Various shit...

* Okay, I just started feeding my blog through Goodreads, so if you look at my goodreads.com page, you can see the blog highlight. And because of that, I actually (get this) HESITATED giving this post a swearword in the title. *shakes head* Seriously-- like someone who reads my fiction is gonna be put off by a widdle bit o shit...

* The gods were truly making sure I REALLY wanted to go to the gym today. First there were the church people on my doorstep, then there was the road construction, then there was the e-mail with my cover art for Making Promises... Okay. I know. I should be strong enough to put that off. But this was the second go round with the cover art, and I'm having a hard time making myself clear. (Really Amy? Not being succinct enough? You?)

I think the idea that the two guys are in Ren Faire costumes is giving the artist the wrong impression. Now, this was not my first choice of covers--I had an idea for a treasure box, because that's a key component, but everyone kept telling me that it was too static and wouldn't make a good cover. Apparently, people want to see, you know, PEOPLE, so even though that was my first choice, my second choice was the two guys, in costume, leaning against the car. The problem is that I think the artist assumes that because they're two gay men in costume, that they're sort of happy/smiley/sweet/fun guys.

Not these guys. I had to explain that for THESE guys, the Ren Faire was sort of a symbol-- if you could build a fantasy land in the middle Gilroy (Garlic capitol of the drought ridden dust hills of central California) these two damaged souls might have a snowball's shot in hell. They are both fierce, defensive men with a CARTLOAD of damage, and this little tete' a'tete was NOT happy, smiley, chummy, sweet, pally, riotous, or fun. Zero fun, sir. Ten buckets full of doing the porcupine waltz in a minefield, sir. That, and one of my protags is described as being 'six-feet-two-hundred-pounds of hairy, graceless good will'. Quite frankly, one of the guys was too compact and too cute to be my stocky, furry cop with six dogs, five cats, and a habit of getting hurt on the job simply because he makes himself a target.

And then I felt like a complete dick, because I hated turning the picture down not once but twice. I'm sure the poor artist wants MY picture so he can throw sharpened red fountain pens at it, but, well, the imagination wants what the imagination wants, and I don't know what to say about that.

* Okay, moving on. The kids are in rehearsal for a giant recital in a couple of weeks. Now normally, this would be me, in traffic, and getting SCADS of knitting time out of the deal, but Mate is signed on for one of the dances (father/daughter dance w/both Squish and Chicken. I feel bad. They're working their asses off so I can sit in the balcony at Grant High School and cry my eyes out) so I stay home and he takes them. He's exhausted. He's so exhausted, I have to make him go to bed every night--and I remember when I was doing this gig and working full time and I wonder how I did it. but I do get some time to write when he's gone--that's SO welcome. I was starting to feel like I had to declare sleep an illegal activity.

* Oh yeah-- at water aerobics on Monday, I told them to either call me by my real name, or Amy, if they forgot. (For some reason people remember 'Amy'.) When the instructor said, "Those two names are NOTHING alike" I said, "Well, one of them is my pen name."

"Oh--what do you write?"

Now, Mate has always told me to "own the sex in my books". I've sort of lived by that, since I first had to deal with someone going "there's a THREESOME in Vulnerable? What do YOU know about those things?" (Same as I know about vampires and elves, I guess. I read about them and hope they're true.) So, there I was, in the pool with thirty other women, all of them over fifty, and most of them over sixty-five.

"I write fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance."

Stunned silence.

Then, a voice from one poor, optimistic soul in the back. "Well, I *like* FANTASY!"

*sigh* Yeah-- it's gonna be a lonely summer in water aerobics this year!

And tomorrow is Zoomboy's field day and art show, and Chicken's weirdly scheduled day, and, in general, I'm still wondering when the lazy days of summer REALLY begin. But I'm enjoying catnaps with Squish in the morning, so that's something good, right?

Later!