Okay, that drained me. I turned around and leaned on the sink, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “So, this foster home is a couple of hours north of here. Who’s up for a road trip?”
The looks I got ranged from confusion to pure WTF?
Jonathan was the first to speak. “Patch?”
“Where’d this come from?” Cristian stood from the couch, where he and Lala were talking costumes or something.
“Our chat in the car helped. But I don’t want to be like my mom, just throwing me away with barely a care. I want to see her myself before I sign her away. Maybe she’ll get lucky and get a good family.”
“She?” Dean said from my other side.
Since I’m not obsessively checking my cell for posts and shit before breakfast on Sundays, my word count has like…jumped.
I know, duh, but I didn’t really realize it until this week.
Of course, it’s probably going to go straight to hell after this, but it was nice for now.
Also, I’ve seen a peek at the cover for Settling Down, and I haven’t stopped squeeing. I must do a cover reveal. But how?
But since I needed to get that balm on me, I didn’t say anything as he sat on the bed next to me. “Okay, this stuff stinks to high hell – I rub it on Dean’s shoulders when he goes overboard on the weights. But it’s good.”
He wasn’t kidding about the smell when he unscrewed the lid. It was like getting hit in the face with whatever made throat drops work. We both cringed, but Jonathan bravely scooped up some of the white cream and looked right at me. “We’ll start on the shoulder on this side, okay?”
Right, asking for permission before touching me. One of my boundaries that in the time I’d been living with the two of them, I had almost forgotten. I’d accepted shoulder pats and high fives and the one time Dean actually lifted me out of the way of Jonathan’s attempt to run the riding mower. All without a freak out. Maybe it was my good step.
Don’t worry, I don’t mean here.
My really real for real self was getting burned out on her Social Justice Warrioring to the point that she was getting even more depressed than determined. Even snarking at the commenters who tried to fuck around didn’t cheer her up anymore.
So, as of last Friday, she closed her Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr tags, and for the next two weeks, there will be no checking on anything.
So far, she’s been playing a lot of The Sims 3 and surfing through the time sink that is TV Tropes.
As for me, I’m still here, I’m still writing, and I’m still thinking about things to Facebook or Tweet or even blog. I’ve looked at blogs from some of my favorite writers, and they seem to be slice of life type posts with their writing process or progress sprinkled in. Which is awesome. I’m think I should totally steal that…if more stuff happened to me.
(This may surprise a lot of folks that have met me, especially at GRLs past, but I’m actually quite the recluse)
Ah well, I’m trying my best to be more engaged with y’all.
Not much on my mind, other than missing Prince. I wore purple to go out writing on Sunday. I live in Minneapolis, and the town is like half mourning and half partying, with a block party that lasted all weekend downtown and people over at his home at Paisley Park doing a vigil.
So, with nothing else on my mind, I present to you a bit of my work in progress from the sequel to This Little Whatever, tentative titled How to Solve a Problem Like Patch:
I nodded, and sighed. “I’m real fucked up, ain’t I?”
“Welcome to the club, Patch. We’re all a little fucked up here.”
Blink. Did Dean just curse?
Before I could even react to that, he was sliding out off the stool. “Look, panic attacks are a real pain, but you’re not alone. I’m glad you came home and not had to spend a night at the ER. You probably didn’t embarass yourself as badly as you think. You can’t be the only person in that group with anxieties.”
“Thanks, Pollyanna,” I got off the stool and grabbed both empty plates as Dean turned on the oven fan to help suck up the scent of glorious pig bits before Jonathan got home. He cooked, so I had the dishes to rinse and put in the dishwasher.
Ollie’s Jock is now all mine again, but it’s a bit too short for resubmit anywhere, so I’ve been thinking about what to do with it.
I did a pretty shit job of promoting it when it came out on Torque Press (then again, I do a shit job at promoting most of my stuff, but this was a far worse case), which is a shame, because I think it’s a hot piece of Dom/Sub smut.
So, I thought about some more, and I think it’s going to be a freebie. I’ll have to get a new cover for it, learn how to format an ebook – thank fuck for Scrivener making that easy. I think it will be a learning experience.
And, in the name of actually promoting myself, here’s the synopsis:
Football jock Larry did well this past semester, thanks to his tutor, “out and proud” Oliver’s help. Due to the rules that keep their social groups separate, thanking Oliver in public is considered a big risk to Larry’s standing with the jocks. Larry takes a chance anyway during the last party of the year, and retaliation is instant and messy.
Afterwards, Larry gets a chance text that sends him straight to Oliver’s apartment. What keeps bringing Larry back to see his tutor? What secrets do the two keep behind closed doors?
Normally I have scheduled two days a week to leave the house, head to the coffee shop, and write for about 2-3 hours: Wednesday and Sunday. This worked great when I was working, just take the bus a few blocks further and there I was during the work week and drive on Sundays.
Then fibromyalgia hit me like a truck and I couldn’t work anymore. Oh boy, more time to write, right?
Wrong. See, I can’t write at home. I can edit, I can go over edits, but I can’t write. First problem is my computer. It’s got too much distraction on it with my games and my Facebook and YouTube and stuff. I use a laptop for all of my authorly stuff. Next problem is a lack of places to comfortably write. I’ve tried writing on the back balcony and in bed and at a table in the office: none are very comfortable for long periods of time before my body just says “Stop or you’ll regret it.”
Then I go, “I already regret this.”
And it goes, “Touche.”
Add the cats who either want all of the pets or are at each others throats and I can’t get shit done. Never mind not being able to afford to pay the toll for spending so much time in the coffee shop: at least two drinks.
Okay, my partner started working from home on Thursdays. Perfect! Two days of driving a week. It was awesome until the days of working from home changed to Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Two days that I usually have therapy.
Now I only have Sundays, which is why this damn novel is taking a million years to write. Trying to figure out how to eek in one more day, maybe even two is going to take some juggling.
But I’ll find a way.
It’s a fact of life that eventually the book you worked super hard on to write is going to end up on some jackhole’s site just giving away the pdf for free.
To call it frustrating would be a gross understatement.
By now, every reader knows the deal: Pirating books take away royalties from authors, it sucks, etc. and so on. But hey, I’m broke, unemployed, and trying to get disability. I haven’t purchased a book since, wow it’s been a while. And I LOVE M/M stories and am a fool for audiobooks.
For me, that means reading free stories, and in some cases, not reading at all. Given that I can’t read while I have a work in progress, this has been quite doable.
For others who are low in the cash department, I understand the temptation. Just, for crying out loud, if you must, don’t get the books from these shitty sites. Some of them are spoofs, some just want your info, some pdf files may just be viruses in disguise, and they just suck. Ask a fellow reader who purchased the book, if you absolutely must. Sure I’ll be missing a royalty, but again, I’m broke and I understand and I’d rather miss one royalty and maybe gain a reader that might buy one of my books when they have the cash than…a lot of them thanks to these shitty sites.
If you can actually afford to buy a book, and pirate it anyway…then I’m kinda hoping that pdf is a virus.