Carry the Ocean Tour Information & Other Updates

This post is a hodgepodge of things I need to update people about, and if you subscribe to newsletter, you’re about to get this information twice.

Carry the Ocean Book Tour

Carry the Ocean book tour horizontal


The book tour for Carry the Ocean starts Tuesday and goes on and on and on through almost all of April, because so many bloggers chose to participate. There are also two Facebook parties, and who knows, there might be more. The tour updates daily. You can see the lineup here and use it to follow along and enter the grand prize drawing, which I have to tell you, is going to be the best I’ve ever had.

The Carry the Ocean Book Tour Grand Prize

CTO rafflecopter

The grand prize this time is a signed copy of Carry the Ocean in paperback, a Blu-ray of The Blues Brothers, an Iowa State magnet, and Carry the Ocean scrapbook art. It’s made by Susan Romito, and it’s absolutely stunning. Here’s a little video so you can get a better idea of how it opens up.

Isn’t it amazing? Susan is amazing. A thousand thanks for all the hard work and design concept that went into this prize. Also I want to give a huge thank you to Suminsky Artwork (check out his Deviant Art page!) for permission to use his artwork Brain Master Octopus for the back cover. You’ll get why the art is so incredibly perfect once you read the novel.


The only way to get this fabulous prize, though, is to win. So enter as often as you like. You can preorder the book right now, though, or wait for it to release on April 7.


I’ve made some computer wallpaper for both Carry the Ocean and Nowhere Ranch. Carry the Ocean has several different versions, and Nowhere Ranch has just the one. I’ll try to make more eventually, and if you have a book or series in particular you’d like to see, you can let me know in the comments.

Nowhere Ranch Print Order Update

Several of you (okay, over fifty of you) have placed “request for notification” of Nowhere Ranch print orders. I wanted to let you know where that stands. While I’d hoped to have the books already, I have been, no joke, fighting with Ingram over the cover art for over two weeks. Not the content, just the ink levels and size and bar code “color” and placement and…wow. So it will be a little bit before I can offer you the books, but rest assured my husband has a huge spreadsheet of everyone who bought the ebook with a notification of the signed print.

If you didn’t get in on that action and want to, go here and purchase whatever ebook file you prefer with the print notification attached. What this means is I will for sure order that many paperbacks, and if those people want them, they get them. They’ll be $14 each plus shipping/etc, and it’s offered worldwide. The only way to be guaranteed the right of first refusal on the book is to buy the notification. This is one, to get everyone to put a tiny bit of skin in the game so I know you’re serious, and then it’s to get you in the database which Gumroad keeps, because it has your email information. It’s theoretically possible I might have extras and might sell some of them, but there are already a zillion and the deal is if you buy the notification, you are guaranteed the right to buy a copy. I can’t promise that if you try your luck. Because at sixty some books, I might say, that’s all I feel like hauling to the post office.

If you just want to buy the ebook, here’s a link to all the places where you can do that.

Love Lessons Audio & Lonely Hearts Preorder



Love Lessons is available on audio! You can find it direct at Insatiable Press or at Audible/Amazon. Fever Pitch is coming soon, and I’m hoping to have more audio for you soon.

You can also preorder Lonely Hearts from nearly all major retailers. Go here to find the bookseller you prefer. Can’t find the one you’re looking for? Check back. More are added all the time.

Shall I tell you about angels?

Words are the litmus paper of the mind. ― Terry Pratchett

 I first heard about Terry Pratchett when I was on Jennifer Crusie’s yahoo group. Several people were fans, and whenever a new book would come out, they’d all melt down. I loved and trusted these women, so I gave the guy a whirl. I can’t remember if I picked up The Truth on my own, or if someone said “start here.” I think it was the latter, but I can’t be sure. In any event, it was my first Pratchett. I read about three pages and thought, “Are they all high? What the shit is this?”

Though I put the book down, other people I loved kept raving about the man, so eventually I resumed the book. Something magical happened about fifty pages in. His voice had permeated whatever resistance I’d harbored, and the jokes and bits of wit were now so thick on the ground I felt like I’d sunk through fog into a magic land of words. I firmly believe to this day Terry Pratchett’s books are like tea. You must find the right flavor, steep in it a bit, but once you’re addicted, all tea is wonderful and treasured, and nothing is ever enough.

Alas, today we find we must be content with what we have.

I was working when the tweet came through. @terryandrob doesn’t tweet much, but I tend to see most things that come through on that account, and I saw the announcement as it rolled through my feed.

Terry Pratchett last tweetWe’ve known this was coming. Neil Gaiman’s post in The Guardian last year made me uneasy, as did reports Sir Terry had to leave an event due to poor health. I’ve known he’d had Alzheimers for a long time. I understood he’d go before any of us wanted him to leave. I didn’t realize until this morning, though, as those tweets rolled through and I shouted “No, no, no” at my screen before I began crying, how much I had refused to believe the day would ever come. I thought perhaps some miracle would happen, I suppose, or that we could just one more book, one more year ourselves into infinity. But no. The hourglass has run out. And here we are.

