Necessary Nothing

OKay, so some days it's necessary that nothing exciting happen.

I had an edit, I'm behind on a deadline-- you get the picture.

So today was one of those days when a bunch of nothing added up to a pretty decent day--I'll give you the highlights and we'll call it a night.

*  Was debating whether or not to go swimming--Chicken and Stevi were here when I got back from walking the dogs, which often means my A+ in mothering comes from just being in the house and ready to make food. It's an was A, and I'm not ashamed to say I take advantage of it. Anyway, I went to register because I figured I didn't need that grade today, and it turns out I registered too late and couldn't get in.  So I stayed home and earned my easy A in parenting.

Score!

*  I had just enough cash to go get Chinese food and fried chicken from the grocery store. The kids thought I was a goddess because I didn't even cook. (We're all a little over my cooking after the last week. *sigh* I'm so over my own cooking.)

Score!

*  Got to watch three episodes of Mrs. Maisel tonight. Season 1 almost down--LOVE this show, even when it's painful. I was a lot like Midge Maisel when I was her age. Well, maybe not as funny. But I would open my mouth and spill out bibles full of truth and get destroyed and piss people off. It takes a while to realize that just because it's true doesn't mean there's not a better way to say it. 

Which reminds me. Saddest part about Hamilton? Hamilton learned from Washington, from his friends, even from Aaron Burr. Burr never learned. 

Yes, these two things are related, why do you ask?  Nevermind--another blog post.

But still, I grew a little from my Miss Maisel phase. Score!

*  Finished my edit-- score!

* Wrote 2K and blogged-- Score!

Oh!

And the sort of coolest weirdest thing today?

My walk-- which is usually like clockwork-- got totally disrupted today as I attempted to avoid a woman with a stroller, an additional toddler, and a big woof dog. Her big woof dog was VERY interested in my smaller happy dogs, and she had her hands full as it was, so in the end I walked like, an extra quarter mile trying to avoid all of them so her little kid didn't get knocked over by the woof dog dragging the stroller. Anyway--as I was walking back to my car the wrong way (uphill in the sun!) I saw two guys on the football player, sitting in chairs under the one shade tree, playing with drones. They were in their sixties, and looked very happy.

THAT is the way to spend your retirement years.

And I"m gonna call that a win too, because it gave me a goal.

Score!

Damned Offspring

So I was taking Big T home after he came over and did laundry, and as usual, he used the time to tell me how his life is going.

The conversation went like this:

Big T: *general discussion about making friends through a gaming server*

Me: That's nice, honey! You've done fun stuff with these guys?

Big T: Yeah! Also, I've been to some of the music clubs downtown!

Me: That's wonderful.

Big T: I sort of met a group of people there. I met one of the girls through a dating app.

Me: But you met a group of people?

Big T: Yes. It was fun.

Me: How wonderful!  (Everything's wonderful to mommy, yes oh yes it is!)

Big T: Also, you should sort of know, that the girl I met. I"m dating her.

Me: *less brightly*  You have a girlfriend?

Big T: Yeah. We saw each other a couple of times. She's coming over next week. I'm cleaning the house for her.

Me *a little stunned because my spawn has once again buried the lede*: So it's getting serious.

Big T: Yeah. I wasn't going to tell you at first, but then she told me we should just make it official that we're dating.

Me *thinking Really?*:  So that's when you decided to tell me?

Big T: No. She changed her status on FaceBook, and so I did too, because I didn't want her to think I wasn't committed.

Me: So that's when you decided to--

Big T: Grandma and Grandpa saw it. I didn't want you to hear it from them.

Me: Ass. Hole.

Big T: I'm sorry?

Me: Seriously?

Big T: *sighs* I'm sorry.

Me: This is so making the blog.

Big T: Fine.

Me: If I'd heard it from grandma and grandpa, you would have been on your own for laundry.

Big T: Yeah okay.

How do I look, honey?

Here is the transcript of Suzanne Brockman's 2018 RWA Lifetime Achievement award acceptance speech. You don't have to read it now--but trust me. It'll be important.

Okay-- so those of you who have followed me since the beginning are aware that my "look" has changed. Yes, older, and very much fatter, for one thing, but even more, my dress has changed.

When I taught high school I originally started dressing as professionally as possible. Classic suits, hose, nice shoes-- whole nine yards. Then I had one of those days where nothing worked right and I got to my class with my hair down, my heels in my hand and my hose shredded. Instead of laughing at me, the kids a actually relaxed around me, and while I still couldn't dress worth a shit, it didn't matter because mostly I was wearing jeans and T-shirts. Their opinion mattered, my administrations didn't.

By the time I was going to events as a writer, I was... well, badly dressed.

I mean, really badly dressed.

And I was being asked to not just go places, but to go represent. 

My first convention-- GRL, I think-- I decided to wear promotional T-shirts. I asked my husband how I looked while looking over FB posts.

"Well, you look okay, but that big white shirt isn't exactly flattering."

"I, uh, wore one of those every day."

