Green's Hill-Amy Lane's Home - News

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

And again, at the gym...

So, Monday. At the gym, after class.

I am sitting in the hot tub, warming up, eyes half closed, doing my neck stretches, and two women about my parent's age get in.

One of them thinks she knows me.

"Hey-- are you Cheryl, the chemical engineer?"

"Uh, no. I'm sorry-- I'm Amy, the romance writer."

"Oh, isn't that nice. Did you hear that? She's a writer!"

"Oh. A writer. I'm telling you, you should write a book about my life."

For the record, most writers will tell you that no good ever came of that statement.  No. Good. Ever came of that statement.

If someone has a a life interesting enough to be memorialized in biography, they will simply start talking and you will be enthralled. It's that simple. If someone has to tell you to break out your    recorder and your laptop from the bra of your swimsuit, you are in for a very... time. You are in for a very time. That's all I've got.

Or so I thought.

"Romance?" this woman said, "Let me tell you about romance. You might not know it, but I used to be hot!"  She is, in fact, a very pretty woman--she told me later she was sixty, but damn. 

"I believe you," I told her. 

"I was so cute, Carlos Santana picked me out of a crowd and I took him home. It was funny-- he spent the entire car ride talking about how he couldn't really commit to a relationship, because he had his music, and I was like, 'Hey, I'm sixteen--I don't want to get married!'  Or was I fifteen and a half? Either way, he gave me my first oral sex. He was pretty good at it too, but he had blackheads. Probably because he sweat a lot on stage. But yeah. I was hot."

And at this point, her friend and I were both like this: 0.0  

"Yeah, I hitchhiked back and forth across the united states after that. Like three, was it four times? I got raped a lot."

And again: 0.0

"I'm sorry?" I said weakly. 

"But that's not romance!" her friend protested. 

"No, but it's my life! I got raped three times. No, four. But the fourth time didn't count. The fourth time it was a Hell's Angel. He didn't get me that time. I told him I was going to pretty my self up for him, and my friend and I moved our entire apartment in two hours. We had to. He knew where we lived."

"Well, uh, that's awful. I'm so very sorry that happened to you."  

Remember, we are still in a hot tub. 

"It is what it is. I'm not much about being a victim. I'm sort of over it. But you know. It's my life."

And her friend. "But it's not romantic!"

"Well who needs romance?  My life hasn't been romantic. Why am I worried about romance?"

"Because that's what she writes!"

"Oh. I"m sorry. I got lost in the past. Would we recognize your name?"

"Uh, no," I said, still stunned. Also, I was getting hot--it was time to get out. 

"Okay. Well, nice talking to you. Hope I didn't shock you too much. You know, not romantic, but it's my life."

As I got out, I had to acknowledge I was wrong. This woman DID need someone to write her life in a book. Not mine, maybe, but yes. It should be recorded. 

Not romantic, but that was really fucking real. 

Monday, May 2, 2016

Kermit Flail-- Welcome to May!

Okay, so this month's crop of Kermit Flail looks TREMENDOUS. 

We start with the sumptuous and extraordinary Devon Rhodes and what looks to be a pretty hot threesome, move on to the adorable E.J. Russell and a paranormal story which looks deliciously angsty.  Next, we have Alexa Milne and a *happy sigh* fallen angel story (I'm a fan!) and last (but not least!) a gorgeously covered urban fantasy finale from Lissa Kassey.  Quirky, happy, angsty, and lovely-- I think we have some serious winners here and I'm proud to host them on my blog.

I've been a proud DSP author since 2009, with If I Must, and since I was there in their first three years, ALL of my DSP titles are on sale at 40% off at DSP!  That's pretty tremendous-- I've got a great backlist there--and so does Mary Calmes, Andrew Grey, Ariel Tachna, and MANY MANY MANY MANY more!  I'm so proud to work with the people at DSP--I'm so glad it's been my home.

Anyway-- go visit Dreamspinner Press and see who else is on sale-- and DEFINITELY check out some of the authors here. It's looking like a great May!


Naughty By Night
by Devon Rhodes

Normally, finding the hot neighbor in bed with your boyfriend would be the end—not the beginning—of a wonderful relationship.