Sir Terry Pratchett is and will forever be my favorite author. He wrote my favorite book, Going Postal, and many of my favorite characters. He is the author I have read and re-read to the point that each book is like a pair of comfortable shoes I put on when I want to feel better or be reminded of great things. That said, I’ve saved several for this moment. Books to save for when I need to read something new. For when the new supply will end.

Pratchett’s work has crafted who I am for the past decade, and radically affected both my writing and my sense of what a story is. I’ll go to the mattress defending the truth that he’s as brilliant and rich as Shakespeare, as able to serve the peanut gallery as well as the ivory tower. He was the storyteller’s storyteller. He crafted rich banquets but served them up on comforting, mismatched china with chips around the edges. He could blown down critics with the force of his wit and sharpness of his pen, but he could also blow them a raspberry and indulge in horrible, groan-worthy puns and extended gags because it pleased him, and many of his fans, to do so.

He taught me, without ever giving me a direct lesson, how to shape a story. When to bob, when to weave. How to forge a character, from what ore to look for one. How to make a villain, though I still struggle with that one, for my own reasons. How to make a hero out of shoddy armor. How to build a world, not by the sparkle of its scenery but by the glow of the hearts of the characters within. He taught me how to follow my heart, but also how to spin my heart in a way an audience has agency. He taught me how to tell more than one kind of story. How to build a brand around something bigger and yet still focused. How to serve my readers as well as my characters. Serve them with my characters.

Going PostalBut mostly he made me fall in love with so many places and people and ideas that I never, ever tire of visiting them. Vetinari, Death, Gaspode, Angua, Tiffany, Granny, Nanny, Moist, Adorabelle, Vimes, Carrot, Detritus—I could fill a blog post with nothing but the names of characters I adore. He painted them so well I can’t bear to watch movies made of them, because they always fall short of the dazzling picture his own words create for me. He made me fall in love with his quirky, intrusive narration. Made me love absolutely everything so much that all I needed to make the purchase was his name on the cover.

I didn’t think I’d be able to do it so soon, but on my way to and from an appointment today out of town I listened to the first hour and some change of Going Postal on audio. It was far more a comfort than I thought it would be. I think largely because it reminded me he’s still here, right there in my favorite books. Because the magic remains, and will for all time. But I’m still sad. I’ll never get to stand at the back of an auditorium and feel the thrill of knowing the man who moves my heart and soul so much stands before me. That the brilliant mind that creates all those worlds is in the same room with me. I don’t know that I could have stood in line for a book to be signed, because I’d probably break down crying and embarrass us all, but now that’s not an option.

It makes me ache there will be no more stories. One more, I think people have said. One more? No. That’s not enough. I want so many, many more. I want them until I’m eighty. I want to stay alive with just enough strength to keep turning pages well past one hundred and keep them coming. I want to keep learning and discovering in new places. Today I grieve because the door has closed. Death has walked my hero across the desert. If I want new stories, I’ll have to close my eyes and hope for whispers on the wind.

Shall I tell you about angels, Sir Terry Pratchett? As Lord Vetinari told Moist Von Lipwig, the thing about angels is that they only appear once.

You were mine.


Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken? ― Terry Pratchett


Nowhere Ranch, Available Sort of Now

Quick programming note: if you get my newsletter/follow me on Twitter or Facebook and you’ve been pondering going to Gumroad only to find out the price just went up, NEVER FEAR. Read on.

If you read that and thought, “Gumroad?” Come with me. I shall explain.


I told you Nowhere Ranch was coming back, and it’s here. Sort of. It’s on its way. This is my self-publishing learning experience, which means I’m stumbling around half-drunk, making messes and being generally inelegant. I’m in the process of uploading the book to the following places:

  • All Romance eBooks (already there!)
  • Amazon Everywhere (in process, could show up anytime between tonight and Tuesday morning)
  • Barnes & Noble paperback (that will totally take a long time, I have to MAIL IN this form)
  • Barnes & Noble Nook (in process, probably a few more days)
  • Google Play (it says it’s there, but it’s…not)
  • Gumroad (hold on, I’ll explain)
  • iTunes (OMG, don’t get me started what a PITA that is, IDK when that will sort out)
  • IngramSpark (paperback distribution, basically all over everywhere)
  • Kobo (in process, they’re approving something)

If one of those is your favorite formats/vendors, keep watching this page and click the Buy Now button. When your vendor has their link in place, I’ll add it. When all/most of them are up, I’ll do a newsletter announcing it and have a contest for a free copy as well.