"Oh."

My first RT I wore Hello Kitty T-shirts over black miniskirts and tights. Yes, I was over 40, why do you ask?

My first RWA--2013-- I wore jeans and T-shirts, and the sight of all of those AMAZING writers in their work clothes left me tongue-tied and defensive.

I was not representing.

By 2015 I'd figured things out a bit--and have been dressing like a grownup in public pretty much ever since.

I've become acutely aware of myself when in a crowd of fellow professionals. My wardrobe has expanded, and my self-consciousness diminished just a tad, and hopefully I've learned how to be a grownup in public--and to represent my genre much more responsibly.  It was something fourteen years of disapproving high school administrators could never get me to do, and here I was, doing it all on my lonesome.

It's taken some hard work but it's been worth it. Self-confidence--it's not that I haz it, but I can put on a nice dress and pretend.

So there I was, at RWA 2018 and dressed professionally, when through chance and fateful cockup I ended up having drinks with Suzanne Brockman, her husband Ed, their son, Jason, and his husband, Matt.

They were delightful. Jason has been a longtime reader and he's funny and charming and warm-- the whole family is just awesome. Of all things, Matt and I ended up bonding over our love of small dogs. I had a great time--and, uh, did I mention Suzanne Brockman is my hero?

Well, YEAH.

Read Hot Target when it came out. Read the preface, about Jason coming out, to my husband. Cried a lot. I think it helped make us both who we are.

And there we were, having drinks. (EEEEEEEE!!!)  And she asked me out of the blue if I wanted to sit at her table when she received the LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT RITA AWARD.

I don't know if those caps are big enough, but I think you might get the idea.

And I almost turned her down.

Because I didn't have anything to wear.

All these years of training myself to be THAT person--the one who looked good and professional and unembarrassing to my genre-- and I had a chance to be part of history--and if you read the transcript
 it's AMAZING history--and I almost said no.

Seems silly, doesn't it?

But the clothes have been a prop--and a damned good one. They've been the self-confidence I still haven't developed, the self-assurance I've never had. I still spend a day and a half coming down from big conferences and crying, because the pressure of saying and doing the right thing, of not being too... too ME can be extreme. (And given that I asked a panel of medical professionals at this conference if there was a cap to how many people can see your cooter when you squish out a puppy--in those exact words-- I'd say no amount of pressure can take away the ME.)  The clothes were my defense against Imposter Syndrome. I couldn't be an imposter if I had the wardrobe, right?

And I had clothes that were good for the back of the room, where I thought I'd be sitting with my friends to cheer on other friends, but not for the front of the room.

So for a moment I balked.

But Suzanne Brockman was wearing jeans and a T-shirt at drinks, and she took no bullshit from any quarter. Surely I could find SOMETHING in the giant suitcase I'd brought for that week, right?  I mean, what sort of idiot turns that down for a DRESS?

Not this one. I mean, Suzanne would get all the attention--how hard would it be to find something blackish and watch her in awe?

The first dress was meant for a black bra--which I hadn't brought. The second dress had something wrong with it--I don't remember. I finally threw on an outfit I'd meant to wear for the signing and looked at Mate hopefully.

"Of the three outfits you tried on in the last fifteen minutes, that's the one I dislike the least."

I stared at him. "I'll take it," I said, and then I threw my phone into the stupid black purse with the chain strap that I save for trying to look classy and ran out the door.

Suzanne was awesome.

I've posted the transcript of her speech at the top of the page, so you can see how inconsequential my stupid dress was to the whole thing. I DID almost kill her with my stupid purse when she came back from the stage, because it fell off the back of my chair.  I kicked it under, as punishment, and my phone survived, so we're all okay.

But my point was this.

Props aren't bad things.

The small rituals we go through to give us the confidence to do brave things can get us through the days of drudgery when bravery is the furthest thing from our hearts and minds.

But even as we use our props, put on our makeup, find that dress that doesn't suck, look for shoes that can accommodate swollen feet, and grab a purse that doesn't look like a yarn bag, it's important to remember that props are just that--

Theater.

Props in theater help a production go smoothly, help us forget that the house isn't really a house, it's just a set, and that the beautiful heroine on stage was a total twat to us in grade school and why are we watching her in a college production again?

So props aren't bad.

But they're not real.

It's the writer who had penned the message, and the actor who delivers it with enough conviction to move us. When we're both the actor and the writer, being without our props can be scary. We're naked there on the stage of human concourse, and only our sincerity and conviction can sustain us.

That's okay.

We shouldn't let the lack of our props keep us from that stage. Even if we're up there as the audience (and how meta is THAT? God, it's late. Don't answer.)  Not having the right props is immaterial. Do we have the right message? Do we have the convictions we can be proud of?

Suzanne Brockman got up and delivered a barn burner of a speech about inclusion, and about how we ALL needed to be a part of it, and how 53% of white women voted against it, and it was our job as writers to make sure that never happened again. She told us we had voices, and asked us how we could write about love if we didn't believe EVERYBODY deserved it.

