Fall Festivus Cooking!

One cannot have a proper book release party without good friends and excellent snacks. Please note that this post is NSFW. No. Really. Some Links area a little Not Safe For Work--which is why we're trying somet'hing different. You'll see.

Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, carry on!


LBea: Nothing says fall in New England like pumpkins, raking leaves, polar fleeces, and piping hot apple pie. Today Sarah RainontheRoof and I invite you to enjoy seasonal cooking and snacks while we wait for my new book, Cover Me, to come out.

(shameless promo)

Pavlova Recipe
(ganked from internet, 'cause Sarah cannot be bothered writing out the MIL's one)

LBea: I have no idea what this is. Pavlova...she was a ballerina. Is this ballerina food? Rice cakes and cigarettes?

Sarah: Pav is like a sugar and cream festivus. With more sugar than you can shake a stick at. Imagine the biggest meringue ever, gooey in the middle and then whipped cream. I am sure the fruit is just to make sure you don't wallow in guilt absolute. To be honest, my pavs are
usually unqualified disasters, so it is S who makes them, just like mum used to make. And don't let those Aussies tell you they came up with the idea 1st either!!

LBea: Well, I had read that it was Austr--

Sarah: Pavlova is a real Christmas time dessert too. This time of year I am dusting off the jandals and my bikini (not!) and thinking about insect repellent supplies. Christmas in the summer is magic stuff.

LBea: If you say so.

::wonders what the eff a jandal is::

Sarah's RECIPE for Aussie Kiwi Num Num

Ingredients:
3 egg whites
3 tbsp cold water
3/4 - 1 cup castor sugar
1 tsp vinegar
1 tsp vanilla essence
3 tsp cornflour

Method:
Beat egg whites until stiff.
Add cold water and beat again.
Add castor sugar very gradually while still beating.
Change to slow beater - add vinegar, vanilla and cornflour.

Place on greased paper, (flatish, not too heaped), on greased tray,
and bake at 150ºC for 45 minutes, then leave to cool in the oven.

When cold, peel off the paper and transfer to serving plate.
Spread with whipped cream and add strawberries, kiwifruit and other
seasonal berries when you're ready to serve.

Sarah: Omonomnom.

LBea: Omonomnom indeed. In my own little corner in my own little chair world, September and October means apple picking and apple pie. My men like pie. Pie is good food.

Sarah: I love pie. A lot. Roll me away from the table a lot.

::LBea takes sugar away from Sarah.::

Men of Smithfield Pie

Pie Crust:

4 cups flour
1 T. sugar
1 1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 cups lardCrisco
1 egg (beaten)
1 T. vinegar
1/2 cup water

In a large bowl, sift together flour, sugar and salt. Cut in the crisco until mixture resembles peas. Mix together egg, vinegar and water. Add to flour mixture. Mix until dough is moistened enough so it holds together when it is formed into a ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or until well chilled. On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough into a 12" circle. Once it's in its pie plate, pierce the pastry with a fork. Place the crust in the freezer while preparing the filling.

Makes a double deep dish pie crust. (Top and Bottom)

Apple Filling:

4-5 cups pared, cored and sliced apples (Granny Smiths)
1 t. cinnamon
1 1/4 cup sugar
2 T. butter or margarine
3 T. flour
3 T. Milk

Mix apples, flour, sugar and cinnamon together. Place mixture in unbaked pie shell. Dab with butter and drizzle milk over the apple mixture. Top the pie with crust, add a few vents, brush with milk and sprinkle with sugar and bake at 375f it till it's bubbling--deep dish pie, about an hour. Oh. I cover the edges with foil so the crust doesn't burn AND I put a cookie sheet under the pan because I'm lazy and hate to clean the oven.

Bon Appetit!

FRIDAY! Oct 2nd!

Only two more days until Cover Me is released and...I'm tooting my own horn here, but, I'm excited.

Today, I ask you to stop by my fully functioning website and check out the exclusive interview with..well with ME. Heh. Just click on the interview link.

Also, please take a gander at the fabulous photos!

Now, here's the scoop on the costume parade and free for all on Friday. I've extended the deadline for costume entries until Thursday 10pm. You can send a photo of any costume on line (see below) that you feel suits your personality. You don't have to hang around all day on Friday, just pop by and check out the costumes of my Noseinabook friends.

Smithfield in fall is the theme this week, and Cover Me is the autumn story in the Men of Smithfield series. When I conceived this series, I didn't want to write about one specific couple. What I wanted to do, was celebrate my home: New England. I thought of Smithfield as the place that would hold all these characters together--and that place should really be experienced in each season. Gobsmacked is a winter story, Happy Ending is summer, Cover Me is fall. Obviously there needs to be a spring (or mudseason?) story to round out the quartet.

Join me Friday for a bloglandia tour of reviews and discussions on Cover Me. If you'd like to send a costume, please email me at noseinabookATliveDOTcom.

Let the festivus continue. Later today, I'll share a recipe for Smithfield Pie.
Enjoy the day! ::throws leaves::

Festivus Continues with Victor Banis

Author friend Victor Banis stopped by for a cup of hot cider and a slice of Smithfield Pie. Welcome back to the blog, Victor. I swiped your bio from the MLRPress website. Because that's how I roll.