But for RIGHT NOW, the book is absolutely up at a site called Gumroad, where I’ve been able to sell it to you all weekend for $1. Plus, you can add on to your ebook what I’ve been calling “signed print notification,” which basically means because Gumroad collects your email address and I see what you bought, my husband can keep your email in a spreadsheet, and when we have paperbacks ready and priced, he can send a thing saying, “Hey, this is the paperback and what it will cost you plus shipping. You want it?” And if you say yes, you will get to purchase via Paypal a signed (by me, not my husband) (though he would, if you asked) paperback copy of Nowhere Ranch. I set a cap for about 65 of those because MEIN GOTT I have to sign and schlepp all those to the post office, but if there’s somehow this burning need for more, I’ll probably up it. Actually if you got to 150 you’d save me money. So, if I run out, go ahead and ask. I might even just up it if they go “out.” But it will absolutely end by mid-March, so don’t dally.

Now here’s the part you need to hear, especially if the first line of this blog post pertained to you. Because of the way Amazon in particular sets its royalty rates, I can’t price the book any lower than $2.99 without getting scalped. I wanted to have a little bit of time where it was dirt cheap because so MANY of you have bought it over the years, and if you wanted to upgrade, I wanted it to be very painless for you to do so. I might eventually raise the price up to 3.99 or something, but honestly, this book has been out forever, and so long as I make back my investment in self-publishing, I’m content to let that book be a bargain for quite some time.

This means, though, that because Amazon will go live any second and All Romance Ebooks already is, I have to raise the price on Gumroad to match. BUT, because you’re reading this blog, you can still get it for $1! All you have to do is select the version you want on Gumroad, type “rope” into the offer field, and you will still get it for $1. Actually, it’ll be $0.99. And I will leave it that way for another week for sure.

Thanks to everyone who’s bought so far! And if you didn’t get the special notification of the pre-sale but wish you would have, sign up for my newsletter and next time you’ll be among the first to know too.



Love will grow through the cracks you leave open.

Ranch hand Roe Davis absolutely never mixes business with pleasure—until he runs into his boss, Travis Loving, at the only gay bar within two hundred miles.

Getting involved with the ranch owner is a bad idea, but Roe’s and Travis’s bedroom kinks line up against one another like a pair of custom-cut rails. As long as they’re both clear this is sex on the side, no relationship, no interfering with the job, they could make it work.

Shut out by his family years ago, Roe survived by steadfastly refusing to settle into so much as a post office box. As his affair with Travis grows into more than just sex, Roe’s past catches up with him, threatening the thin ray of happiness he’s found, reminding him it’s well past time he went on his way.

But even a loner gets lonely, and at this point, there’s nowhere left to run. The shame and sorrow of what he’s lost will stay with Roe wherever he goes—until he’s ready to let love lead him home.

This novel has been previously published and has been revised from its original release.

Don’t panic. Nowhere Ranch will be back shortly.

Kanaxa - Coming Soon

At the time of this posting, my novel Nowhere Ranch has disappeared from most electronic retailers, leaving only the first-edition paperbacks, and probably not a ton of them. I think ARe still has it, but they won’t for long.


The book has a new cover (reveal on February 25 at Joyfully Jay) and is in the process of getting a spit-shine by Sasha Knight, and as soon as I figure out all the gears and levers of self-publishing, it will appear pretty much everywhere it just was, plus some more places, and especially initially the ebook will cost less. Maybe a lot less. Probably a lot less.

At one point I was going to try to do a sequel, but every time I try to do that for this series, it doesn’t work. It really, really doesn’t work. I had one that kind of half worked, maybe, if you squinted, and then I pretty much took the whole thing and morphed it into Tough Love. Maybe someday I write a new one. Or maybe I don’t ever. Absolutely I’m not right now.

Also, I’m really curious about self-publishing. I’m kind of terrified and a whole lot of suspicious, but I have some very smart people advising me, and I think this is one of those things where I’m going to learn a lot and that’s always good.

I don’t have a hard release date yet. Probably early March because it’ll be done by then and sitting on it will make me crazier than anything else. I will NOT be doing a blog tour for it because I’m already half nuts with work and promo as it is. I will, though, put out an offer for ARCs, so if you want to get on that wagon, join the blog tour signup list, and then you’ll be able to know. There will maybe be a Netgalley thing but I’m not sure. If you want to make sure you don’t miss when it’s for sale again, join my regular newsletter.

The cover ROCKS. I loved the old cover and told Kanaxa, “If you could make something I love more, I’ll be surprised but very grateful.” She talked to me about a few intriguing concepts, then sent me the draft and I was all NEVERMIND, I LOVE THIS. I hope you will too!

To answer your inevitable question: no major revision in this reissue. Mostly me tightening stuff up and using the stuff I’ve learned over the years to make it better. No big story or structure change.

And to answer your next question: yes, this will be happening to Dance With Me later this year too. Pretty much exactly the same thing all the way down.

That’s all. As you were!

Hey @NASCARonNBC, I’m not soft, just pissed as hell. Pull the #GlutenFree Mocking Ad.

nascarNBC is airing an ad during the Superbowl featuring this natty gentleman on the left mocking people with Celiac disease and gluten sensitivity. If you’re already mad and just want to tell them off, here’s the petition, here’s another post about the issue, and here’s the ad itself.

