If you write it, they will come

So here's a cool thing that happened recently. I live way up in northern Wisconsin in a tiny rednecky town. Over the years we've had a few progressive actions here and there, nothing very big. Since January 2017 there's been a lot more activity. Three hundred people came out for the Women's March and 200 for the March for Science. That may not seem like a lot to those of you who live in bluer places, but we've been feeling pretty good about it.

Now to the cool thing. Last year I wrote a short story for the GRNW Anthology. It was set in Lacland, my fictional town that's sort of like this one. In it, a couple of guys meet at the local library during a planning meeting for the very first Lacland area Pride parade. So imagine how I felt when I found myself a year later at the local library participating in planning the very first Northwoods Pride event. It's a picnic, not a parade and as far as I know no one hooked up at the planning meeting. Details, details. Something I wrote about is actually happening tomorrow and while I really didn't do much to help it get going, I do feel like there's a little bit of magic at work. Happy Pride!

If you're in the northwoods, come on by tomorrow for our first annual Northwoods Pride Picnic!

I get by with a little help...

I just spent a wonderful weekend with dear friends. As a group, we've been friends for over twenty years. We've since scattered and now live all over the place, from Seattle to Belfast, and yet we try to get together once a year for some serious girlfriend time. It's a sweet time, funny, deep and delicious, filled with good food and better conversation.

All that got me thinking about the value of longtime friendships in real life and in fiction. Generally I'm drawn to the magic of falling in love with a stranger, although in Buyout I really enjoyed the sweet sadness of rediscovering the one that got away. But I'm a big fan of non-romantic friendships and I love it when a main character has a best friend they've known forever. Getting to know someone through the eyes of their friends is such a great way to see their hidden depths. I also think that our ability to maintain friendships is an indication of our capacity for intimacy. Too bad so many of my characters are loners. I guess I'm drawn to the strong, silent, complicated and unpredictable type.

One of my favorite things we ate this weekend was a shaved asparagus salad. I'd never been served raw asparagus. It was surprisingly tender and tasty - the perfect spring salad. Here's a link to the recipe  Best with a glass of wine and a very good friend.

Dev's News Flash

I'm seven months into my newsletter. You may not think seven straight months is a long time, but consistency has never been my strong suit, especially when it comes to things like newsletters or blog posts. Life just has a tendency to get in the way. You know how it is. 

But so far, I've been having a great time with my newsletter, Dev's News Flash. I think it's because it's low on News and big on Flash. Every month I write a piece of fiction and send it out to my subscribers. The pieces are short and often a bit experimental and I'm having a blast doing them.

If you're interested in subscribing, here's a link. 

I spent some time this month at the bedside of a friend who was in hospice. It was sad and sweet and real. I'm hoping that's also true of this month's flash. I call it Afterlife.

 

My grandmother is dying. Maybe if I say it enough, the magnitude of it all will sink in. Because sometimes it’s hard to keep track of what’s really happening when I’m caught up in the mundane details of fluffing her pillows or getting her some juice.

Having someone die in a hospital bed in the living room is chaotic and gut wrenchingly boring at the same time. Friends visit, offering her comfort and companionship along with conversation she can’t always follow and food she doesn’t want. An aide or a volunteer shows up nearly every day to help her and to give me a break. The chaplain comes by sometimes. Or a social worker. There’s probably a schedule they’re following but I haven’t figured it out, so I never know when to expect them.

Except the hospice nurse. He appears like an apparition every afternoon between five and six.

I owe Gran my life. It might sound melodramatic but it’s true. I was fifteen and had just survived my second suicide attempt when she took me in—a scrawny gay kid with a bad attitude that did a terrible job of hiding my fear that no one anywhere would ever love me. She drove a hundred miles through a snow storm to rescue me. At the hospital, she told my parents that they’d have to kill her first before she’d let them send me into another conversion therapy hell. They washed their hands of the both of us and that was that.

Twenty years later here I am, sitting by her bed in my best shirt, hoping that when he shows up, the hospice nurse will notice me. I know that sounds pathetic, and maybe it is. I like to think of it as a coping mechanism.