Lecturer, writing teacher and early rabble rouser for gay rights and freedom of the press, Victor J. Banis is the critically acclaimed ("the master's touch in storytelling" Publishers Weekly) author of more than 150 published books and numerous shorter pieces in a career spanning nearly 50 years. A native of Ohio and longtime Californian, he lives and writes now in West Virginia's beautiful Blue Ridge.

Here's Victor!

Victor stirs up the , uh, you know

Gee, I started such a forest fire the other day with my little blog about the Lammies, I feel like I ought to be quiet for a bit. And for the record, just as a practical matter, I have been wearing one of those false noses with the eyeglass and the moustache when I go out. You never know…

But that's not what I'm on about today – not exactly, though it does tie in. Here is what I wanted to share with you. This is a cover blurb from the just out The Golden Age of Gay Fiction (MLR Press):


"Indispensable. Anyone interested in popular culture, queer culture or gay literary history will find this volume filled with fascinating details and discoveries…and in Victor J. Banis we find a new cultural hero."— David Bergman, author of The Violet Hour

Now, ain't that sweet. As I said to my dear friend Nowell Briscoe (who is also in the book), "La, dearie, let's hitch up the carriage and drive right down past the Methodist Church like we was as good as anybody." Which, as near as I can remember, is a line from Lonnie Coleman, and as it happens, Nowell's contribution to Golden Age is a reminiscence about his friend Lonnie, and very touching it is, too. Most of you won't remember Coleman's gay works, but you might remember Beulah Land and the sequels, which were done as made for TV movies and which he refused to watch because he realized they'd taken out all the juicy parts. Hell, I'd have complained to. Leave my doohickies alone, thank you.

All of which is a way of starting to beat the drums for Golden Age, and not just because I am in it, though I am mightily proud of that fact. I'm adither about the book because it is all about those early days, those dangerous days, when a handful of us were struggling something fierce to establish a new genre in fiction: gay literature. And let me just add, in those days, when we said "gay," we included guys and gals alike.

This is a glorious book, starting with the cover. Laura commissioned an original work of art for the cover, and I'm going to attach it to this and hope LB figures out how to put it in the blog. (ed. note~CHECK!)I've also officially elected Laura a goddess.

The book is chock full of the artwork, too from those old books covers. I think probably 90% of the success I had in those halcyon days was due to the fabulous covers by Robert Bonfils that Greenleaf put on my Man From C.A.M.P. series. Understand, up till that time, covers on gay books were nearly always ambiguous, as likely to show busty women as hung men. But the C.A.M.P. covers jumped right out at you, there was no mistaking those books for anything but queer. Which was often said about me, too, but the book covers were prettier.

So, I am going to be talking and writing and blogging a lot about Golden Age in the next few weeks. I have a related piece in the next issue of Earl Kemp's ezine, eI, out mid-October, and I'll send LB a link when it comes out. And I'm blogging for JesseWave next month also and we're going to give away a copy (Just one, alas, or the goddess is likely to strike me with thunderbolts).

I just wanted to give you a tease, here. Also, and this is really important, I wanted to say most sincerely, Thanks, to all of you who commented in support of my Lambda blog. And to those who expressed concern about the fall out, forget it. There's nothing they can do to me. What? Cut back on the number of awards they're giving me? Ha Ha. Cut short my career? There's some, I'm sure, who'd consider that an act of kindness.

Plus I thought for sure if I didn't do it, some of you were going to, and it would have killed your chances of ever winning a Lammie, which some of you might still get, if you want one, so better I be the lightning rod.

Oh, and for the record (this is important, too, I think) between comments posted to the blog site and comments sent directly to me, I got more than 200 responses – and here's the important part: Yes, a lot of them were from straight women who write M/M fiction – but, not all, not by a long shot. There were posts also from lesbian, bi and transgendered women, from men, and from non-writers, which is to say, readers. So, we are truly a diverse community, and supportive, and exactly what the Lambda Foundation should be trying to emulate. Sigh.

Dorothy Parker was once asked to use the word "horticulture" in a sentence. Her reply was, "You can lead a whore to culture but you can't make her think."

I'm not saying that applies here, I just thought it was worth quoting.

Oh, and I was told that some of my remarks in that blog were naughty. I won't do that again. I promise.

No, really.

*$*%$*#@*!!!

We interrupt this fabulous Fall Festivus with an exclusive lisabea meltdown.

OMFG. My website **poof** disappeared!

Am I cursed? Yes. YES I AM. You can still visit, sort of, here. Let me tell you: I had words with the folks responsible for this. (Including myself!)

The REAL website will be back shortly.

But let me ask you this--does it bother you when you click on an author's website and it's fucked up? It bothers me. I'm now one of them.


Fortunately, help is on the way!



PHEW!

Ed. UPDATE: Everything seems to be a go. Let me know if you have any problems--or if you're JenB and you'd like to discuss my grammar issues--cough cough--email me!

Samantha Kane--Cougar.

What's up with this cougar thing? I mean, Courtney Cox has the show...and everywhere I turn, COUGARS! And now? My friend Sam, who I thought was such a nice girl...yeah, that's right: COUGAR! Her latest story is a romantic comedy menage (m/f/m) first in a new series from Ellora's Cave. It's due out in October. This group of wickedly naughty Cougar-Book-Authors have even started up a wee cougar blog! Shame on you!