Marty can’t catch a break. Unable to confess to his neighbor Kevin that it’s Kevin he’s interested in, he ends up using advice to make a move on Jason instead. He moves too slowly, though, and Kevin and Jason end up dating each other, leaving Marty out in the cold.

Everything changes the morning Jason wakes up to find Marty in bed with him and Kevin. Jason wonders whether he’s made a big mistake in committing to Kevin. Marty’s mortified—he’s wanted Jason from afar for ages, but never had the courage to act on it. And Kevin is plotting something naughty that will give all three men what they’ve wanted all along.

Link at Pride Publishing

Amazon Pre-order

Stumptown Spirits

by E.J. Russell

What price would you pay to rescue a friend from hell?

For Logan Conner, the answer is almost anything. Guilt-ridden over trapping his college roommate in a ghost war rooted in Portland’s pioneer past, Logan has spent years searching for a solution. Then his new boyfriend, folklorist Riley Morrel, inadvertently gives him the key. Determined to pay his debt—and keep Riley safe—Logan abandons Riley and returns to Portland, prepared to give up his freedom and his future to make things right.

Crushed by Logan’s betrayal, Riley drops out of school and takes a job on a lackluster paranormal investigation show. When the crew arrives in Portland to film an episode about a local legend of feuding ghosts, he stumbles across Logan working at a local bar, and learns the truth about Logan’s plan.

Their destinies once more intertwined, the two men attempt to reforge their relationship while dodging a narcissistic TV personality, a craven ex-ghost, and a curmudgeonly bar owner with a hidden agenda. But Logan’s date with destiny is looming, and his life might not be the only one at stake.

Buy at Publisher

A Bell Rings
by Alexa Milne

Sometimes you only need to believe.

Raziel Slade and Jack Hastings have been best friends since Raz saved Jack’s life twelve years ago. Only Jack doesn’t remember Raz at all and he certainly doesn’t remember falling in love with him. Now that Jack has moved in with his university housemates, explicit dreams begin of a blue-eyed male stranger. Needing a new flatmate after his best friend moves out, Jack is introduced to Raziel Slade who has extraordinary blue eyes. Jack has no idea how to cope with his attraction to the man.

Raziel Slade has a secret—he used to be an angel. He fell in love with Jack Hastings and happily became human, but the angels aren’t prepared to let him go, so they steal him back. All Raz wants to do is return to his lover any way he can.

When a film brings back Jack’s memories, will he feel the same as he did when he finds out what Raz gave up for him? And are the angels finally ready to let Raziel, the Keeper of Secrets, go?

Publisher's Note: This book is a sequel to Not Every Time.

Buy at Publisher 

Candy Land
by Lissa Kasey

Cameron “Candy” Michelson Jr. doesn’t have time for distractions. He’s too busy restructuring the red-light district into an adult playland for City M and running the Hidden Gem. But when his companion, Avery “Ivy” Laurent, grows closer to Jack, an investigator for the Institute of Scientific Study, Candy can’t hide his jealousy. Nor his own interest in Jack.

Ivy is crazy about Jack, but he’s also in love with Candy. Ideally, Ivy longs for all three of them to be together, but between Jack’s nonexistent libido and Candy’s supercharged needs, Ivy isn’t sure how to make it work.

When Jack gets called in to help the City M police department investigate a series of violently murdered companions, both Candy and Ivy brace for trouble. But nothing prepares them for Candy becoming the prime suspect.

In a future landscape of corrupt government officials, brutal BDSM crimes, and a host of dark creatures, Candy, Ivy, and Jack must work together to find the killer, save themselves—and learn how to trust each other.

Buy at Amazon 

by Amy Lane

One year ago, actor Connor Montgomery lost the love of his life to a drunk driver. But what’s worse for Connor is what he still has: a lifetime of secrets born of hiding his relationship from the glare of Hollywood. Unable to let go of the world he and Vinnie shared, Connor films a drunken YouTube confession on the anniversary of Vinnie’s death.

Thankfully, the video was silent—a familiar state for Connor—so his secret is still safe. He needs a fresh start, and a new role on the hit TV show Wolf’s Landing might be just that.

