped like a sheikh's tent... The hard part is finding enough river water in LA to float my royal barge.

It's all true. Absolutely. No, really....

Okay, maybe not.

Writing erotica is no different from other writing - despite common perception that it takes no talent. Anyone who thinks erotica isn't quality isn't reading Mike Kimera, M. Christian, Alison Taylor, Lizabet Sarai, Gwen Masters, Kate Dominic, Ian Phillips, or any of the other incredible writers working in this genre today. Some of the best short stories being written now are erotic.

(Putting together a list is always painful. I could have twenty more names. Not all of Ian Phillips stories are erotic, and if I include him, how can I possibly leave off Greg Wharton, who wrote one of my all time favorite short stories? This isn't a definitive list by any means. The talent pool in erotica is deep.)

One aspect of erotica may be a little different from other writing though. The fan email. I haven't polled mystery, horror, and romance writers, so I don't know if they get this type of thing, but I do get some odd fan letters.

Most people who write to me are nice and generous with praise. I'm touched when they take time to tell me that they liked my work. Then there are the two who stand out in my mind....

The message I got two weeks ago was basically "I really liked your story Kells. Kobi was a great character, and I liked the scene up on the bridge with the two vampires. It was hot."

So far, so good.

Except that embedded was a picture of his (I presume) dick. I think I jumped back two feet from the computer when I scrolled down to that. Not that I needed the extra space to get it in focus. Whoa! I called the SO over.

ME: "What the fuck?"

SO: *laughing hysterically* "Maybe it's like a thumbs up."

ME: "But the note is so rational. No 'I'd like to meet you,' 'What are you wearing,' 'I'm stalking you.' Just a nice, normal note, and then this."

SO: "Is this the same guy who sent you the dick picture a year ago? At least the other one gave you the full frontal so that you knew what he looked like."

ME: "I didn't keep that, so no chance for comparisons." *peering closer at the screen* "Hey, he's not completely hard! What the hell? Is that some kind of editorial comment? *typing furiously*

SO: *stops laughing and looks concerned* "Um, what are you doing?"

ME: "Demanding to know why I didn't rate a full stiffy. He said he liked the story, but obviously, it didn't quite do it for him. I want to know why. I mean, if you're going to send someone a picture of your dick, have the courtesy to show it at it's best."

Everyone is a damn critic.