She spoke truth.

And I got a front row seat.

And nobody was going to give a shit about what I wore.

Amy and Jason Gaffney. RIGHT? Dudes... 

Because what she said was real.

I need to remember that.

Not that I'll suddenly go back to Hello Kitty shirts again, but because one of the reasons I've always had such a hard time with props is that I've had my head in the real. Suzanne reminded us of what's real.

That's really all that matters.

Hooooooooommmmmme....

I love Mate madly.

I do.

But I'm not sure I can fully impart to him the mental exhaustion of someone who does work in their pajamas suddenly subjected to ALL THE AWESOME PEOPLE for five and a half days.

I know when I get off the plane, I'm usually a babbling mess, and if I don't get a complete day to decompress, I become a screaming, crying, babbling mess.

Seriously.

I usually think he hates me and wants a divorce on the second day I get back from a con.

In this case, we spent that day in a car for twelve hours, enjoying the scenic stylings of Utah and Nevada.

The vasty nothingness of the salt flats was particularly fascinating.

The kids were like, "Oh my  God. The Morton company. For real?"

Anyway--we made it through.

We had a giant pizza--accidentally ordered by myself, the night before. I was looking at prices, thinking, "Family size," and didn't realize that in Utah, that much money bought a 26" pizza.

It barely fit through the door. We were driving down the highway with a ginormous pizza box in the back, and every now and then Mate or myself would stick our hands back and go, "Pizza me."

Only this family, I swear.

We listened to Jim Butcher's Storm Front, narrated by James Marsters, who sounded like pure sex and Harry Dresden at the same time, and Mate is now really in love with the series, so that's a good thing.  We also listened to Hamilton, and the first hour of Fool Moon. 

So, you know-- culcha. We haz it. Also, pizza.

Anyway, we made it home, collapsed, and I went and got the dogs today.

They appear to be happy.

The cats also, appeared to be happy--before we got the dogs.

And I spent my day doing... absolutely nothing.

I couldn't even concentrate to read any of the AWESOME SPECTACULAR BOOKS I got while I was in Denver.

Maybe tomorrow.

*yawn*  I've got to write just a little, or tomorrow I start ripping faces off, and then, to bed.

Cause baby, I'm home.

Sparkly Happy Dust

Okay-- so we've been driving for six hours and I'm waiting for Uber Eats and I'm exhausted. I'm in a hotel room with the fam in the shitty side of Salt Lake City, and I'm trying to put my week into words and...

Can't do it.

Can't brain words.

What I'm going to do is babble a little about some of the high points and then, hopefully my pizza will arrive and I can curl up into a little ball and sleep.

So...

*  Dinner and drinks with my publisher and editor and promotions director. Just because we like each other's company. And because, just once, I had alcohol. And it was Denver. And I got a little drunk. And they were delighted.

* Peeps. Kate McMurray, Rayna Vause, Kathy Tully, LaQuette, Adriana Herrera, Harper Collins, Geoffrey Symon, Tere Michaels, Mary Calmes, The Book Taster, Victoria Sue, Charlie Cochet, M.A. Vance, Pamela Moran, Cindy Dees, Karen Rose, Sara Lundsford-- you guys, I can't have an event without seeing ALL OF YOU (yes, Harper--you're new, but damn, you're on my list now!) because there's just SO MUCH AWESOME.  And Damon Suede always gives me a long hug which I find I need at every event. So <3 p="">
*  Geoff Symon's autopsy class-- WOOT. K9 Search and Rescue Class-- WOOT! Karen Rose's craft class-- WOOT! Erica Ridley's Newsletter Class-- WOOT!  Rayna Vause, Catherine Bybee, Jillian David, LaQuette and (I'm sorry I forgot the fifth person!) did a medical terminology and general knowledge class that rocked my world-- WOOT!!!  There were some other classes in there I swear, but the upshot is, I learned lots and lots of useful shit.

* Sonali Dev in a sari before the librarian's luncheon. That is all.

*  Seeing Rita Clay Estrada (whom they named the RITAs after?) at the information desk. *swoon*

And finally...

*  Meeting Jason Gaffney, and his mother Suzanne Brockman, and being invited to SIT AT THEIR TABLE when Suzanne got the Lifetime Achievement RITA and then OMFG BURNED THE PLACE DOWN with a blistering, heartfelt speech about how the world--and romancelandia-- needs to open its heart and its mind to diversity...

I've got no words.

I cried.

I rejoiced.

I got ANGRY.

Jason is a fan of mine. Suzanne Brockman's son is a FAN OF MY WORK.

And I've loved her work since a little after Chicken was born.

Her story about her son in Hot Target (it's at the beginning-- it's sort of famous) is one of the inspiring moments for my own writing. It would take a few years, but when I started writing Vulnerable, her insistence that love is love is love had been beating in my heart that entire time. When Green arrived on the scene and was sad because he and Adrian had loved each other but now Adrian was in love with Cory...