The move to Bluewater Bay may also mean a second chance in the form of his studio-assigned assistant. Noah Dakers sees through Connor’s facades more quickly than Connor could imagine. Noah’s quiet strength and sarcastic companionship offers Connor a chance at love that Hollywood’s closet has never allowed. But to accept it, Connor must let Vinnie go and learn to live again.
Buy at Amazon

Sarcasm Family

Took a trip out to the Millertown house to see my MIL today. It was a lovely day, we brought dogs and sandwiches, and I think she enjoyed herself. Her health hasn't been great--I worry, and so does Mate. His mom is one of those funny, dry people who's heart is so big her tiny body can barely hold it. I want her around for a while more.


My family was in fine form talking to her--the kids have gotten good at telling funny stories.  And today, it occurred to me that, gee. I've managed to raise a sarcastic brood of turkeys, and I love every mutant feather of them--but they're not everybody's favorite fowl.

When Chicken was ten, my aunt was talking about how her boys hadn't yet gotten sarcastic.  I said, "Yeah, Chicken is fluent in sarcasm. I have no idea how that happened."

"I got it from you--thanks a lot, Mom!"

Of course, she didn't just get it from me--and this following exchange between Squish and Dad proves it:

Squish: I don't know why we just can't play  Simon says!

Mate: Fine. We'll play. Get up.

Squish: Okay. *gets up*

Mate: You're out.  Simon didn't say.

So, it's true--the kids are learning from masters.  As our discussion about Mother's Day and a very trendy cooking appliance sort of demonstrates:

Mate: Do you want anything for Mother's Day?

Me: No, I'd like it to pass like any other day, without flowers, chocolates, or promises you don't intend to keep.

Mate: Seriously.

Me: Seriously, yes, I 'd like some acknowledgment for the four kids pushed out of my weehoo. But flowers and lunch would be fine.

Mate: So you don't want a Sous-Vide?  (pronounced "soo-vee"--  I did not know how to spell it until I just looked it up.)

Me: No.

Zoomboy: What's a Sous-Vide?

Mate: It's a pot of water with a timer, so you can set the timer and put in a vacuum packed package of food and the water will heat up the food and keep it that temperature as long as you want!

Me: It's an excuse for grown people to have a science experiment on their stove and to use it to cook steak.

Mate: That's fair. So you don't want a Sous-Vide for $200 to prove our love?

Me: No. I can't plan a regular meal. You expect me to vacuum pack food and then pull it out and put it on the pot to boil? Who did you marry?

Zoomboy: So you don't want a deluxe Sous-Vide for $500 to prove we'd love you more if you could cook?

Me: No.

Squish: Do you want a broken one for $2.00 with a black plate and stuff falling off of it to prove that we couldn't think of anything else and went shopping for you at the last minute?

Me: No. But by all means keep up the sarcasm. That's the best Mother's Day Present in the world!

Zoomboy: Besides the butt-cookies Geoffie brings you, right?

Me: Yeah. Besides those.  Flowers, people. It's a thing.

*  *  *

Of course, I can't guarantee the flowers, but on the visit to Millertown Mate's mom told us that the deer had been crapping in her yard. Geoffie determinedly brought me several excellent examples of this new kind of butt-cookie that she then ate for dessert.

Seriously. Flowers. They're a thing.

Sunday, May 1, 2016

Much Needed Break

So, Mate's job has been sort of wonky this week. The company is laying off around ten percent of it's staff, and although Mate is safe (for this round, at least--neither of us ever suffer from overconfidence in our abilities) it has taken a toll on him. Yesterday I went to an impromptu lunch (at a brew pub!) for one of Mate's best friends, who had been escorted from the building by, as Mate described them, "Anna Kendrick clones from Up In The Air."
I talked to all his friends--including a new and aspiring writer, whom I advised. (He was so proud--he brought copies of his book to sell to his friends. Self-pubbed crime noir--he's a brave man!) And I had a few words with Mate's boss, who is a lovely woman.

"How you doing, hon?" 

She looked at me shakily. "It's been a crappy week."