If you’re not sure why this is a big deal or you think people who can’t eat gluten should be laughed at, I’m going to encourage you to read on. If you’re from NBC or NASCAR, I really, really want you to read on.

I’m writing this blog post from my desk, eating certified gluten free cereal with vanilla flax milk. I have (dairy-free) creamer in my coffee because while I’ve been doing a lot better, the last few weeks I sort of downshifted back to body train wreck, and in an effort to chill out my stomach, I’m culling acidity in my food. I can’t bear to cut out coffee entirely, so I’m cutting back and adding milk.

The kicker is, this go-round my problem is I’m not noticing when my body is in pain, because it’s so conditioned to feeling like crap I have to go by secondary warning signs. If you’ve read my blog a lot, you know what I’m talking about. Because I’m hoping a whole bunch of you share this, I’ll do a quick recap: for the past ten years I’ve been fantastically sick. Last year I had two surgeries, one emergency, and three trips to the ER. Before I got my actual diagnosis last year—severe, stage four endometriosis—I had a full buffet of horrible diseases floated in front of me. MS. Fibromyalgia. Cancer. Arthritis. Several others with scary names I’ve blocked from my memory banks. I couldn’t walk at times. I doubled over in pain a lot. I missed a lot in ten years. I’m on the downhill side now, but for a long, long time, I was a very miserable person.

During that nasty slide into deeper caverns of health hell, I developed a myriad of allergens and food sensitivity. I’ve lost track of all the special diets I’ve been on. All I know is they would all work for a while, and then they wouldn’t. All until one. When I was waiting for the blood tests to come back to tell me whether or not I had MS, I couldn’t bear to sit still, so I did homework. I read in several instances where modifying diet severely could help alleviate the symptoms, and it was mostly healthy eating with gluten free tacked on, so I tried it. It was very hard and frustrating, but it kept me busy while I waited to find out which of the four horrible diseases they were testing for I in fact had.

Before the first weekend was passed in my gluten free experiment, I not only felt better, but on Sunday evening I stood in the kitchen with tears down my face as I felt nerve sensation return almost fully to my feet. Though within four months I would spiral downward again—cutting gluten doesn’t stop diseased cysts—that diet modification gave me so much of my life back I don’t have words to describe it. And I make a living describing with words.

Many of my allergies and sensitivities have abated, though none have vanished. I can indulge in moderate dairy and egg, and I don’t have to clean my house every ten days top to bottom to keep dust mites in check (every month is okay now), but I still have to have casings on my pillows, and I still can’t have gluten. I can tolerate mild exposure, but not direct. My very recent digestive tract adventures have basically told me to cool it for awhile, to get used to the idea that as much as I miss wheat bread, I might never get it back.

What I have back, though, is my life. I never fully lost it, but I’m getting it back in a real, honest way. It comes at a cost, though, and it’s a very stupid one. Because there are people like NBC and NASCAR who think this is funny. Or made up. They think my sensitivity and the literally life-threatening exposure of Celiac sufferers is great fodder for an ad in a major market. Apparently sick people make great targets.

Not this one.

I have a long, long list of words I’d like to hurl at you, words NBC is so lily-livered over they would have to bleep from their oh so butch NASCAR broadcast. So let me tell you this. I’m not soft. I spent a decade getting sicker and sicker, carried more pain than anyone so clueless and callous as to design, star in, and approve that ad could imagine. I have vomited from pain. I have passed out from pain. I have swallowed pain and attended weddings, conventions, vacations. I’ve strapped on heels and walked on numb feet with a smile because that’s what my job demanded. I’ve bit my cheek until it bled and pasted on a smile as I lied to my daughter and assured her I would be okay, when I wasn’t sure if I actually would. I’ve raised a child. Counseled friends. Written twenty novels. Built a career. Loved and lost and lived a life.

Yes. I’ve cried because I’ve been to events where I couldn’t eat a single thing, stood there hungry and miserable and in pain but didn’t let anyone know. That crying came when I was alone or with friends. Yes, it’s true—some misplaced breadcrumbs can still knock me on my ass.

This doesn’t make me soft.

Soft is laughing like Beavis and Butthead and reaching for an easy joke, mocking people will serious illness because somehow you think this will get you an audience.  Soft is being so ignorant and uninformed you don’t do any research before you make an ad. Soft is being so tone deaf it’s going to take us shaming you in public to know how to behave.

Pain has carved knives into my blood. I am not soft. You, however, are unbelievably stupid. Pull your insulting, incorrect ad. And if this is all you have to recommend your sport and your network? You have a great deal of soul searching to do.

Sign this petition to tell NBC to pull this ad. Read this post for facts about Celiac, a link to the ad, and another argument about why this ad is a kick in the gut to people who truly don’t need that kind of insult.

My Book Is Not My Baby, Though Sometimes It Does Reek of Poo.

via Flickr

via Flickr

“My book is my baby.” You hear that a lot from authors, especially of novels, and as one of that number, I get it. Most of us don’t mean it more than a very loose metaphor, an image-intense description of what it’s like to create something out of almost nothing and have it become something much more. We imprint hopes and dreams on this creation, and we feel great affection for it. Ergo, baby.