Suzanne Brockman was one of the voices that made that okay for me. That made it something to celebrate.

So, yes.

I got to watch her talk about diversity in fiction in no bullshit, come and get me terms.

It was GLORIOUS.

She's more my hero than ever.

And yes-- I exploded into silver sparkly happy dust all over Denver.

I've yet to come down.

From Moab to Denver...

Yeah-- there's quite a change of topography.

So, I've arrived at RWA and started to say hi to my sisterhood-- I do miss authors-- they tell such wonderful stories!

Anyway--SO tired. And tomorrow is a big day, so mostly I'm just going to inundate you with pictures and run away.

But I do have a terrible thing to confess.

We were traveling through Arches, and some of the most amazing scenery known to man, when I had a horrible revelation.

There were an awfully lot of rocks with a particular shape. A sort of phallic shape. If you know what I mean.

So I know we were there to look at rocks, glorious rocks, but at times I found myself thinking I was more at a cock garden... *sings* Cocks, glorious cocks...

Yeah.

It's been a great trip, but, you know, too much driving and Amy gets weird. Er.

Also-- Squish was like, "Why are we stopping at this rest stop?"

I was like, "TREES!"

Because as glorious as the cocks, erm, rocks were in Moab, I gotta admit, the Rocky Mountains really do have their blessings.

Oh! One more thing-- Chicken sent us, "Proof of Cat."

The cats seem to be affronted that we would not just know they were alive because all was right in the universe.

A Fool and His Manny-- July 17th!!!

Okay-- so I'm on a road trip to RWA AND I've got a book out!

Whew!

You'll get pictures of Moab tomorrow (maybe!) but in the meantime, hey, there's this book! That I really love! And it's out tomorrow!

WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

So I'm just going to drop this here and go to bed, because hey-- lots of driving, lots of getting out in the heat and going, "Oh, ah, penis shaped rocks!"  And an hour in the pool cooling off afterward.

But I really do love this book-- it's been blog toured at Open Skye Books and My Fiction Nook so far, where I talk about the pushy younger guy/shyer older guy trope, and hurt/comfort too! I think Wednesday I talk about virgins, and somewhere in there I confess to being a rotten babysitter, and also what to pack for Manny 101.  Anyway-- stay tuned as I make my way through the lovely writers at RWA and the perils of the road trip with my family.

And enjoy this one. It's short and it's sweet and it's comforting--and comfort is good right now. Pull it over your heart like a warm blanket. That's what some books are for.

A Fool and His Manny

by Amy Lane


Dustin Robbins-Grayson was a surly adolescent when Quinlan Gregory started the nanny gig. After a rocky start, he grew into Quinlan’s friend and confidant—and a damned sexy man.

At twenty-one, Dusty sees how Quinlan sacrificed his own life and desires to care for Dusty’s family. He’s ready to claim Quinlan—he’s never met a kinder, more capable, more lovable man. Or a lonelier one. Quinlan has spent his life as the stranger on the edge of the photograph, but Dusty wants Quinlan to be the center of his world. First he has to convince Quinlan he’s an adult, their love is real, and Quinlan can be more than a friend and caregiver. Can he show Quin that he deserves to be both a man and a lover, and that in Dusty’s eyes, he’s never been “just the manny?”

Buy at Amazon

Buy at Dreamspinner

Road Tripping

So, about six weeks ago I said, "I need to get my plane ticket to RWA."

Mate said, "Where is it?"

I said, "Denver."

He said, "Let's drive!"

I said, "Uh... okay. All of us?"

He said, "Yeah! Kids will love it!"

So, uh--we're driving to Denver.

And at first I was like "Does he realize there's nothing between Sacramento and Denver?"

But the kids seemed to think it would be awesome, so I bought a bunch of Neil Gaiman audiobooks--The Graveyard Book, Stardust, Neverwhere, Good Omens-- and didn't buy a plane ticket. And we planned to drive.

Turns out, I was wrong.

There is a whole lot of beauty between Sacramento and Denver.

And there's Neil Gaiman's delightful sense of humor.

And my family--which manages to have fun together no matter where we go.

So we get to Denver Tuesday, and we're going to Arches tomorrow.

And hopefully, we will have as much fun then as we have in the last two days.

Squish: If you don’t stop touching g me, I’ll break your ribs in three places!

ZoomBoy: Fine. I just won’t go to those places!

— amy lane (@amymaclane) July 15, 2018

Me, glancing at speedometer at bottom of hill: Yikes! Good news, hon! The Odyssey goes 100mph.

Mate: I KNOW! You can slow down ANY TIME!

— amy lane (@amymaclane) July 15, 2018

Me: All right guys- if we don’t leave now I’m going to fall asleep now and wake up when all the restaurants are closed and eat Dad.

Mate: Don’t eat me, eat Squish. She’s plump and tender and young. Like veal.

Squish: Hey!

— amy lane (@amymaclane) July 16, 2018

Political Post--the movie you will never see

This was just a passing thought, so bear with me.