That summed up everybody's assessment, and I've been extra special careful of Mate this week. It hurts losing your friends to corporate attrition, and we've made tentative plans for what should happen if he's forced to relocate to the Bay Area, where cost of living is roughly equivalent to your first born sold on the black market for parts, and that's just a deposit.

So tonight, when he took us all to a Sac Republic game, and ran into a bunch of his work and soccer friends completely by accident, it was a good night.

And I actually watched the game.

And our kids got Dippin' Dots--and out of the house. The out of the house was key-- I've had a couple of editing deadlines this week, and Mate has been sort of tuckered as well. Today was a napping day for the both of us, so getting the kids into the out was a moral and parental victory.

The Sacramento Republic lost-- 0-1-- but we enjoyed the game.

And as a whole, it was a much needed break.

(But not conducive to writing a ficlet this weekend, dammit! I'll try tomorrow, or next week or something. Sorry!)


Friday, April 29, 2016

But yes, I made it to lunch...

So a few months ago, this absolutely wonderful woman named Karen Rose hunted me down on e-mail and said she loved my work. (I'm totally name-drop-bragging now. I realize this.)  I was tickled and awed-- because I had JUST uploaded like, six of Karen's books onto my Kindle. I've said it before-- het suspense is one of my favorite author candies, and Karen's books looked like they were just what I needed.

They were.  They are wonderful examples of the genre, and her characters--warm, awesome, unique, alive, frustrating, endearing, flawed and fanTASTIC.

I'm on book four, and I'm totally going to shotgun everything she's written.

So, Karen was going to be in town visiting another friend (rhymes with Brenda Novak. Okay, it's Brenda Novak. Yes, I know who that is too. *squeal*) and she wanted to meet, and could I meet?

Oh YES I could definitely meet for lunch.

I put it on the calendar. April 28th. Hm... April 28th... is there anything... well, it's my nephew's birthday-- but he's 25-- I don't think he'll care too much if I don't show up after his shift at the warehouse with a cake. Oh wait! His birthday's on the 29th! Still not showing up, and no-- I have nothing doing.

Huzzah! I'm going to lunch to meet a new friend.

And all I had to do this morning was write some e-mails of vital importance, and then a friend called with a must-have chat, and then I'd forgotten to pay a bill and those people called and then--

Oh! Hey-- another friend is knocking on my door. She has the day to putz around, and maybe we could have lunch?

Uh... sorry? No? Come in though and hang out! You know where the cold cuts are and the dogs love you. Now scuse me while I spazz around my computer and finish up what I'm doing and hey-- oh my God!  It's 11:15! I haven't showered--how in the hell did that happen!

So I run in to the bedroom to gather my clothes, and have a no-shit-three-minute panic attack of what do you wear when lunching with a friend in Citrus Heights (not known for fashion here folks!) and while I"m in the middle of that... 

Chicken calls. She hasn't slept in three days and she's non-verbal and she has three miles before she gets home.

The whole world stops as I talk to her about random things and she sees her house and Karen texts me and says she's at our cafe but don't hurry!

You BET I hurried. The minute Chicken got home I took off in a flurry-- three minute shower in cold water, fuck it all I'll wear this, make-up on in the car on the way oh... "Goodbye, Wendy, I'll see you after I pick the kids from school, thanks for stopping by, later, ciaou!"

And into traffic I go.


I got there just about when I said I would--and lunch was lovely. And she was even lovelier. I recognized the rhythm of a true storyteller in her speech and just settled down to listen.

I want to have many many more lunches with this woman, because people? She's amazing.

But next time, I'm going to send the ever-loving universe a copy of my schedule with the date blacked out.

The universe knows why.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

The Five Senses Blog Tour-- Amy's Day

With a hypersensitivity to smell, an autistic person may find smells intense and overpowering. This can cause toileting problems. It may also mean they dislike people with distinctive perfumes, shampoos, etc.

This is part of R.J. Scott's blog hop, and you can find the other posts HERE--and they're wonderful. 

Hi, all!  

So, I'm part of the Five Senses Blog Tour--and proud to be a part of it.  Although my oldest son was diagnosed with a Communication Handicap, when he was younger (he is college aged now) many of the children in his special education classes were diagnosed with autism. I have volunteered in his classroom, in my younger children's dance classes, in their actual classrooms--I have worked first hand with many children with autism, and I am very much aware:

I never know enough.