Here's the blurb for book one in the
Cougar Challenge: Play it Again Sam

Blurb:

Monica Allen is one cougar who isn’t ready for retirement yet. She’s always been attracted to younger men, even married and divorced one. She thought she was through with them for good. Then she met a group of like-minded ladies at Romanticon, and they formed a blog celebrating younger men, Tempt the Cougar.

After another lonely Friday night, Monica challenges her friends to find a younger man to make their fantasies come true. Why shouldn’t she have a younger man if that’s what she wants? She doesn’t have to marry him—been there, done that, threw away the tee shirt. But for a night of
hot sex? Hell yes.

Sam Lincoln refuses to be just a fantasy. He’s a graduate student with a yen for older women and he may have just found the one to make his own fantasies come true. With a little help from his roommate Josh, Sam fulfills Monica’s deepest desires. Can he convince this sexy cougar to give him a chance at happily ever after?


Want more? Check out the excerpt on Samantha's website.

WIN A COPY! Leave a comment about just how WRONG (or ohhh sooo right) this whole cougar menage business is and you could win a eBook (when it comes out, sometime in October).

YAY! ::throws leaves:: Happy Fall Festivus!!

Fall Festivus Day Two: SNEAK PEEK

I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon

This was a lovely surprise today. My pal Josh sent an exclusive preview! Here is a little smackerel of the sequel to I Spy Something Bloody (review here). I Spy Something Wicked is soon to be released--apparently sometime in October-- from Loose-id. A fling!


It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan -- a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?

Especially when deep down Mark knows he doesn’t deserve a happy ending?


Excerpt:

The Glock was taped beneath my seat. I freed it, reached for the magazine in the glove compartment, and palmed it into the frame. I scanned the empty car park, the black windows of the house in front of me.

I spy with my little eye…

Nothing moved. The bronze autumn moon shone brightly through the barren branches crosshatching the bell-cast rooftops.

I turned off the radio in the dashboard console, cutting off Jack White midnote. “Dead leaves and dirty ground” was about right. I unlocked the door of the Range Rover, got out, and crossed the deserted lot, boots crunching on gravel, breath hanging in the chilly October night. There was a hint of wood smoke in the air; the nearest house was roughly eight kilometers away. A full five miles to the nearest living soul.

I walked past a large banner sign lying facedown in the frosty grass and studied the building’s facade. Two stories of battered white stone. Broken finials and dentils. Arched windows -- broken on the top level, mostly boarded on the bottom. The narrow, arched front door was also boarded up. Once upon a time, this had been some founding family’s mansion; in the early part of the last century, it had operated as a funhouse. Now it looked like a haunted house. That was appropriate since I was there to meet a ghost.

I went around to the side of the long building, found a window where the boarding had been ripped away. I hoisted myself up and scrambled over the sill.

Inside, moonlight highlighted a checkerboard floor and what appeared to be broken sections of an enormous wooden slide.

According to Stephen, it was a long time, decades, since the place had operated officially, but it was still a popular place for teens to romance -- and vandalize. Especially around Halloween. That was two nights away. I didn’t anticipate any interruptions.

I proceeded, soft-footed, along an accordion strip of mirrors, some broken, some not, my reflection flashing past: a man of medium height, thin, dark, nondescript. The pistol gleamed in my hand like a star.

Down a short flight of stairs, a twist and a turn, another short flight down. I froze. At the bottom of the steps, a woman sat hunched over. She wore tattered French knickers and a blonde wig. It took a couple of seconds to realize she was covered in cobwebs. One of those mechanical mannequins. I glanced at her in passing and saw that someone had bashed her face in.

A floorboard squeaked. I spun, bringing the pistol up. Jesus. He’d arrived before me. I was getting sloppy in my old age.

The shadow raised its arms high. Hands empty.

“Christ on a crutch, Hardwicke. I don’t think much of your taste in meeting places.”

I lowered my pistol. “Malik.”

He was still bitching. “Really, old boy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have done this in more comfortable surroundings. Some place civilized where we might have a drink and a chat.”

Why? Because I thought I might have to kill him. But I wasn’t so socially inept as to say that -- for all Stephen thinks, I’m lacking in the social graces. Instead, I replied, “I like my privacy.”

“So I gathered. May I put my hands down?”

“Yes. But keep them where I can see them.”

He suddenly laughed. “Christ on a crutch! You think I’m here to twep you!”

“Good luck with that.”

He was still chuckling; I didn’t find it nearly as amusing. “You think the Old Man ordered an executive action against you?”

“How should I know?”

“Just the opposite, mate. He needs your help.”

I relaxed a fraction. “Sorry. I’m no longer in the help business.”

“Private citizen, eh? How’s that going for you? I should think you’d be climbing the walls with boredom by now.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Course I do. You’re just like me. Like all of us in The Section.”

“I’m not in The Section. I’m retired. Happily retired.”

“So we heard. Decided to get married and grow roses. Think I’d prefer Oppenheim Memorial Park. You know, the lads have a bit of a wager going on how long you’ll last in the private sector. Granted, you’ve lasted four months longer than I thought you would. Tigers don’t change their spots.”

I didn’t bother to correct him. Not about the spotty tigers, and not about the fact that I was quite content in my role as private citizen.

Mostly. According to Stephen, I still had a lot to learn about “coloring between the lines.”

Malik was saying, “You must have seen the news. You must know what’s going on in Afghanistan with Operation Herrick.”

“I watched the UK death toll pass two hundred.”