Gran opens her eyes. “I don’t want you to be alone, John.”

I pat her hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

My last relationship and my grandmother’s chemotherapy treatments ended the same week. Nothing dramatic, we just both realized we’d been trying too hard for too long and it was time to move on.

The hospice nurse’s name is Simon. He has dark hair and brown eyes that are so sincere you could drown in them. Before he touches my gran he always asks her permission in a voice that sounds like the proverbial healing cloud of amethyst light. It’s after four. He’ll be here soon.

Loving someone, even living with someone, shouldn’t be that difficult. We all have our quirks and no one is attractive all the time. But in the end, isn’t it enough to treat each other with kindness?

That’s what I tell the kids. I’m a high school guidance counselor. Most summers I take a second job just to earn some extra cash, but this summer I’m back sleeping in my old room so Gran can die at home. She didn’t get really bad until June and will be gone by the time school starts in the fall. Considerate as always.

Gran has had boyfriends over the years but none of them stuck around. She jokes that she passed her terrible taste in men down to me. As I watch Gran sleep, I think the problem is we’ve been focusing on the wrong traits. She looks old and shrunken but still beautiful to me. And I’m not sure I’ve ever loved her more. I want to know someone for a long time, so long that it doesn’t matter if my face wrinkles or I go through an unfortunate haircut phase or my carefully cultivated six-pack disappears.

I think it might be Simon’s hands that I find most attractive. They’re strong, confident hands. Often, after he checks on her medication and examines her for bed sores, he’ll linger for a while and we’ll talk. One afternoon, while I watched him massage her feet, I imagined how his hands would move while making dinner. Another day I fantasized we were building a house together and Simon was swinging his hammer with the regularity of a pendulum or the second hand of a watch—predictable, steady and strong.

Every day, Gran talks a little less and sleeps a lot more. She doesn’t want to watch television anymore and music only makes her anxious. The house echoes with a sad silence as I pad from room to room wondering what I’ll do without her.

I know Simon’s knock by now, two soft raps. Gran doesn’t stir. I only hear him because I’ve been listening. I cross the living room to the front door, my heart racing like it’s prom night. Maybe that’s okay. Pursuing new interests can help with depression. That’s what the advice columnists say.

It’s hot outside, but Simon looks cool in blue slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He rests a hand on the handle of his roller bag and for the umpteenth time I wish he was just coming to stay for the weekend. Gran could make her famous lasagna, and after dinner Simon and I could sit out on the lawn watching the stars and telling secrets.

“How are you?” He cocks his head to one side, his eyes locked on mine in a look that’s probably just professional sympathy but that I decide to believe is real concern.

There’s no good answer to his question, so I shrug and open the door wider to let him in.

I gesture to the hospital bed that dominates the living room. “She was sleeping but she might wake up for you.”

Simon isn’t my type. I’ve always gone for the kind of men that I thought would make me look good. Tall, fit, musclebound guys that everyone can admire. I’ve always been on the lookout to trade up. It’s what one does.

That’s not a game Simon can play. Although, now that I look at him, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want him. He’s kind and patient, handsome with gorgeous eyes and those strong, competent hands that I dream about.

But he’s short. Really short. Little people short. And for some reason that doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore.

Gran’s eyes flutter open. She smiles at Simon. He smiles back, hits the button and Gran’s hospital bed descends until it’s even with his thighs. She nods when he asks if he can check her pulse. He goes through his routine, all the while talking with her in that soothing, calming voice. I watch from a distance. She’s happy with him. And that makes my heart swell. I imagine the three of us eating Thanksgiving dinner together or opening presents under the tree.

Gran catches my eye. She waves her hand vaguely in a gesture I interpret as a summons. I come over and stand on the other side of her bed. It’s as if Simon and I are her body guards.

She licks her lips and waves me closer. I lean down. She whispers, “I’m glad you’ve finally found a nice boy. He’ll be good to you.”

“No Gran. We’re not—” I glance at Simon. My face floods. I’m mortified that she’s voicing hallucinations that dovetail with my fantasies. “This is Simon. He’s your nurse, Gran.”