 I am not used to touching students or children. As a high school teacher, with nearly grown students, I got lots of hugs, but it was always mutual and there was a question/response pattern. I'd extend my arms, the kids would go in for a hug. Often I would ask, "Want a hug?"  And the kid would go in.  So when I was asked to supervise a group of twenty kids under eight at the last minute, with no toys, no instructions really, and about four hours to kill, I was very ginger about the hand on the shoulder to get attention, or the redirect. But Chance was having difficulties--I didn't blame him, he was bored silly.  Chance doesn't talk much, and although we'd established a "play pen" of sorts using gym mats and my helper had read half the kids a story while the other half colored, these were not Chance's activities, and he was losing his mind. He was also tired and hungry--this was at a dance recital rehearsal, and his mother was one of the teachers. We offered snacks, but they were not his snacks, and on the whole, the entire moment was too loud, too over stimulating and too crowded.

He kept trying to make a break for it by running past me.

I kept stopping him and asking him to go back.

The third time he did it, I was at a funky angle and caught him-- wrapping my arms around his chest.

He went limp. Just limp inside my arms.

I remembered reading once that some autistic children liked that pressure around their torsos--that it grounded them, calmed them down. Chance was in a strange situation that was NOT ideal--and somebody was holding him in his comfort place.

We only had another half an hour--I kept my hold around his chest for most of that time. When the rehearsal was over, his mom came and asked him how things went--and I said pretty good, once I figured out what he needed in the situation.

She smiled and told me he loved that.  

It was sort of funny-- that year, my own son, with his chronic ADHD started in Chance's mother's class. And she was the first ballet teacher he ever had who knew how to redirect him with a hand on his shoulder. Nobody else had tried that--they just yelled at him until he sort of came back from the zoo.

I think being a parent of a child with special needs makes us better people as a whole. Very often we stop looking at the external symptoms of a child's behavior--tantrums, spaciness, short temple, mood swings--and we start looking at the underlying root cause.  It makes us less about yelling and more about adapting. It makes us better communicators.

About two years ago I rounded the corner at RWA and ran smack into a group of mothers with writer ID's, talking about their children. Hey-- my kind of conversation, I jumped right in. These mothers had just met, had rounded the corner just like I had and were waiting for a panel to start and BOOM. Five women in a parent's support group when we'd thought we were at a writer's conference.

All of us had children with some sort of special communication need. Lucky me, I had two.

I started to wonder--what were the odds of that? That all of us possessing skills at communication had been given the task of caring for children who needed--in particular--parents with that skill.  

And then I wondered if the child had been given to the parents with the skill set-- or the skill set hadn't evolved around the child. 

I know my adventures with my children have made me more empathetic than I ever was in my callow youth--and that makes me a better storyteller. So I am grateful for all I've learned from my children.

And I remember Chance's mother, putting a gentle hand on my son's shoulder, and I think that perhaps that's true for all of us. Communicating with a child who has autism or a cognitive disability isn't easy--but I love the person it has turned me into.  

If you're lucky, being a parent makes you a better person--it's one of the best parts of parenthood. I'll stand by that. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

The Scorpion on the Moon

So, sorry about slacking off on the ficlets-- I left you right in the middle of a whole werewolf thing, and then RT happened.  I'll get back to more of that this weekend I promise--but for now, I'm feeling an odd need for poetry.

But first, Big T's friend asked Neil Gaiman a question--and Neil answered it on tumblr-- the question was about grammar, and, per usual, Neil's response is many shades of perfect:

And now, for some free-form weirdness.  But when is this blog NOT about free form weirdness?

*  *  *

The Scorpion on the Moon

I saw him, in the shadows, a pale young man
Touched by the light of the moon.
The light glowed on his skin
Turned his cheekbones into swords,
His canines lengthened
The sign of immortal doomed.

The moon was my friend.

It showed me his secrets
The gentle and tender
The touch at the heart of his
Shadowed divinity.
His lips gently curved
In a smile for me
Even as his fangs pierced
My throbbing vein.