While I won’t try to stop anyone else who insists on calling their books their babies, because it’s still a free country, etc, I am not one of those people. And because I just read something about books being babies that kind of made my eye twitch, I feel like clarifying why I am, in this particular instance, anti-baby.

When I write a story, there’s definitely a big stage where the thing is unformed, but it’s not an infant I’m teaching to walk or hold its head upright. I’m trying to find eyeballs and get rid of that weird third ear on top of its head. It’s clay, not flesh. Absolutely I talk to it and nurture it, but I also rip it apart, and kick it, and yell at it—if my books were my babies, they’d all be taken away by child protective services.


via wikimedia

But even if I were to pretend that was all somehow okay baby-tending behavior, what I do next is even worse. I guess I could go with the editing and proofing and beta-reading as sending the kid to school, but…holy hell, I’m not letting it learn. I’m forcing it into a mold, making it acceptable to society in a way which, again, would probably get me arrested if I tried it with my actual flesh and blood child.

Because before I got to the force you into something respectable phase, first I turned it into some free-range hippie. In the drafting phase I let it run amok though the fields and forests, let it shit in corners and climb weird trees, and the whole time this happened I stood by with a notebook, not caretaking. “Oh, look. That made its head break open. Best not let it go there again. Ah, but look what happened when I let it run naked through city center! That was amazing. Let’s do that again, only this time with a big BELL.”

Let’s recap: for this baby, first I design its DNA and rearrange it while it’s alive on my mad scientist table. Then I let it tear around without much shepherding so I can see what it can and can’t do. Then I tie it down, force it into a box, or a series of boxes as I attempt to make it no longer a wild, free thing but an acceptable little Stepford Baby.

I’d love to end the analogy breakdown here, but alas. I’m not done torturing this poor child.

Because next, I abandon this baby and sell it to anyone who will have it. Dressed in a uniform, labeled and wearing enticing signs advertising what it can and will do. Give me the right kind of money, and you can have it for as long as you want it. And I want a lot of people to have it. I want them to enjoy it in whatever way works for them. I made this baby just for them, and I want them to get the most out of it.

via Flickr

via Flickr

At this point, honestly, the analogy is seriously making me want to skip lunch.

Still not done, though.

This selling my offspring wholesale is just one horrible outcome, and it’s the best one. Because sometimes I abandon the baby entirely. If it’s not working for me, I throw it away. Some I keep around for parts and use them on other babies. Sometimes I abandon them for years, leaving them in a limbo of will she finish me? Won’t she finish me?

Okay. Uncle. I can’t go any further. I’m grossing myself out more than I can stand.

Bottom line: my books are not children. Yes, there’s this sense of sending something I care about into the world in a wistful way that has a few shaded areas like sending a child to college. That, I will buy. There’s always a moment where I get the book back from its final proofing and I feel like I’m waving at it from shore. Good luck in the new world. I hope you meet nice people. I hope you do well.

But that is a very different metaphor. A baby implies dependence. Caretaking. Tending. Monitoring. Allowing it to grow but in this very loving way that allows it as an entity, a living creature, to become its own thing. Some of that, sort of, applies to the act of creating a book, but it breaks down really quickly. And, as illustrated above, painfully.

The problem with calling a book a baby is that it doesn’t allow it to grow up. To walk out on its own and succeed or fail. I will stand by the idea that books become their own things, that there’s a point where we can only control so much of them. How good their odds of survival are do come from us—that’s our skill, our instinct, our work ethic. But at some point they sail on, whether or not we’re ready, and we simply watch to see how it all turns out. We can wave signs saying the books are here, can answer questions about them, plaster them in front of people, offer free samples. But that’s it. Anything else is getting in the way.

Once my book is out, it doesn’t belong only to me. Legally, yes, it’s mine. But once you read it? It’s yours as well. My Sams and Walters and Randys and Vinnies and Adams and all of the characters I’ve written—once you read them, they also belong to you, if you choose to keep them.

Anyone tries to take my daughter, or say she’s theirs—well, to be quite frank, I will bloody you. Unless she says she wants to be yours, and then I will watch you very carefully. Because in about a billion metaphorical ways, she is not a story I am writing. She authors her own story, one I am privileged to witness.

I can see how some people might feel I broke the analogy down too harshly. I imagine some authors feel it’s their job to protect their work the same way I protect my daughter, wanting only kind eyes to behold her. Except even that isn’t good—for books, or for my kid. Much as it kills me, I have to let bad things happen to her. She is not an egg. She is no longer a baby. She has my heart, but she also has her own.

Letting the book-as-baby metaphor be more than a cute, clumsy shorthand for the creative process can lead to a kind of overprotection which helps no one, not author, not reader, and not the book. Books are meant to be read. To be reacted to. Hated, loved, ignored, treasured. That is their life. Coddling them, sheltering them, helicopter parenting them is not allowing them to live.