She waves her hand, dismissing the confusion and my embarrassment. “Ask him out.”

I look at Simon, who’s concentrating on fixing a wrinkle in her bed linens. I start to say I’m sorry, that Gran must be dreaming, but then I stop. Something about the way he’s not meeting my gaze tells me I might not be the only one who’s been looking forward to these visits.

When I stop talking mid-sentence, he looks up. I don’t know what to say.

Simon turns to Gran with a smile. “Not yet, Louise. We’re focused on you right now. There’ll be plenty of time for John and I to get to know each other better later.” He places his hand on hers and his gaze flicks to me. “That is, if he wants to.”

I stare at him as my heart does a somersault. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Gran’s words come out in a whisper. “You’ll keep coming by after work until then?”

Simon chuckles. “I thought the extra visits on my own time were our secret. Of course. I’ll be by every day for as long as it takes.”

After work? The first time Simon came to see Gran was in the morning. He didn’t come again until the next week. As I look from him to Gran and back again I try to remember when he started showing up every day after five. Was coming more often than he had to Gran’s idea or his? Either way she’s taking care of me right up until the end. And beyond.

I cover their hands with my own. It feels like a pledge. The promise of a future.

Gran smiles and closes her eyes.

It's hot in the kitchen chicken

Enough heavy stuff, it's time for a recipe. This is my very favorite, very easy, chicken recipe.

The ingredients are simple: chicken thighs and hot pepper sauce(I like Franks but any of those sauces made mostly from chili peppers and vinegar will do nicely).

Preheat the oven to 420.

Pat the chicken thighs dry.

Place them skin side up, in a single layer along the bottom of a roasting pan or cast iron skillet.

Sprinkle on some salt.

Bake for an hour and ten minutes, until the skin is nice and crispy.

Take them out of the oven, drizzle on the hot pepper sauce,  stir so that the hot sauce and the juice in the bottom of the pan mix together and coat the chicken.

That's it! I like to serve the chicken thighs with a baked potato and a nice salad. It's a super easy meal that always feels special to me. I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

 

 

March for Science

In my other life I'm a scientist and I'm speaking at our little rally for our satellite march to the DC March for Science. All the conventional wisdom says that politics are kryptonite for romance writers. That may be true, but I've never been particularly conventional.

I thought I'd share a bit of my speech with you. I won't bore you with the whole thing, but here's the ending just so you know where I stand. Cheers - Dev

Today as we march in support of science, it’s important to remember that science is simply an investigative tool with which we seek to figure out how the natural world works. Scientists are in search of the truth – which is complicated and nuanced and impossible to know completely -but which exists. I think we do ourselves and the world a disservice when we talk about your truth or my truth when what we mean is belief. Facts are real whether I believe in them or not. The earth was round before we discovered that. And think of where we’d be now if we still believed that the earth was flat and that monsters lived at the edges. I doubt we’d have made it to the moon and beyond.

Climate change, which really should be called climate chaos since that’s what it is—unpredictable and uncontrollable—will continue whether I believe in it or not. No matter how much I may wish that I’ could float above the ground, the truth is that gravity doesn’t care if I believe in it or not. I can’t wish away cancer or invasive species or the threats to our drinking water that the crisis in Flint made clear. But I can study how those things work and develop strategies for coping with them, and then test those strategies against actual data and improve the plan and make a real difference. We’ve solved impossible problems in the past, from curing small pox to making heavy airplanes fly through the air. But we need money and training and skeptical minds to make that happen.

Thank you for coming out to support science on this forty-seventh earth day. Here are a few things you can do to keep this momentum going in the coming days:

Stay informed.

Fight for your constitutional right to vote and the right of every other citizen. And vote in each and every election, no matter how small. Think globally but act locally.

Write and call your representatives, even if you know they don’t agree with you. Let them know your thoughts.

Work on your own ecological footprint – recycle, reduce your energy use, clean your boat so you don’t carry invasive species from lake to lake and pick up trash (let’s leave this place cleaner than when we came).

Stay active. We can work together to end the war on science.