“That, yes. But I mean what’s happening with the Old Man. The heat he’s taking from the cabinet and the ministers.”

“Nothing he hasn’t faced before.”

“It’s different this time.”

If I had tuppence for every time I’ve heard that.

“No.” I was already turning away. “I can’t help.” This was a promise I wasn’t going to break. Not for anyone. Not even John Holohan.

Malik cried, “Hear me out at least, can’t you?”

His vehemence surprised me. I faced him, saying nothing. I didn’t want to hear it. Wasn’t going to let it change anything. But…I owed John this much; I’d hear his emissary out.

Malik said, “He’s fighting for his survival.”

Welcome to the club, I thought. I didn’t say it.

Malik was Anglo-Indian, a few years younger than I was, and quite good-looking. Medium height, slim and dark; just the way John liked ‘em. I should know. He was saying earnestly, “You know what the political climate is like these days. What the media are like. They’re making him the scapegoat for two decades’ worth of gutless policy and bad decisions. They’re trying to make him pay for policies he fought tooth and nail to prevent.”

I did know. But ever the hard man, I said, “Everyone has to pack it in sooner or later. Even the Old Man. Did he think they were going to let him run forever? He must be near the mandatory age of retirement as it is.”

“We’re not discussing retirement. We’re talking about disgrace, scandal, the ruin of a brilliant career. Is that what you want for him?”

I had no answer. I didn’t want that for John. He didn’t deserve that. But I had given my word to Stephen. And I was never going to disappoint Stephen again. Never give him grounds to regret giving me that second chance.

“If you do this for him, he’ll never bother you again.”

I nearly laughed -- although it wasn’t funny. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?”

“Look, Hardwicke, it’s the world we live in. Promises…well, there are no guarantees in this life. If anyone should know that, you should.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

“He wouldn’t ask if there was another way.”

“Right, well speaking of that, why didn’t he come himself then? Why’d he send you?”

“They’re watching him. The media. The other agencies. He can’t step outside his door without someone from the press trying to snap his picture. It’s chaos. We can’t operate like that. The Section requires secrecy to remain effective.”

I could not afford to care about this. To even ask the question aloud was an indicator to both of us, but I heard my voice, reluctance evident. “What does he want me to do?”

“He wants you to go back to Afghanistan. Use your influence with Pashtun tribal leaders in Helmand to back our play. To support British and NATO forces against the Taliban in Operation Sword Strike.”

“I can’t go back there!” Whatever I’d expected to hear, it wasn’t this. Maybe it was naïve, but I was genuinely shocked. No one knew better than John Holohan why I couldn’t ever return to that region.

“You’ve got the friends; you’ve got the network.”

“My contacts are dead. My network was blown with me. There’s a price on my head.”

“No one’s asking you to stay in. It’s just a-a cakewalk COA. Touch base and config alliances for the big push, then bombshell out.”

I’d forgotten how much I hated the self-important acronyms and slang. I stared at his fierce face, and suddenly it all made sense.

“Jesus. You’re in love with him. You’re in love with John.”

“What of it?” I could see him bristling. “Not the first, am I?”

No. Not by a long shot. Nor the last, though I didn’t tell him so. I said, “Your opinion on this is not exactly objective.”

His Adam’s apple jumped in the wavering light. “No, I’m not objective. Neither should you be. Not with what you owe him.”

“I don’t owe him fuck.”

Malik’s mouth curled into a semblance of a smile. “You wouldn’t be angry if you didn’t believe it was true. Listen, you know -- we all know -- he let you walk away unscathed. He didn’t have to do that. He even saw to it you got your full bloody pension.”

I was shaking my head, refusing this, refusing what he was asking. My death. That’s what he was asking.

“No one else can do this,” he insisted fiercely.

“Then it won’t be done.”

“You ungrateful, sodding bastard. And he holds you up as the paragon of loyalty!”

“Go to hell.”

That was my cue. My exit line.

I didn’t move.

And as the seconds passed, and as we stood there, furious, breathing hard, glaring at each other, I saw Malik’s face change. Saw him recognize that I had not turned and walked away when I should have.

That I was considering it.

I said slowly, unwillingly, “When do you need an answer?”

“I can give you forty-eight hours.”

I clenched my jaw on the things I wanted to say. I needed to think. Think hard. As much as I wanted to refuse -- I wasn’t sure I could. I said at last, bitterly, “You’ll have my answer in forty-eight hours.”


I let Malik leave first. Waited with the faded clowns and broken toys for his footsteps to die away, listened for the faraway growl of his motorbike to be swallowed by the hungry autumn night.

Silence settled. Sank its claws in.

I couldn’t go home yet. Couldn’t face Stephen. Not till I’d figured out what to tell him. What was it Dickens said? An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.

A shadowrun. A black op. That was what the Old Man was asking. Sending me in as an illegal, naked into hostile territory. Knowing I was blown, knowing there was a price on my head, he was asking me to go back. Yes, that would take a little explaining. To Stephen -- and to myself.

When I decided it was clear, I headed back to where I’d parked. The Range Rover’s headlamps blinked as I pressed the key fob. In that flash of light I saw a shadow detach itself from the trees and glide toward me. I laced the Rover’s keys between my fingers like makeshift brass knuckles, and when he grabbed me, I went with the momentum, using it against him, flipping him over. He landed on his back in the dead leaves, his breath expelling in a hard oof.