There will never be a serious movie about Donald Trump the hero.

Now, given how much we hate him, you all might be saying, "Duh!" but bear with me.

One of the notable things about Shakespeare's Macbeth is that the minute Macbeth dedicates himself to evil and stops fighting with his conscience, he ceases to be the main character in the play.  We're more concerned with Malcolm and MacDuff and how they're going to turn the motherfucker into bone paste than we are with Macbeth anymore. He ordered the slaughter of innocent people. We are fucking DONE with him.

Hitler is never the hero.

Rasputin is never the hero.

Stalin is never the hero.

The minute we get to irredeemable acts, giant ones, on a grand scale, all of the stuff they teach us about the villain being the "hero in his own story" goes away.

There is no redemption. All we care about is this guy's annihilation so there's balance in the universe.

Donald Trump has no redeeming characteristics. There's no, "But he's a great father!" or "He's kind to animals!" He's the creepy kid who used to abuse the neighbor's doll, and because his daddy had money, he got to inflict that bullshit on the entire planet.  What he has done to people seeking asylum, to soldiers in his own army, to women, to teenage girls, to the planet--all of it is irredeemable.

Any movie made with Donald Trump in it will either A. Be commissioned by him to make him the hero and will suck, or B. Be about how he's brought down.

So shit's getting real.

There's a possibility the November election we've been hoping for will find us double-fucked because the supreme court is going to be a sham by then. If Wotsit-Hitler goes titsup tonight with his face in a bowl full of coke, it's still going to be a giant pita putting the country back together.

But he's the one who wanted to make history.

Just remember the part he'll play in it, when it comes to pass.

He'll never be the hero.

He'll be held as our rarer monsters are, in a cage, hanging from a pole, on a sign underwrit, "Here may thou see the tyrant."  (Macbeth, mangled, Act 5, S2, right before that cowardly piece of shit gets his head chopped off and put on a pike. Bless Shakespeare for giving us something to shoot for.)

Why I need more yarn...

Okay, so I don't need more yarn. 

That's a total and complete lie.

I've been packing my knitting for the trip. Now, about three weeks ago I agreed with myself that, really, I only needed a couple of balls of sock yarn to work on as socks, and a couple of balls of sock yarn to work on as a shawl.

Really.

That's all I need.

But then I finished the color-crash sweater and it turned out so nice, I started on another crocheted worsted weight sweater for ZoomBoy. Now ZoomBoy only really loves two colors--turquoise and lime--and it's a great color combo, but for the sweater I had in mind for him, that means I'm working on about an acre of lime green back. 

And it's getting close to done, but I'm not taking it to RWA with me--for one thing, it's a big bag with a relatively short project yield. I'd really rather take a number of different, finer balls of yarn that could last me, say, a year.

So I packed my project bag and--as often happens--it grew. Especially when I was thinking, "We're going to drive for 14 hours that first day. Seriously. What in the holy fuck am I going to do with myself when Mate's driving?" (Besides listening to Neil Gaiman's books on tape, that is. They're already purchased and waiting in my phone.)

Anyway--so as it stands, in addition to my emergency sock bag--which holds three pairs in progress, you know, for emergencies--I have the bag I packed here. 

In the picture. I know it's hard to see--one of the color-combos is buried deep--but there are three projects in progress there, not to mention extra sock yarn should I exhaust the emergency sock bag as we drive. 

*sigh* 

Do you think I need another skein?

Anyway-- when I pass on, Chicken has instructions to ship big boxes of the stuff to the people I love. It will be like getting yarn from the grave. 

All of you in my address book who enjoy yarn, you can look forward to that. 

It'll be fun.

You can--as you probably have often done since I've started posting completed projects on this blog--look at that box of hand-dyed yummy yarn and think to yourself, "What a dear, daft woman. In a million billion years, I'll never know what in the holy hell she had planned for that."  

Well, I could probably give you an itemized list, but I will tell you this.

No matter what it was I actually planned for that, the odds are really really good that whatever it is I would have eventually made would have been vastly, inescapably different. 

You know... I think I need to add another ball to the emergency sock bag... it's looking a might poorly, all things considered. 

Author of the Month Post

Hey all!

I don't normally post on Wednesdays--it's dance day--but I'm author of the month over here at My Fiction Nook, and I thought I'd say hi! Come over! I've got an exclusive excerpt from A Fool and His Manny!  as well as five things you might not know about me!

*smishes*

Enjoy!

Scuse me, I gotta write a sex scene... right after I drop this cover :-)

No, seriously.

So-- busy, because trying to make a deadline before we leave for Denver. Mate is out of town, and today was... well weird.

Seriously, if I'd known my dentist was going to bail, I would have planned something different for my morning. As it was, I was all cattywampus in my scheduling and it's 11 pm and I have no nap and the one interesting thing I've done today was take the kids to ice cream.

Okay-- that wasn't bad.

I just sat up at 8 and left my keyboard and said, "Let's take the dogs for ice cream!"