Ask questions. If science is about anything, it’s that. Don’t just believe. Look for the evidence.

And make noise. Science not silence.

Slothful conflict

Ah, the pitfalls of being a writer in the Midwest, where we avoid conflict at all costs. Fortunately I'm not originally from here, although I did grow up in a conflict-adverse household. And that was actually strange since my family has always been very political, which is inherently adversarial. I guess it was a matter of keeping all conflict outside the house. That was an interesting goal. And an utter failure.

There's no such thing as a meaningful relationship without conflict. We tussle with our friends and family because we care. It isn't comfortable, but the fact we're willing to engage is a measure of how much it all matters. Learning to "live and let live" makes our relationships run more smoothly, but it takes some detachment to accomplish.

Both internal and external conflict are critical to good fiction. It's relatively easy to create external conflict for a character. Just drop him in an impossible situation then add more stress. Nothing like starting a character out broke, cold and lonely and having him go downhill from there. 

Internal conflict is a little harder to convey. We all have internal conflicts. I'm afraid of sloths and yet I'm strangely drawn to them. I can't keep my mouth shut about the state of the world, which messes with my need for approval. You get the idea. The difficulty in writing internal conflict isn't thinking up the conflict, it's figuring out a way to telegraph it to the reader without having the character think, "That sloth is terrifying. And yet, I can't stop looking at it. Should I turn away? If I do, will the image still haunt me? Is there something about that sloth that I need to know? Maybe I should become a sloth biologist... or a hunter."

I think this is what's meant by "show, don't tell." Showing the internal conflict at work builds tension and makes us unsure about the final outcome of the story. Telling us what that internal conflict is might be interesting, but not compelling. You're not on the edge of your seat wondering if I'm going to start killing sloths. But you might be if all you had was me shuddering at the image of a sloth, looking away, then looking back, staring hard and maybe fingering my gun.

External and internal conflicts drive the interpersonal conflict necessary for a romance novel. Here in the Midwest we don't do interpersonal conflict. Except, of course, we do. Because otherwise life wouldn't be interesting. Maybe not wearing our conflicts on our sleeves is actually good practice for Midwestern writers, though. Learning to decipher internal conflict body language might be a very useful skill after all.

Now I just have to figure out what my neighbor means by that photo of a sloth that she slid into my mailbox. Does she know about my fears? Or did she think it just another cute pic? I can't ask her, that would be too direct. I'll just have to watch and wait. And plan my revenge.

Holiday love stories

Passover starts next week, which got me thinking about writing holiday stories. As far as I know, with Learning From Isaac, I wrote the only Passover romance out there - certainly the only gay one. And that's what started the whole Tarnished Souls series. 

 

I found writing holiday stories very challenging, maybe because I was writing a year's worth of Jewish holiday stories and  I couldn't write fast enough to keep up with all the holidays. I had to skip a few. Even so, my Purim story came out a few months late. Which didn't really matter because most people don't even know about our party-hardy religious observance day (on Purim you're supposed to drink until you can't tell the difference between right and wrong. I've never understood why more people don't get behind that kind of celebration.)

Writing holiday stories is hard, not just because of the calendar, although it's not easy to get into the Christmas spirit in May. It's also hard to find the right balance between the religious meaning of the holiday and the story needs. It's pretty easy to offend people or to get heavy handed and pedantic. Maybe in the future I should stick to secular holidays, like the 4th of July and Thanksgiving.

Although who knows, maybe this is the year I'll get excited about another Hanukkah story. I guess it's about time to start thinking that through. Outside my office window, the lake ice is just breaking up. Should I be daydreaming about snow?

Anyway, happy Passover to all. I don't have a new Passover story coming out, but I will be celebrating with family and friends. So if you need me over the next few days, I'd try the kitchen.  Happy spring everyone!

Happy Spring

The equinox has come and gone and it's officially spring in the northern hemisphere. Which is good to know as I look out my window at a still frozen lake. The trucks and ice huts are gone, though - a sure sign of spring in Northern Wisconsin.

This is the restless season up here in the cold, but a bit warmer these days, north. It's too warm to ski or ice fish and not yet warm enough to plant. We're on the cusp of mud season, but the ground is still too frozen to coat my boots.