I knelt on his scrawny chest using my left foot to grind his flailing right hand into the ground, my right pinning his left wrist. With my free hand I pressed the point of the longest blade in my key ring against his carotid artery.

“Surprise, surprise,” I said gently, and pressed a little harder just to make my…point.

He wheezed in panic, his eyes bulging. Clearly an amateur. I studied him in the colorless moonlight. Narrow nose; close-set brown eyes; a small mouth; lank, greasy dark hair. An unlovely specimen. I didn’t know him.

He blubbered something lost in spit and snot.

“Didn’t catch that,” I said. And then, “Don’t move if you don’t want an emergency tracheotomy.”

He held still -- if we didn’t count the trembling -- and I felt around, found his wallet, flipped it open, and checked his driver’s ID.

Bradley Kaine.

It meant nothing to me. Age 31. No occupation, but I’d already guessed it: loser.

I made a mental note of his address.

“I’m trying to think of a good reason not to punch a hole in your throat, Bradley. Nothing occurs to me.”

More inarticulate protests.

“What were you doing here? Planning a spot of B and E? Nah. Nothing worth stealing in there. Waiting for some poor old wino to roll? No. Winos are in short supply here. Waiting to rob some kid and his bird? Hmm? That’s it, I bet. A spot of robbery and rape?”

He frantically shook his head.

“Course you were. Nothing personal, right? It’s what you do. What you are.” The temptation was to kill him, this miserable scrap of an excuse for a man, this predator who waited in the shadows for someone smaller, younger, weaker.

Someone like me -- but without my peculiar brand of skills.

I said harshly, “You weren’t out here stargazing, we both know that.”

He gibbered something, little flecks of spittle hitting my face.

He was revolting. The perfect companion for an already bad day. I clenched my keys so hard, my hand shook, denting his clammy flesh. It was all I could do to control the disquieting urge to give release to the rage and frustration churning inside me.

He began to cry. The pungent stink of ammonia reached my nostrils. In his terror he’d pissed himself.

“Shut it,” I bit out. “I’m going to let you live. I’m going to give you a second chance. If I ever see you here again, I will kill you. Got it?”

He nodded feverishly.

I took my keys out of his throat, eased my boot off his hand, stood, and stepped back. He continued to lie on the ground, sobbing.

Pitiable. But I felt no pity. Something terrible had had happened to me over the years, had killed something inside me. Were I Stephen, I would feel compassion for him. I would hope that this was a turning point in his life. But being me, I only thought that it was probably a mistake to let him go. Even if it was dark enough to obscure my features, not so many blokes with English accents hanging about. I felt no compassion. I was letting him live because I knew that was what Stephen would do.

* * * * *

I parked in the tree-lined circular drive of the white Victorian mansion. The lights were on downstairs, the curtains wide open. It was like looking into a doll house or a stage set. Downstairs I could see Buck curled up on the sofa in the den. The bookshelves where my books now crowded Stephen’s. My paintings symmetrically arranged around Stephen’s. Upstairs, Stephen walked from the bathroom into the bedroom. He wore a pair of pale green pajama bottoms. He was toweling his hair.

I sighed. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get Stephen to take the concept of security seriously. Granted, he was better than he had been; he remembered to lock the doors now, at least. But that was just to relieve my mind. When I’d tried to explain why this was so important, bewilderingly, he’d apologized and said, “I know you need to feel secure. I promise to be more careful.” As though it were about my safety. About my feelings.

I ejected the magazine from the Glock and dropped it back into the glove compartment. I bent, re-taped the pistol beneath the seat, got out of the Range Rover, locked it, and went quickly up the stone steps to the long, covered porch. There was a pyramid of resin jack-o-lanterns at the base of one of the posts, electric eyes and smiles glowing brightly. Black rubber bats on string hung from the porch rafters, stirring in the breeze.

As I locked the front door behind me, Buck came to greet me, tail wagging while he growled in that way of Chesapeake Bay retrievers. He’d been shot back in May when a team of assassins hired by a senior Taliban commander had come calling for me, but he was doing fine now. A little stiff in the mornings, but -- as Stephen had gently teased -- who wasn’t?

Upstairs, the stereo was playing. I could hear the music drifting down the staircase: simple, intensely emotional, and somehow fragile. Barber’s Adagio for Strings. An appropriate soundtrack for the return of old ghosts.

Trailed by Buck, I went around checking windows and closing curtains. I was relieved to see that while Stephen hadn’t bothered with the curtains, he had at least locked everything.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of milk and leaned against the sink while staring out at the black diamond glitter of the lake behind the house. I hadn’t been able to spare time for dinner, but I wasn’t hungry. It had been a long day. I was taking courses at the University of Shenandoah, their Career Switcher Program, which was designed for people like me, frustrated teachers who hadn’t completed the training curriculum but had “considerable life experiences, career achievements, and academic backgrounds that are relevant.”

Apparently I’d have been better off reporting to the target range every day and practicing my Pashto. In the mountains of Afghanistan they have a saying: A wolf cannot outrun its shadow.

I tried again to think how I would tell Stephen, how I would explain what I was considering, and I decided that it would be better to work it out in my mind first. I was too angry and confused just now -- and Stephen had zero tolerance for the Old Man even at the best of times.

I washed the glass, rinsed it, and set in the sink. I turned out the lights and went upstairs.