Well, Johnnie must have heard that as, "Let's take the dogs for torture!" because he disappeared under the bed.

I said, "Screw him!" and took the littler dogs out. They ate whipped cream while the kids and I sat outside Cold Stone and ingested way too much sugar.

But given this was the most exciting thing we'd done all day-- besides watch Anne With an E on Netflix (which I loved)-- I'm calling it a win.

Anyway...

I'm so close to having this book done by deadline.  And the big--as in the FIRST and possibly the only--sex scene is right there. I mean... y'all, the towel just slipped. After 47K of snarky paranormal adventure, two guys are finally getting naked and sticky.

I REALLY need to write this scene.

So I'll leave you with a picture of kids eating ice cream and hope your summer has some sweet moments too!

Oh!

Wait! Speaking of!

A Few Good Fish is up for pre-sale-- here's the new cover, and here's the blurb and the link!

You guys, I think you'll like this one... I mean, it's got Burton and Ernie in it, right? And Jackson and Ellery? And Ace and Sonny.

What could go wrong?

Uh... in a word?

EVERYTHING.

That's why you'll love it!


A Few Good Fish

by Amy Lane


Fish Out of Water: Book Three

A tomcat, a psychopath, and a psychic walk into the desert to rescue the men they love…. Can everybody make it out with their skin intact?

PI Jackson Rivers and Defense Attorney Ellery Cramer have barely recovered from last November, when stopping a serial killer nearly destroyed Jackson in both body and spirit.

But their previous investigation poked a new danger with a stick, forcing Jackson and Ellery to leave town so they can meet the snake in its den.

Jackson Rivers grew up with the mean streets as a classroom and he learned a long time ago not to give a damn about his own life. But he gets a whole new education when the enemy takes Ellery. The man who pulled his shattered pieces from darkness and stitched them back together again is in trouble, and Jackson’s only chance to save him rests in the hands of fragile allies he barely knows.

It’s going to take a little bit of luck to get these Few Good Fish out alive!

PRE-ORDER HERE

Grown-Up Stories

So, on Twitter the other day, someone asked us tell the most On Brand (TM) story from their childhood years.

Mine was about being a latchkey kid. I would come home, gather my stuffed animals into a semi-circle, and tell them a story, then quiz them about the parts in the middle.

And you can make of that what you will.

But something just happened that I think is pretty on-brand for me as an adult, and I thought I'd share.

We get pest control because if I had to knock down my own wasp nests we'd all be trapped inside by hordes of the flying menaces, and that is the truth.

Tonight--and ugh, it was super hot on my porch--a guy representing another company came knocking on my door.

"Hi, I'm from Mosquito Hawk-X pest control--oh, hi little dog. Aren't you a cute puppy."

"She's full grown."

"Well I'm in the area, making appointments--do you have Pest Control?"

"Yes, we do--we use Golden Hills."

"Oh! Do you know Dave?"

"Tall, goofy kind of guy? Loves to talk? Yeah! I love Dave! I haven't seen him with Golden Hill lately--"

"That's because he's working for us now. If you hired us instead of Gold Hills, you could visit with Dave!"

I almost did it. I mean, he almost had me.  Because Dave and I had a lot of fun together!  He's great! Talks about everything! Fun guy!

But frankly, I'm barely organized enough to have Golden Hills come to my house. I mean, I like them. They know me.

But gees, I miss Dave.

In the end I said no--but when I told Mate, he thought it was pretty funny.

He doesn't even know our pest control guys have names.

Out on Amazon!

Okay-- some of you are actually GETTING MY NEWSLETTER. I'm thrilled--but still puzzled as to why other people aren't. I have professionals working on it, and they can't answer that either, so I'm just going to assume that some computers think that Constant Contact, my e-mail server, has the plague.

However--there are SOME things I can show you here in the blog.

First of all, A Fool and His Manny is available for pre-sale on amazon now! WOOT!




A Fool and His Manny

by Amy Lane
Seeing the truth and falling in love.

Dustin Robbins-Grayson was a surly adolescent when Quinlan Gregory started the nanny gig. After a rocky start, he grew into Quinlan’s friend and confidant—and a damned sexy man.

At twenty-one, Dusty sees how Quinlan sacrificed his own life and desires to care for Dusty’s family. He’s ready to claim Quinlan—he’s never met a kinder, more capable, more lovable man. Or a lonelier one. Quinlan has spent his life as the stranger on the edge of the photograph, but Dusty wants Quinlan to be the center of his world. First he has to convince Quinlan he’s an adult, their love is real, and Quinlan can be more than a friend and caregiver. Can he show Quin that he deserves to be both a man and a lover, and that in Dusty’s eyes, he’s never been “just the manny?”
Buy at DSP

Buy at Amazon


And that's REALLY exciting-- I hope you all are happy about this one--it can be read as a standalone, but it's really so much more fun as the end of the series!