Maybe that's why I've been writing hot weather stories lately. Writing about summer is a way to transport myself out of this in-between season and into the sun. I have two warm weather projects going right now. For one, I'm teaming up with the fabulous Clare London for a love story set on the Oregon Coast, which is never very warm but it's warmer than here. I'm very excited about this project. I love Clare's work and have always wanted to write with her.

My other steamy story is a murder mystery series set in Tanzania. The first book is almost done and I hope it'll come out in the Fall. I'm about to start the followup. Just thinking about that warm sun on my bare shoulders makes me smile. Too bad someone has to die.

Meanwhile I'll watch the snow and ice melt and click my heels three times in hopes that our short, sweet summer will arrive soon. 

Happy Spring! Dev

What do you like best about writing?

Someone asked me this recently and I thought it was an interesting question. The answer is different for everyone and for me, it changes all the time. My stock answer is that I love the moments when the story suddenly transforms. It always feels like magic when changing a few words makes a lifeless scene suddenly vibrant, or brings a character to life, or changes the tone of the whole story. And that happens during edits, so I usually think that editing is my favorite part.

On the other hand, there really is nothing like the feeling when the words are flowing and the story is writing itself. That's a rare event for me, but when it happens it's exhilarating. And that's a first draft thing. So maybe first drafts are my favorite part.

But then there's the moment when I type the end. That's sweet. And release day is exciting and so is holding a paperback copy of my book for the first time. And you know I love readings. 

What I liked about the question was that while there is no doubt that writing can be a lonely, frustrating and exhausting endeavor, focusing on what I like best about it makes me forget all that and feel grateful for all the parts I love. Which is true for everything, isn't it? If I think about the parts of my day job that I like, I don't get quite as irritated at the icky bits. Same with my relationships or the little town where I live.

If you've read my stories, you know that I spend a lot of time thinking about the hard stuff like grief, loss and anger. Mostly I love the promise of redemption at the end of those kinds of love stories. I'm not usually the "look on the sunny side of life" type. But I have to admit that focusing on the good parts is a way to love the work. And loving what I do makes life a lot easier.

I'd love to hear what you like about your work. We're all passionate about something, but sometimes the hard or frustrating or just plain boring parts get in the way. When that happens, what keeps you going?

Sidetracked

The lake is still covered in ice and the temperature this morning was under 10 degrees F but it's March so I'm thinking about spring. Which means I'm obsessing over my vegetable garden.

Here in Northern Wisconsin, the growing season is a short, fragile and precious thing. I can't plant tomatoes until June and the first frost comes in early September. Since I start buying seeds and making sketches in February, it's almost true that I plan for longer than I grow. It's two months yet before I'll get lettuce and spinach seeds in the ground, but I'm already up to my elbows in seed catalogs.

This, of course, has nothing to do with my book writing. Except it does. Because there's only so much time and if I'm gardening, I'm not writing. On the other hand, I can't think of a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon than digging in the dirt and dreaming up terrible scenarios for my poor characters. 

If I bought all my summer vegetables and spent those hours here at the typewriter, I might get another book a year out. But then again, I wouldn't spend those pleasant hours getting filthy and seeing the fruits of my labor sprout up on their own. 

Still, I should probably stop mooning over ingenious plant supports and heirloom seeds. There'll be time enough for that when spring actually comes. Any other northern gardeners out there wishing for a nice warm day so they can get to work?

Researching Delis

There are few things I love more than corned beef with a heavy dollop of mustard and horseradish. Which is probably why I spent way too much time drooling over pictures of sandwiches yesterday. I'm editing a manuscript I wrote quickly a few months ago. There's a scene where the guys share a deli sandwich (I know, could I get more sexy?). One of the guys is from New York, so of course, in his head he compares the sandwich to the best New York deli. When I first wrote the line it went something like "it didn't compare to xxx". 

Yesterday I had to give xxx a real name. When I'm writing about places, I vacillate between using real venues and making something up. Often I go for the entirely fictional to make sure I don't get anything wrong. For example, the town of Lacland in Nobody's Home exists only in our minds. And a lovely place it is.