Stephen was in bed, reading the New England Journal of Medicine.

He glanced up, and smiled, and my heart did that little flip it always did. He was so…beautiful. At fifty he made everyone else look callow and crude. Tall, lean, broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was prematurely silver, but it just emphasized how young and handsome he really was. He looked like the quintessential doctor on the telly, a man you wouldn’t think twice about trusting with your life or your heart.

I went to him and he kissed me, but as our lips parted, his green eyes were searching. He said, “You’re late.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

He was waiting for an explanation. That was one of the difficult things about being with someone. Accountability. I just wasn’t ready to discuss Malik’s proposition with him, and I didn’t want to lie, so I said nothing.

When I didn’t offer an explanation, Stephen, patiently explaining the customs to a foreigner, said, “You should have phoned. I was worried.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that.”

His mouth quirked wryly. “Obviously not.” He was still studying me, looking for clues. “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head. “Not hungry, really.” I added quickly, as his brows drew together, “Not for food.”

I loved the way the concern in his face gave way to that wicked grin. He tossed aside the journal and, reaching for me, murmured, “Oh yeah?”

I mimicked that soft Southern accent, “Oh yeah.”

LBea claps hands and says, "OH YEAH! I want more!"

The Golden Age of Gay Fiction

I'll be promoting upcoming releases all week. I see Teddypig posted on this as well!

Here's the word from MLR Press on The Golden Age of Gay Fiction, Drewey Wayne Gunn, Ed.

It was the first great explosion of gay writing in history. These books were about gay characters. They were written mostly by gay writers. Above all, they were for gay readers. And, as this entertaining chronicle of the emergence of gay literary pride makes clear, it was a revolution that occurred several years before Stonewall!

Their characters were mostly out or struggling to get out. The books were definitely out -- out on the revolving paperback book racks in grocery stores, dime stores, drugstores, magazine agencies, and transportation terminals across the nation for youths and senior citizens, in the cities and the rural areas alike, to find and to devour.

Here 19 writers take you on a tour of this Golden Age of Gay Fiction -- roughly the period between the first Kinsey Report and the first collection of Tales of the City -- paying attention to touchstone novels from the period but, even more, highlighting works of fiction that have been left unjustly to gather dust on literary shelves.

Written by authors, scholars, collectors, and one of the publishers, their essays will inform you. They will sometimes amuse you. They will take you into literary corridors you only suspected were there. And the some 200 illustrations, chosen for their historical as well as their artistic interest, provide a visual record of why this was the golden age.

It is guaranteed that you will emerge from reading this book with a long list of good reads to request from your favorite booksellers!

My initial impression? Well, I've only just started, but it's lovely and chock full of those delicious retro covers we all love. It's a fine collection of literary essays on the history of gay fiction presented by a well rounded group of authors and scholars. And it's obviously a labor of love by both Gunn and MLR Press.

I look forward to sinking further into this. How wonderful!

No buy link yet, but it's slated for release in October.

Fall Festivus

Welcome to fall in Smithfield.

This week look for excerpts, prizes, a strange costume parade, yummy food, smokin' hawt nekkid mens (although clearly WE are too highbrow to enjoy that kind of foolishness here ::sniff::), music, and special guests. I've also launched my New and Improved website. There's a special interview, lots of photos, and...a lot of fricken' LB.

This morning, I'm visiting Meljean Brook's blog . I want to thank MJB for inviting me, although clearly I disappointed her by coming out of the closet and announcing my secret AUTHOR identity. Heh.

When I discovered blogging, I hung out at Bam's--there I met TPig, Katiebabs, Tumperkin, and this geeky fun girl, Meljean. I bought her books based on Bam's recommendation and became a total slavering fangirl. Then she posted this video--and I decided I liked her, Meljean Brook, the person. She's clever.

MJB's book, Demon Forged, comes out next week! Congrats, MJ! Love this cover; love this series.

Stop by and visit, leave a comment (so I'm not LONELY), and...stay tuned. It's the fall festivus! ::throws leaves:: Wahoo!

Sept 28-Oct 2nd

Come celebrate!

Smithfield Fall Festival

(oh, why not?)

There will be gift items to give away (No. Not a bag of leaves) and a few surprise guests.

On Friday--aka Cover Me release day-- I'm hosting a little blogger costume party. My hope is that you'll send me a picture -- a fav costume idea you always wanted to wear; some outrageously creative blog costume you create; yourself in a costume from some past, alcohol infused event--whatever! All entries welcome. We'll have a parade and a contest.

And yes--this ties in to Cover Me!

Guidance? We haz it!

There are no rules. Although I'm limiting the number of man/lady bit ensembles to ONE entry. (possibly less).

Photoshop
I...don't have photoshop, but if I did,
I'd put but my head on the voodoo doll again.

Faceinhole

I'm a Furby!

A Basic Costume

Nothing says autumn like apple pie ala mode.

If you'd like to play along, drop me an email! noseinabookATliveDOTcom

Deadline is Wednesday Sept 30th.

Is this complicated? I don't know. I'm making it up as I go...

¡Pura Vida!

Yes. That's us.

In May BigGirl came home from Chicago and she was...ambivalent. Ambivalent about college, about her future, about where she was going, and where she'd been.

I asked her, in late June, If you could do anything at all--because at this point in your life, you could do anything at all--what would you choose to do?