Also-- there was a cover reveal for A Few Good Fish, which will be out on August 28th!  I'll put the cover out here, but the link should go up for it tomorrow, and I'll have them both, cover and link, on the blog tomorrow--so YAYAYAYAY!

Also on the newsletter--

I'm calling it UTTER CHRISTMAS MADNESS. 

I do not have the dates for everything, BUT...

Freckles will be re-released with a new cover

Christmas Kitsch will be re-released with a new cover

Racing for the Sun will be recovered--and you'll see that when you see the cover for Hiding the Moon

and Regret Me Not will be recovered, AND re-released as a paperback in novel form, with the extra 20k from the blog included. 

So... yeah! Damn! That's a LOT of cover love, and you'll be seeing it both in the newsletter and here.

I mean, exciting, yeah?

I'm excited.

So if you haven't subscribed for the newsletter yet--or if you thought you'd subscribed before and it just didn't take, HERE'S THE LINK AGAIN.   There's fun things on it-- Ask Amy's Guys, and a few words about new releases and such. And be sure to check back here tomorrow for the reveal and the link for A Few Good Fish. 

So much good stuff coming out--I'm totally twirling!

Amy

Politics and Superman

Bruce heard the first thud when he woke up. He reached out and found the space next to him cold.

Fuck.

Batman had barely climbed into bed not two hours ago. Clark didn't really need sleep--but still, he made it a point to lie next to Bruce and doze, just so their bodies could share space and warmth.

Most nights.

"Diana," Bruce said, putting on the com he'd left next to the bed. "Was Superman needed for anything last night?"

"No," she said shortly. Then she sighed. "Just... you know. Reporting."

Oh.

"You know what would make our lives easier?" he snarled, that sick feeling churning in his stomach as it had for the past two years.

"We can't," she said, but her voice sounded void of resolve. "A vacuum is worse than a tyrant, Bruce--you know that."

"It's killing us," Bruce said bluntly. "Living in this country, spending half our time fighting the policies of the traitor who's supposed to be running it--"

"I know that!" she cried. "Do you think I don't know that? And we're doing things--we are. You know that. But neither of you can be seen doing them, and..." She deflated. "Yesterday was just a bad day at work."

Yeah.

Working as a reporter had been something Superman had been good at. Truth and justice--a reporter's mantra. Having a president who literally spit in his face--it hurt something inside.

The thud sounded again, this time rattling the windows of Wayne manor. Fuck. Bruce needed to do something.

"Bat glider," he rasped, knowing it would power up as he named it. With a yawn he ran toward the back of the house and the secret entrance to the Bat Cave, his bare feet thudding on the floorboards.

It took him fifteen minutes to suit up and fly to the quarry, which lay a good ten miles outside of Gotham. No machinery darkened the sky, no workers dotted the walls like ants--the place had long ago been shut down.

Today, it was occupied by one pissed off alien, using the side of the mountain as his own personal speedbag.

Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-- each small blow with the force of a jackhammer, and then, every five minutes or so, BAM. Every BAM ended with a shower of rocks from the hills above that might become deadly at any time.

Bruce launched himself out of the glider and sent it home with a verbal command, then used the fins on his suit to slow his descent until he could touch down next to a man who could kill him with one blow.

"Stop it," he ordered.

bap-bap-bap-bap

"Go away. I"m busy."

"I said stop it!" Bruce yelled, and the bap-bap-bap didn't let up. "You're going to start an earthquake!"

"Good!" Clark shouted back. "Maybe buildings will collapse! Maybe all the fracking he's started will explode! Maybe he'll get killed in the backlash!"

Bruce had had enough. "And maybe innocent people will too!" And with that he stepped between Superman and a quarry wall.

Clark's first blow landed--but pulled back, and Bruce was wearing armor. Still, he'd be feeling that bruise on his rib for weeks--any harder, and they'd be pulling pieces of bone out of his heart.

"Goddammit, Bruce!"

He was crying. Clark Kent was crying, and Bruce's breath shuddered in his chest.

"Come here," he growled, furious. He grabbed Clark's chin and pulled him forward, mouth plundering, tongue sweeping in and taking charge.

All of Clark's breath shuddered in his chest then, the shaky, briny breath of a man who'd been exercising his demons instead of exorcising them.

Bruce pressed the advantage. Superman could pulverize him with a glancing blow--but Clark Kent, who respected laws and justice and order--that man needed somebody to take charge. Bruce kissed him hard and without mercy, until Clark whimpered and went boneless, melting into Bruce's arms.

Bruce shoved at his suit, knowing that while it looked one piece, in truth the tight shirt fit into the pants.

"Here?" Clark mumbled.

"Now," Bruce ordered. "Turn around. Hold on to the wall. Take it."

Clark tilted back his head. "Ahh-ahh..." apparently undone just by the order. He could have flown away. He could have begged to go somewhere private. But he turned, shoving at his tight uniform, not even bothering to step out of his boots.