But this time I decided to user the real thing so I googled best deli in New York. There's some controversy about which deli is best, but after reading the reviews and looking at the luscious l photos, I went for Katz's. It has a nice Jewish name and has been around a while, so I figure they have to know how to do pastrami. Do let me know if I'm wrong.

I'm not sure there's a point to this, other than to share some gorgeous food pictures and to let you know what I'm researching. Food. It's for the book, really. And it's making me hungry....

I think of food as seductive, so it probably ends up in my stories far too much. How about you? What's your go to date food? Or maybe you don't think food and sex go together. Ah, but just look at these figs - almost orgasmic all by themselves, don't you think?

Finding balance

Anyone else out there feeling overwhelmed?

Between work, events in my personal life, some writing deadlines and the need to spill out onto the street in protest periodically, I've been feeling seriously time-short lately. During the best of times I tend to ride the line between doable and chaos pretty hard. Obviously, these aren't the best of times.

 

 

Here's what I think I should do when things get to be too much:

  • Take a deep breath
  • Assess what's really important and triage
  • Calmly and methodically go through my tasks one by one until they're all finished.

Here's what I actually do:

  • Panic
  • Whine
  • Run around getting nothing done but making a lot of noise.

Of course, the big problem is finding a way to carve out both time and head space for creative work, which really is the most important stuff I do, even if it's often the first to go.

Maybe I should quit sleeping. 

How about you? What do you do when you're overwhelmed?

 

Except from Buyout - A Love Story (coming 2/8)

Here's the first scene in Buyout. I hope you enjoy it. 

Chapter ONE

I stood in the doorway and stared at the bodies writhing beneath stark white sheets. I’d forgotten a file at home and had come back unexpectedly. The two men didn’t hear me at first, and I had time to wonder how long this had been going on and what kind of fucking STDs and other germs Aiden had been bringing home. And how much it would cost to make him go away. We’d been together six months. In the beginning there had been candlelight and champagne and plenty of sex, and I’d thought I loved him. But now, as I watched him, I realized he’d already faded into the severance package category—beautiful young men with perfect bodies, who weren’t right and never could be.

I should have turned around and left right then, before they saw me. But I stood for a moment too long, and Aiden glanced over his shoulder. Color drained from his face. For two beats he stared at me with his mouth open.

Then came a stream of predictable words, apologies, excuses. It hurt almost as much to hear how stupid he thought I was as it did to see his skin tinged red with excitement from another man’s touch. I raised my hand to make him stop talking.

The room fell silent. The other guy, a slender, handsome man with dark glistening skin, edged himself out of bed. He picked up a pair of blue briefs. As he slid them over his perfectly defined thigh muscles, I wondered if he worked at the same modeling agency as Aiden.

It didn’t matter.

I turned back to the man who had gone from my lover to my ex in a fraction of a second. “I’m going to Amsterdam tonight. I’ll be back by the weekend. Will that give you enough time to find a new place?”

“Look, Sean, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m weak. And look at him.” His eyes slid to the black man. He leaned toward me, and his voice dropped as he said, “We could share.”

Caught in the middle of our domestic ugliness, the poor guy was dressing quickly. His expression was shut down, like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he was right at that moment. I didn’t blame him. I felt the same. The last thing I wanted was to play out a big scene. The truth was that our affair had been over for weeks. I just hadn’t been paying enough attention to realize it.

I focused on my lover’s lover, the only relatively innocent person in the room. “Don’t be embarrassed. This isn’t your fault.”

“Fucking right it isn’t his fault,” Aiden snapped at me. “He’s not the one always taking off for Amsterdam or Hong Kong or some other fucking place, leaving me to entertain myself.”

“Which you seem very capable of doing.” I moved past him to the closet. I pulled out the suitcase I’d packed the night before. “I’ll get out of your way and let you get back to it.”

“Sean, wait.” He grabbed my arm. “Where will I go?”