It's a heady question. One most of people don't dare to ask. But honestly, I believe that if you dare to do it, you can do anything.

So. 19, right? She said, "Travel."

I proposed she take a gap year, and explore the possibilities (with the clear expectation that she'd earn the money to do whatever this thing turned out to be).

She transferred to another college in Chicago and then...she deferred for a year. She found a forty hour a week job and squirreled her money away. She joined a band. She applied to a volunteer organization and...she waited.

BigGirl just NOW received her acceptance letter for a long term volunteer project in...

::drumroll::

Costa Rica!! Six months. Away. Central America. Costa Rica!!!! We love that place!

Oh my effing God. I am so pleased for her and I just wanted to share my joy.

Thank you.

Blogging Today

Not really, but I think that's a great T-shirt.

Click here to stop by and say hello!

Plots have I laid.

I took my mandatory respite...and I'm ready. I spent this week cleaning, sorting, tossing, dusting, parenting, driving...and plotting. Mwahahahaha. I begin book two for my new series today and I'm flipping excited, folks. Excited about writing something new.

G, however, is exhausted. He hasn't had a true day off since June, when we took our 20th anniversary trip. He works hard keeping a lot of folks in their jobs--managing a company that's growing and changing all the time. He never takes a day off to relax, and at the pace he's going, he's going to burn out before his 45 th birthday. Maybe all work and no play is how some folks like to roll, or have to roll, and I understand that. But in the long run, it's not healthy. I want my husband at my side til we're 105. So--mandatory break.



Although, in all honesty, I'll be working.

Well be in NY on Thursday and Friday, using all our Hilton Honors points to stay overnight in Soho. Why collect points if you don't use them? So, I'm going down to the city do some research for this new series--check a few things out. G is going to humor me and smile a lot. He'll probably O.D. on rich food and Lisabea.



PS: Any restaurant recommendations in the Village would be appreciated.

PPS: Yes. I saw the Jets/Pats game. I'd like to know who the EFF those guys were? What. The. Hell. Was. That?

PPSS: Bare Minerals. I'm trying it. Uh. Does anyone out there use it? I think it's secretly dirt--but the lady made me look all smoothed out and I totally bought it. SUCKA. I'm hoping to recreate this dirt application process for Thursday's trip.

Questions!

1)Are the words "Get off my ass, bitch!" indicative of Road Rage, PMS, or both?

2) Is the teacher dude on the Fox hit GLEE a smidge TSTL? I find him vastly annoying. This could be related to question one.

3)When you clean all your kitchen cupboards, do you ever give up half way and just sit in the mess? Have some coffee? Blog a little? Maybe eat some medicinal Pecan Sandies? No? Is that PMS, too?

4) Why are there always more lids than containers in the Tupperware cupboard? What do you do with the lids? Chuck them? Does this not ensure the sudden reappearance of the missing containers?

5)Does Newsweek count as reading? I say no.

6)Have you ever used Redbox? OMG movies for $1!
7)Did you know JL Langely has a new book out? Yay for JL!!

8)Is there a reason the palm pre keeps track of how often I've played their detestably addictive game? Because I doubt the accuracy of their counter. I DID NOT PLAY 800 TIMES.

9) I forgot what this question is because of fail blog.



10) Is this too much? Thanks to Kevin over at the Lisp.



Happy Monday.

News.

Here's the official statement.

For a variety of reasons large and small, Quartet Press has decided to discontinue operations. Sometimes, even with the best of intentions, a hard-working team, and the support of the community, things just don’t work out. This is one of those times. It’s disappointing to all of us, but it’s reality and we will all move on.

We are truly grateful to all of you who have wished us well.Your support and enthusiasm for our venture was humbling, and we hope you will not see our company’s disbanding as an indication that any of us doubt the viability of digital publishing. Far to the contrary — if nothing else, we have learned that the future of digital publishing, while overwhelmingly complex, will be bright indeed, and we will each be working toward that bright future via our individual efforts.

It seems that Quartet Press has decided to close shop before they opened. I'm both surprised and disappointed. I wish them all the very best.

Is it...Tuesday?

My allergist kindly gave me two inhalers today, so I feel like my lung capacity has increased enough to rasp out a quick hello.

Hi. How are you? What's new? I see you stopping by. How was your Labor Day?

I've been working on the NEW! and IMPROVED! website. While my blog has reached new heights (or depths) of self involvement, I gotta tell ya, you ain't seen nothing yet! My new site should be up shortly. I'm not sure what that means. Probably as soon as I get over the whole Sell Yourself thing, the webguy and I will take it live.

One thing is clear: I need more books. MOAR BUKS!

Here's the latest.

• Nick Arrojo left What Not To Wear (like months ago, but I DID NOT KNOW) and I'm disappointed. I don't care who the new guy is. Hair stylist of the stars? Why would we care when we've had Nick? This is akin to losing Stacy or Clinton! All I could do was ask myself (and everyone else in the room) Where did Nick go?Is he still in NY? Is he now available to do my hair?
  
  
  
• That Duggar family is having their 19th baby. I had to LOL when I googled them for a photo and stumbled across the clown car reference. Uhm. I opted not to post that photo because I am circumspect. Or I'm just scared. But do google it yourself.
  
  
• Like white shoes, and white linen jackets, Iced Coffee is out after Labor Day--I slurped down a super huge hazelnut, light, two sweet 'n lows on Monday. Good bye!
  