The moon was my friend.

I fell in love with a vampire
In the light of the full moon.

There is a scorpion hiding
In the shadow on the moon--
Like a poisonous car
In a darkened garage.

It scuttles with spider-legs
Stealthy and furtive
Where is it now? The danger

The moon waxes, the scorpion huddles
Oh, only the shadows!
It plans it's advance.

Where is it now? A liquid puzzle,
Armed with it's venom
And flesh-stripping claws!


My flesh has been torn!
The barb's pierced my heart!
I grow cold and pale from a surprise attack!

Oh! Oh no!

My lover's been punctured,
His skin and flesh scraped
Back from cold bones!
He's blood now, not moonlight!
A corpse rotting in plain sight
Another victim
Of the cold Scorpion moon.

I sit now in sunlight
And yearn for my lover,
Not warmed by the day.
Sunshine! Sweet sunshine!
Spills over my eyes, my cheeks
And my throat,
A lover's touch at my breast.

I do not dwell in the night.
The joy of cold starlight
Forever denied.
My lover is ashes
My hope scattered with it.

The light in the darkness
Burns cold strips on my skin.

The moon was never my friend.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Dragonflies and Peacocks

 So, now that I'm home and things are recovering their normalcy, I am back to taking walks every day and knitting. (And writing and editing and picking kids up and napping--I'm a SPECTACULARLY consistent napper) but the walks and the knitting bring me special joy.

So, this morning, as I was walking, I stopped to smell a flower. Yes, you read that right--just like in the books, I STOPPED to SMELL a FLOWER. And it was only lightly scented, but I realized I was sharing a flower with this guy, and he made such a pretty picture I took it.

Of course, me, being me, walked away and wondered, "Gee, did I post a picture of a dead dragonfly on Twitter, cause he was awfully still..." but let's pretend that's not a possibility and I just caught him in the middle of a nap.


A dragonfly nap.

We'll stick to that story, okay?

And someone posted the T-shirt on my FB page and I... I WANT IT my people, I WANT IT. Of course Mate has been very indulgent of me, especially as I was losing my shit over getting everything to RT, and I am already up a couple in the crazy knitter lady T-shirts... BUT... BUT... *sigh*  I'll settle for showing you the picture here.

Is. So. Awesome.

I'll console myself with the thought that they probably don't have my size.

And lastly...

I may have mentioned that during  Cinema Craptastique at RT I sat behind the screen and pressed Play and Pause while Damon made us laugh about a terrible movie. I was knitting between play and pause, and while Damon joked that it looked like a big woolen condom (ITCHY!) I kept smiling at Tere Michaels, RT coordinator extraordinaire and the person who was working our tweet wall. And hoping that she didn't figure out that the shawl (NOT a condom!) was for her.

I finished the shawl on Thursday and gave it to Tere Friday morning (I think? It all sort of blurs together.)  And the thing with giving it to Tere was funny-- I loved giving it to her because she's my friend, but that shawl practically BEGGED to be made for her.

I know peacocks. With the exception of Mate and Chicken, my entire family loves bright colors. The most subdued we get is burgundy, and that's my stepmom, but usually she's brightly dressed to match the season. (And nail polish and earrings. She's adorable, just take my word for it.)  But peacocks. Jewel tones. Deep, lush colors. Bold, bright color ways.

I mean, I myself am a self-proclaimed color slut--even my LYS owner doesn't know what I'll walk away with from one day to the next.

And this ball of yarn was one of those things. It was a palette of neutrals with a subtle strip of rose. And it was long enough--just barely--to make a shawl.  I knew maybe two people who would really love this shawl, and Tere was the one who was about to finish a Herculean task, and so it went to her.

She loved it--and I loved giving it to her (for one thing, she's always cold--she's a perfect recipient of knitted items, that is all I am saying) and I was suddenly seized with the idea to knit MORE SHAWLS, MOAR, but in PEACOCK COLORS, for all of my peacock friends!

I backed that down to a scarf. But you can see my dilemma... so... many... scarves... so little time!

Heh heh heh... I'll just have to keep knitting!