I stared first at Aiden’s hand on my arm and then I met his gaze. I looked for it. I did. But the panic in his eyes had nothing to do with love. He stood there, naked. And to top it all off, I didn’t see any condoms around the bed or on his fucking cock.

I shook my head, disgusted. It really was time to offer the severance package. “Stay through the end of the month. I’ll find somewhere else to live in the meantime. And if you’re desperate, I’ll send over a check to cover first, last, and deposit on a new place.”

He relaxed, his hand dropping away from my arm. “Thanks Sean. You’re a real gentleman.”

I closed my eyes. I was thirty-six, relatively attractive, financially stable, healthy—with the exception of an occasional migraine—and alone. Again. It always hurt when my delusions got shattered. Until the next pretty man came along to make me want to believe. What would be next? An actor? A dancer? Whoever he was, he’d be delightful when I met him but not when he left.

I knew that paying their rent for a few months after they left was a defense mechanism. And an atonement. I was always making up for Martim, the man I’d abandoned years before. The one that got away. Except that he haunted my dreams, and his face always filled my mind when it was time to let the pretty boys go. Martim, who had been the best thing that ever happened to me, perfect until it all went wrong and I’d kicked him out on a cold night with no place to go. If I could take that back, I would. But all I could do was to pay off a stream of new, young, bad boys, even when they didn’t deserve it. None of them were Martim. And never would be.

It wasn’t until I was out in the hallway that I realized I’d left the damned file. Fuck it. It wasn’t worth going back in there. I’d just have to do without.

Buyout - A Love Story .... coming 2/8

Buyout - A Love Story, is a sweet little novella set in Lisbon. It's all about redemption and second chances. Sean and Martim loved each other a long time ago. Turns out the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Everyone deserves a second chance. Or do they? Sean and Martim fell in love at Harvard. Things broke apart when Martim fell into a downward spiral of addiction after his father died. Sean kicked him out but has regretted it ever since. He’s never gotten over losing Martim. But then, not many aspects of his life have lived up to his collegiate dreams.

When he’s sent to evaluate Martim’s family hotel for foreclosure, Sean is once again in the position to put Martim out on the street. In the time since they parted, Martim has pulled himself together, although both health and financial problems linger as a result of his years as an addict. Can the two men bridge the gap of distance and time to rekindle their relationship, or will they fall apart again under the burdens of guilt and disease? 

Set in Lisbon, Portugal, this is the story of lovers reunited after more than a decade apart, and their second chance at romance.

The story comes out February 8th and available NOW for preorder on DreamspinnerAmazonB&N and Kobo.

I love Catt Ford's cover.

BuyoutALoveStory_FBprofile_OptizimedForFeed.jpg

 

 

Survive Anything Brownies

As we come into the new year - and it could be a very challenging new year at that - I thought I'd share my favorite serious chocolate, all grown-up, brownie recipe. The only sugar comes from the bittersweet chocolate and the semi-sweet chocolate. If you like your brownies sweeter, feel free to add some extra sugar. I like mine to have the tart taste of extra dark chocolate, but that's just me. With or without extra sugar, these are rich, bittersweet and perfect for serious chocoholics. 

Survive Anything Double-Chocolate brownies

Ingredients:
9 ounces bittersweet chocolate
7 Tbs unsalted butter
3 eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 Tbs left over coffee
1/2 cup milk
1 cup sour cream
1.5 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 bag (or more if you like) semi-sweet chocolate chips
Sugar (optional)

 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 

Melt bittersweet chocolate and butter in the microwave (about 2 minutes).  When it’s completely soupy set aside to cool.

Beat three eggs in a large bowl at medium-high speed until thick and pale. Add vanilla extract, coffee, milk and sour cream. Beat until fully mixed (just seconds). Reduce speed to low, add chocolate mixture. 

Whisk flour, baking powder and salt (and sugar if you must) together then fold the flour mixture in with the rest and add the chocolate chips.

Grease the sides of a 9 x 12 inch cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper.  Cover with batter and smooth the surface with a spatula. Bake until cooked through, about a half hour (test with a toothpick to make sure). Allow brownies to cool before cutting.

Eat, share and repeat until everything’s okay.