  
• I cleaned my desk. Every time I finish a project, I try to catch up on filing. Big thrill.
  
  
  
• I liked the new Sandra Bullock movie--All About Steve--which has gotten terrible reviews. Was it my fever? The lack of precious O2? Because AAS was far better than her last snooze-fest The Proposal. The girls-- 13 year old and 19 year old-- and I enjoyed a good laugh without any hassle or beloved men folk sighing at us. Not a whole lot of swearing, little sex, sight gags galore, fabulous red boots, and...well Sandra Bullock.
  
  Me. Likey. (I'm also on record for appreciating her fine hubbie, Jessie James.)

Summer is officially over, the ragweed is full throttle killing us here in the North East, school begins this week, and I'm pushing up my sleeves and getting down to business. Hopefully everyone is rested from the holiday weekend and back on track.

Nose In A Book: The Manifesto*.

* I misspelled that the first four times.

In these troubling days of bitter award nominations and...things...like blog posts about the integrity of Great Westerns, suspected mean girls acting predictably mean on purpose and in public, not to mention accusations of working for the MAN... and all that rot (and most importantly because all my friends seem to have one and I want one too)-- I thought it was time, once again, to reevaluate all the important things I don't do here at Noseinabook.

Because, Lord knows, I don't read books anymore! Oh. That's under the important things I don't do.

• I Don't Read/Review Anymore

Technically, the only book my nose has been in, is my own. I read Cover Me about 150 times...and I think it's not a good idea to give myself 5 stars. I did read an article on eco renovation...but there's nothing noteworthy I can blog about. So. I can't be 'owned'. I can, however, be purchased for 5 bucks from Aspen Mountain Press.

• I don't give out awards anymore.
  
  Although I love you all. AWARDS FOR EVERYONE. Well. Most of you. Ok some of you I don't like at all. Particularly TPig whose blog is titled The Naughty Bits and, I don't know about you guys, but there ain't no naughty bits being dangled out there for us to see. What he has is a socially unacceptable lack of male nudity on his blog. Remember the old header? That sweet young(er) man with his pants around his knees and his lily white ass up in the air? THAT's what I'm TALKIN' 'Bout. So...ok I lied. I have an award. It's called: I hate your blog.
  
  
  
  Feel free to pass that one along!
  
  
  
• I don't post ManLoveMonday anymore.
  
  
  
  Oh, what EVER. It became a job. Christ on a Cracker, if I wanted a JOB I'd actually get one. I mean other than the writing thing--which let me tell you takes up a heckuva lot of time. And the mom/wife. Also, that pesky non-reading thing really screwed poor MLM.
  
  
• I Don't Look 30.
  
  Ok this has nothing to do with blogging or my blog specifically, but I don't look 30 anymore and it bears mention. (Yes that's wine in my hand. It helps to kill the pain.)
  
  
• I Don't Visit People I like on their Blogs
  
  Instead, I try to visit them in person. Is that creepy? That's creepy. Still, one of the highlights of this year has been hanging with my blog pals.
  
  
• I Don't Visit People I don't like on their Blogs
  
  Instead, I talk about them behind their backs, because I'm a mean girl.
  
  
  I'm so mean, CJ, aka Carolyn Jean, other wise known as Carolyn, formerly called Lil CJ, alias Miss Doreen-- sticks pins in me for fun.
  
  
• I Don't Justify My Actions
  
  Which is a total lie. Sometimes we are compelled to justify our actions. Period. Once upon a time, I reviewed books. I didn't do it often, I loved it, it was fun. I wasn't a writer then; I am one now. If I review, I'm conflicted. I wasn't before--well not often. That's that. That's MY bag.
  
  Do these manifestos sound like justifications to you? Why are we explaining ourselves? I mean other than it's kind of fun and a smidge attention seeking (I own that, too) I haven't followed the actual story so perhaps I'm being a tool? But, I think, if it's your blog, own yourself.
  
  
• I Don't Eat Junk Food
  
  Ok now I'm just making shit up because I want a Diet Coke (with Lime) Bong. It's for washing down all those Golden Oreos.
  

Drum roll, please....

He's a cheeky little monkey, isn't he?

ahem. Time to get serious! (Isn't that what blogs are for? SERIOUS STUFF! I heart you Super Wendy. Also blogs are for good fun with friends and throwing tomatoes at each other. And apparently they are useful for promo-ing when one's website is still unfinished.)

But I digress.


Cover Me
Men of Smithfield Book III
by L.B. Gregg

Lax.

That was the initial conclusion enigmatic security specialist Max Douglas had drawn of Michael “Finn” Finnegan—Dalton Prep’s beloved English teacher. When Max arrives at Smithfield’s exclusive boarding school to protect a high profile student against a mysterious stalker, he’s hell bent on enforcing his style of leadership on students and teachers alike. Warring tempers turn to passionate lovemaking between the former marine and the easy going drama coach. But danger is closer than either man expects and all too quickly violence rocks the homey campus—putting both men at risk.


Available (as stated previously) October 2nd. Should we have a party? Yes. Will I give books away? Yes.

Will I ever finish this simple thing for Kris? I will. I WILL.

OK. Have a great day. I'm still in my jammies and I'm trying to find my glasses. Be good. Play nice in the sandbox!!

LB