Batman had a loin-plate--easy removal because even superheroes had to pee. And he had lubricant--good for all sorts of mechanical things, but also surgical grade--in his belt. His gloves and loin plate hit the ground about the same time he breached Clark with two fingers, rudely, trying to drive out all the things that drove his lover to despair.

Clark sighed in acquiescence. Needy. So needy. Well, Bruce thought, his erection battering at Clark's entrance, we all like to be told what to do. Even people who fight against rules want to know they're there for a reason.

Ah!

He slid in to his balls and rested for a moment, his forehead against Clark's neck, his cock throbbing inside Clark's ass.

"PLease," Clark whispered.

He didn't beg often.

Bruce obliged, throwing himself forward, intent on domination, not pleasure.

Pleasure they had in their bed, naked, the two of them intimate and sweet.  Pleasure was joy and hidden moments of being two people in love.

This was different.

This was Bruce shoving his cock inside Clark because Clark needed to know his cock was there and it had a purpose.

Sometimes knowing that thing had a purpose was the only line between barely holding on to order and the screaming void of chaos.

Clark fucked Bruce into the wall because order, dammit--the order of cock and asshole and fucking and come.

Their orgasms tore through them, Clark's first, the clenching of his tight muscle around Bruce's cock driving Bruce into the final drive. Their screams of climax echoed through the quarry, loud, profane, desperate. Clark sobbed once, twice as Bruce twitched in side him, and then Bruce pulled out and turned him gently, taking his distraught lover into his arms.

A few moment's peace.

Clark sobbing onto his shoulder for the people hurt, the children brutalized, the country vandalized by the pig at the wheel.

Bruce whispering in his ear about how it didn't matter, none of it mattered, they'd known from the first that the good fight was all they had in them, it was all they could fight, and winning wasn't the object.

Winning wasn't the object.

"Well what's the point?" Clark snapped bitterly, still being rocked in Bruce's arms.

"The point?" Bruce laughed, the sound soft and muffled against Clark's neck. "The point is that I had you naked and needing, fucked naked against a wall. And you cried out my name as you came. The point is, you can have me the same way. The point is, I love you because you'll go out and fight the good fight--and you love me for the same reason. But neither of us said a damned thing about winning. It was the fight that mattered. I'll fight for your soul every day of my life. That's the point."

Clark pulled back and nuzzled his temple. "You have my soul," he said. "YOu've had it for years." He let out a breath. "Now pull up my pants and do your... whatever is going on with your armor, or we're going to end up on someone's satellite, okay?"

Bruce's eyes went heavy-lidded and half-mast. "Sure," he said, bending down to pick up his gauntlets and loin-plate--and giving Clark's cock a quick slurp while his head was down there. "We'll get dressed. You'll take me home so I can--"

"Get some sleep," Clark said, wincing guiltily.

"Whatever floats your boat. But you and I know what just happened. And your ass is going to tingle from it all day. And when you get tempted to give in to despair, you know what you're going to remember?"

Clark's fair skin flushed easy, two pink crescents appeared on his cheeks. "I'm yours," he confessed roughly. "Nothing can change that."

"That's right." Bruce refastened his loin-plate. "Remember that the next time you try to start an earthquake. Remember that I will rock your fucking world."

Superman ducked his head and kissed him, solidly and squarely on the lips, slipping his tongue in for good measure. "Understood," he whispered. "I'll remember that you rock my fucking world. And that's why I fight for this fucking world. Because people like you make it good."

Bruce smiled lazily. "No. People like you make it good. I just give you what you need sometimes."

"Hold on to my shoulders, Bruce," Clark said, because they were both dressed. "I love you. You give me what I need all the time."

"Well you make the world good all the time," Bruce said. His mission done, he could relax against Clark's chest then, secure in the knowledge that Clark wouldn't drop him on the way to the Bat Cave, because Bruce wouldn't drop Clark any other time, or any other place. Holding each other up kept the world spinning.

It was the only way they knew how to do that, when all their other safeguards failed.

Happier Than I Expected

Okay--

First of all, I'd like to say I can pack an amazing picnic.

There. It's out. My house is a disaster, I have yarn everywhere, but I"m not a completely loser as a housewife.

I can cook.

Barbecue ribs, cherries, corn, potato salad-- I put it all in one bag for the big kids, another bag for us. Dropped the big kids off their dinner, and then Mate, Squish, ZoomBoy and I all ate dinner at the park, waiting for the fireworks.

A.  Dinner was delicious.

B. There was a Tom Petty cover band there. I sort of loved them.

C. The fireworks were great!  Not as big as the Cal Expo fireworks-- which we could see from where we sat--but I'd forgotten how personal fireworks were when you are up close. Each one was right there and exciting--so even though the Cal Expo show was bigger and more spectacular, this one felt like it was just for us, and that was sort of super cool.

D. The big kids walked from their apartment to sit with us, and brought their friends.

And it was a really good night.

But--and this is important--my children now have two of my best grocery bags.

*scowls* DID YOU HEAR THAT KIDS? I NEED THOSE BACK!

*sigh*  Dammit!