Publishing a novel is not a ticket-punch which ends with adoration and success. Publishing a novel is a chance. It’s an adventure. It’s a risk. It’s dangerous, weird, strange, and often psychotic. Babies should be nowhere near this process.

Pacifiers, though, should probably be purchased in bulk. And having said my piece about this book baby thing, I’m going to brew another of my own patented pacifiers and go back to watching my current book make a big mess in the middle of the second act. It’s a little stinky at the moment, I’ll be honest. But by the time I let you see it, I’ll have it all cleaned up and shining. Once it’s for sale, you can buy it and do whatever you want with it.

Including, if you insist, call it your baby. Just please don’t call it mine.

On the Other Side

I’ve been trying to write this blog post for a month, maybe more. The reason it’s coming out today is because I am shamelessly riding the emotional tailwinds I found in this post, which I read this morning while I waited to drive my husband to work in the bitter cold. I’m now in that cliché place where I want to go buy everything Tom Pollock has written, though at this exact second I mostly want to curl up at his feet and put my head on his shoes.

I don’t have bulimia as he does, and I have no big confession to make, no anchor I’m trying to take off my chest and ask the community of strangers to help me carry. In fact, the blog I’ve been trying to write since forever, the thing I’ve barely been able to talk about even with my spouse, is how odd I feel now that I don’t have an albatross around my neck.

On the off chance you stumble onto this post and it’s your first meeting of me, the quick backstory is that for a decade or better I’ve been sick to varying degrees, mostly invisibly. I’ve carried sometimes a staggering amount of pain, usually without saying much. Without quite realizing how bad it had become, I made every day a battle to find a survivable baseline, and my definition of “survivable” became pretty grim every so often. I developed a million allergies. I strategized with my pharmacist husband how to use narcotics effectively without becoming addicted and/or losing their potency. I tried a million healing diets. I went to every therapy: Western, Eastern, and just plain from the moon. I prayed. I seethed. I endured. Then one day last year, I exploded. A pain in my abdomen became so intense I had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital. A few weeks later it happened again, and midnight exploratory surgery revealed I had horrible, unfathomably bad endometriosis. A few months later  I had a full hysterectomy.

After I healed, as more time passed, some of the allergies went away. A lot of the pain has diminished, now more related to inactivity and re-strengthening than chronic illness. I can eat more things and don’t have to have my house kept in a nearly literal hermetic bubble. In short, I’m a lot better.

Which is kind of funny, because sometimes, if I’m honest, I feel more weak and vulnerable and unsteady than I ever did when I was sick.

During that ten years of hell I raised a child. I struggled with the publishing industry, honed my craft, and eventually began a fiction career. I had friends, made new ones, went through some epic ups and downs with many of them. I traveled, even trans-Atlantic. I painted rooms in my house. Tackled the garden. Everywhere I went, people who knew I was sick would marvel at my determination, my strength. I made blogging about being ill a coping mechanism, a way to take back power. I refused in every way to let it cow me, and it never did.

Not until now, when the battle is over. Now I don’t feel like I can take on even a little bit of unexpected conflict. Now the wrong word or threat on social media undoes me. Someone’s bad day and rant can make me so unsettled I need to unfollow them or decide not to be on that platform for awhile, maybe anymore, period. A random pain in my neck or lower back, a shadow of my former trial, will make me rage and seethe or sob over the unfairness of it all. Battles I would have gladly had in the past I can’t fathom letting get off the ground. Sometimes I can talk a good game, but more often than not I can’t even manage that.

Intellectually I understand what is happening to me. To start, there is a very simple chemistry issue: I have removed a gut full of reproductive organs which produced a lot of hormones–organs which would have shut off on their own, given the chance, but on their own terms, not with a chemical injection and then the slice of a knife. From August until November of last year I rode a strange, terrible wave of adjustment–hot flashes were the outward, awful symptom, but inside I felt a cold fury and terryfying instablity which I could not even begin to control. I haven’t had the courage yet to look back at those months and see if I did any damage, because I’m sure I did. Why it stopped was because my doctor prescribed estrogen–ironically the hormone which could make me sick again–to help even me out. It did. I can’t take it forever, and I’m to start trying to taper it in a few months, but right now it is the reason I function. And what that little episode has taught me is how very humbled I am by my chemistry. No matter how smart or clever or determined I am, or even how patient and kind–I am an organism, and if my chemical mixture is poor, I will be poor.

That knowledge has been sobering me for awhile now, but to be honest it was the gateway emotion into a deeper, more terrible sea. The realization that while all that strength and determination was admirable and helpful, it isn’t me either. Not entirely. I am not, much as I would love to pretend it, a pillar of awesome. I am also terribly, achingly human. I am actually quite weak, and after a decade of struggle, I’m very tired.

And I’m sad. Oh God, I’m so fucking sad.