Overheard in My House

Mate to dogs: C'mere. No, you don't need to lick me. No, I don't care about that. No, stop getting excited. Listen. This is important. Don't chase the cats. You heard me. Don't. Chase. The cats! Do we understand?

Dogs: *chase cats chase cats chase cats*

Me: Yeah, I don't think they get it.

*  *  *  *  *

Squish: So, I'm reading this book where the one witch is always eating chocolate and we don't know why and then the other girl can turn her desk into chocolate.

Me: That's handy.

Squish: The teacher in the book says it's not a good talent though.

Me: I think that's one of the best talents EVER.

Squish: Right? Stupid teacher.

*  *  *  *  *

Me: Zoomboy, did you just pick your nose?

Zoomboy (with finger up nose): No.

Me: Go away.

Zoomboy scampers in his father's direction.


Mate: Go wash your hands!

Zoomboy: DAMMIT!

* * * * *

Chicken, on text, after calling me to talk about her heinously shitty day at work: That was a funny cat video mom. So cute. Just like my cat. I love you. You're awesome. And beautiful. I love you so much.

Me: Go home, turtle, you're drunk.

Chicken: How'd you know????

*  *  *  *  *

Big T: Mom--so, that thing in the fridge?

Me: The thing with the steak from mine and daddy's dinner?

Big T: Yeah. Can I have that?

Me: You can have the prime rib, but the other one is daddy's.

Big T: Dammit.

Me: You already ate the prime rib, didn't you.

Big T: It was AWESOME.

*  *  *  *  *

And of course, Mom's everyday refrain of "What the hell is that smell!!!!"

Ah, home.

Saturday, April 23, 2016

Help, I need a backhoe!

The problem with running off from the farm to join the circus is that while you're trying to be a clown, the cowshit is backing up and the chickens keep laying eggs in full nests.

In short, I'm buried.

B.U.R.I.E.D. Hence, this little conversation between me and my conscience. Fucking conscience. Needier than the damned dogs:

* * *

"Wait, Amy, when's that novel due?"

"The fifteenth of April-- did you hear the deadline fly by?"


"Neither did I. I think it hit a wall-- I need to clean it up and finish the damned book."

"Wait, Amy-- don't you have an edit on your desk?"

"Which one?"

"I don't know, which one do you work on for ten hours on Wednesday?"

"That was Fish Out of Water-- that one got turned in. But I've got another one."

"Great-- short?"

"No. Part two of Rampant."

"Oh God, so, long then?"

*Amy rolls her eyes*  "Anyway-- I've got an edit on my desk."


"And a date with my husband."


"I just finished launching Selfie."


"A book due June first after the one that was due the fifteenth?"


"I still haven't done laundry from Vegas?"


"I'm sorry! It's all delicates! When my brain is backed up I get boggled by delicates."

"Anything else?"

"Me and the kids need to do something fun tomorrow or they'll start telling people I'm not their real mother."

*pets*  "Well, you know, their real mother could probably cook."

"Shut up."

"It's true!"

*Amy grumbles*  "I bought them pizza bites!"


"I'm a little busy, okay?"

"Yeah, if you're so busy, Amy Lane, why are you having a long conversation with your conscience on your blog, while more shit piles up in your e-mail?"

*sob* "I have no idea."

"Stop fucking around and get to work--remember, your exercise regimen starts on Monday!"

*weeps quietly*  "Yeah. Fine. I"ll write some more."

*conscience cracks whip*  "Yeah, you writers--you go out to a convention and think you can get away from us. Ha! Writers are at the mercy of their conscience. You, Amy Lane, are your super-ego's bitch."

"Oh Jesus, shut up. I'm writing until one, and then I'm going to bed."

"Well done. No sex while you're there--it's too much like fun!"

*Amy cackles evilly to herself*  "I'll call it research. Try and stop the sex NOW, you filthy conscience!"

*Conscience sighs*  "Yeah, yeah... so, sex is a gray area. Keep writing, wench. You got an hour more to go!"

So, uhm, excuse me, y'all-- as you can see, me and my conscience have some is-sues. If you need me, I'll be chained to my keyboard, begging to use the bathroom.