I lost ten years. I didn’t exactly–I lived life during that time, but not the life other people lived. I was not a usual thirty-year-old, and now I’m forty-one. I remember standing in a wading pool while a younger friend asked me to stop a runaway child belonging to a woman five years older than me, and I had to admit I didn’t have the strength or power to bend down and corral a wiggling toddler. I watched people run past my house and wondered what it would be like to feel good enough to do that. I walked through conventions in heels and nice clothes and took Vicodin so I didn’t care so much that my legs and feet were full of shooting pains and half numb. I sat in doctor office after doctor office while they guessed wrong, or didn’t guess at all, or suggested maybe it was because I was fat. Sometimes said it out loud. I did all that, and I endured it.

But now that’s all gone. Now it is me in the horrible aftermath, sitting with myself by a still lake in the evening breeze, and every so often I turn to myself and say, “That was really not any fun, was it, what happened to us?”

“No, it wasn’t,” I reply, and then those two conversational selves join together, and we cry. Or we pack up the pain and carry it with us on to something else.

The worst part is there’s nothing else to do but carry it and weep over it. Someday I’ll fashion the pain into a glittering jewel, but right now it is raw material, and it’s heavy and hurts to look at. For the first time in…god, probably ever, I’ve been doing that entirely on my own. Oh, I always hide some of the pain, and I am now too–that’s a coping mechanism of mine, barfing out publicly what looks like oversharing, which is of course a smoke screen for deeper pain. Because if you think I’ve shared too much, you’ll never look deeper to think maybe I’ve kept some back.

But that doesn’t give me much this time, because this is different in ways I’m still sorting out. I think it’s something about it being an end. Most of my being, not just my brain but muscle memory is wired for enduring, and I’m not now. I’m assimilating and healing, or something. And it’s fucking weird. I can’t endure like I used to, to start. I do not have that deep, powerful well of adrenaline. When I reach deep for it, I find this, this sadness and exhaustion, and I get disarmed. I still have a sense of who I am, but I’m realizing I’m less the Amazon Iowan who can fell anything while battling chronic illness and more Heidi, woman who can’t quite understand how so much of her life has gone by already.

And that’s it. That’s what I am right now. Sitting shiva over a false front I didn’t realize wasn’t me, sorting out how much of it was indeed a coping mechanism, how much I might be able to harvest and reform into whatever I am now…how much I even should. But mostly, it’s grieving. Sitting by that lake and saying, over and over again, “That sucked, that did. Yes indeed.”

Don’t get me wrong–I’ll write the shit out of this. I’ve already started. At this point I honestly don’t know what you’ll think of Lonely Hearts, of Baz and Elijah, but I’m very at peace with it because they are my angels, my boys who separated that pain into two halves and danced me through it into a fictional happy ever after. During the drafting of that story I wasn’t able to articulate how much I was mirroring myself consciously, but my subconscious was all over it. That’s clear now as I do the preliminary round of official corrections with my editor–holy mother of god, but I was processing pain on every page. I’ll be pulling from these weird feelings for years, on purpose and as a compulsion.

It’s a new adventure, I guess. I’ve been sitting with one kind of pain for years, and now I am privileged to enjoy another variety. One that is not active, one that requires the challenge of holding and accepting that pain happened, that pain had pain in its wake. That the path to hope and healing isn’t simply passing through it, or owning it. The way out of pain is absorbing it. All of it, every shade. Until you realize that being alive is knowing pain is always with you, always changing and expanding, alive in some ways more than you are. That pain is, essentially, the engine of life.

And that life is so wonderful and sometimes heavy that one can understand that truth as deeply as possible…but pain is still bigger and wiser, and it will always be there to show you that you were not as strong as you thought. It always has more for you.

Because the truth is, of course, I’m not sitting at the lake with myself. Or rather, that other self I’m breaking apart from to speak to is the pain I carry. Whether it was done to me, brought on by me, or if it simply happened with no intent on anyone’s part–it’s all mine. It’s all me. And sometimes it is more real, more anchor than I am.

That’s my post. For me, it feels like standing naked in the cold, with a diagram to all my weak places. I don’t like admitting I don’t feel as strong as I once did. But to be honest, if it’s not already obvious, it probably will be soon. Because I didn’t write this and feel power surging back. In fact, it feels very much like laying down a sword.

But Tom Pollock reminded me that confessing, or rather, sharing, being, is taking control. I still need to be at the lake by myself, but it’s nice knowing other people know that’s what I’m doing. Maybe it feels naked, but it’s mostly admitting I was already naked. Acknowledging.

It helps me see, too, what I’m not. I’m not a mess. I’m not on the edge. I’m simply–understandably–exhausted. Admitting the lake I’m sitting at is composed of my own sea of emotions, my own tears. Dramatic flair that that image is and all.

So, that’s me. At my lake, hurting less, feeling weird. Writing words. Including these.

Merry Christmas, Nudging the Newsletter, Going Quiet

Me & Mitch by the tree

Me & Mitch by the tree

Merry Christmas, happy holidays, blessed Festivus—however you’d like to slice it, may it be good. I’m about to go dark everywhere except for the occasional posting of cats on Twitter and/or Instagram. Lots of family, lots of presents, lots of cats (though that last bit is normal).

December 24 at 7AM, a newsletter will go out. If you aren’t currently subscribed, this would be a good time to fix that. Something will happen in tomorrow’s newsletter that will only happen there. It’s possible somebody will forward you the newsletter or link it, but it will be in their favor to not add people to the pool, so they might stay quiet. If you subscribe, you will want to make sure you open it and follow the link inside. Peek into your spam folder/promotions tab too, if it’s not apparent.

I leave you on this not-quite Christmas Eve with a brief message from the character Twitter voted for in a weird mid-day five minute window. There was sort of a tie between Sam and Randy, and they’re pointing out dialogs are more interesting than monologs anyway.

See you in 2015.

Randy and Sam Wish You a Merry Christmas

Sam: We have the blog! Except…I’m not sure what to do with the blog. What is it rated?

Randy: She’s posted a fisting scene on it, so anything goes. *waggles eyebrows at Sam*

Sam: *swats Randy* No, because Mitch isn’t here.

Randy: I’d take video for him, but whatever. *plops on couch, puts up feet* It’s not supposed to be a long post. We show up, flash our asses a bit, be merry, etc.

Sam: It’s too bad they can’t come eat your cookies. You make great cookies. And the holiday party last weekend was amazing.

Randy: Well, Heidi talked about making the 2016 Christmas story about us. If she’s not too absorbed in those Minnesota brats. Though take note they asked for us on Twitter. Kelly got one vote, and Walter didn’t get any.

Sam: Yes, but Walter is mostly you with money and better hair.

Randy. Hey.

Sam: *pats Randy’s hand* Why don’t we tell everyone what we got people for Christmas? Or wait, no, they might read this. How about we talk about what our family celebration will be like?

Randy: We’ll watch the Christmas lights. Later, we’ll welcome some friends to help us sing carols. And we’ll finish up by reading “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Then Steve will beat Chenco with a wire hanger.

Sam: Stop. This is not Christmas with the Crawfords. Come on. Our Christmas is nice. We do go look at lights, and we have soup for dinner and watch cheesy movies, and you make a great dinner on Christmas Day.

Randy: So you’re telling me you don’t want a new spanking bench for Christmas?

Sam: Quit pretending you aren’t the biggest sap at the holidays. They’ve read The Twelve Days of Randy. They already know.

Randy: *sighs* Fine. Yes, I’m a big sap, and we probably will have vanilla, goopy sex on the holiday. Happy?

Sam: *snuggling in* Yep. But she really does owe us a story before December 2016.

Randy: *puts arm around Sam* True that.

Winner of the Sleigh Ride Grand Prize and Lots of Motivation to Join My Newsletter

First things first! The winner of this grand prize pack is Shirley Ann, which means someone in the UK will be sipping out of a Minnesota flask, gazing at a snuggling moose figure while leaving through Let It SnowWilliam’s Doll, and nudging the e-reading forward on Sleigh Ride. Well, probably not all at once. But it will at least be theoretically possible. Congrats Shirley Ann!

Sad you didn’t win? Don’t worry, I’ll be having another contest closer to Christmas. This time, though, I’m only hosting it through my newsletter. Which, I guess, will be easily shared and posted on social media, but if you want to make sure you don’t miss it, be sure to sign up. If I get my act together there will be several contests, but it all depends on how my Christmas and writing prep goes.

Speaking of things to read: remember, I have several free shorts, many of which are Christmas themed, and they’re only available for download through my website. The Twelve Days of Randy and Hooch and Cake are from the Special Delivery seriesFrozen Heart is from the Love Lessons series. I have long had schemes to get those properly covered and edited and loaded to vendors (at which point they’ll be 99 cents, but less clumsy) but for now they remain free and on my website. Go get ’em.

Already read those? Well, I have a lot of new things in the pipe, and I’m also hoping 2015 is the Year of the Backlist. I have a pile of things out of print at the moment, small and large, and a few more will be coming this year. Some are already reassigned, some I will self publish, but all of them need some fussing and tweaking and re-covering. Stay tuned via my newsletter to find out when those are available. I honestly have no idea on the timeline right now, unfortunately.

But since we’re nearing the year’s end, and since sometimes people ask, here are some specific things and some vague things coming up in my pipeline.

  • The Devil Will Do, re-issue/reworking of Sweet Son, Wilde City Press, February 4, 2015. This book is almost more erotica than romance, though there is a fairytale level of falling in love, connection, and HEA.
  • Carry the Ocean, book one of the Roosevelt series, Samhain Publishing, April 7, 2015. Preorders available now. The story of two young men, one struggling with severe depression, one taking the world by storm who also happens to have autism.
  • Lonely Hearts, book three of the Love Lessons series, Samhain Publishing, August 11, 2015. Cover reveal at Romantic Times Book Blog in January. This is Baz & Elijah’s story, if you’re following the Love Lessons series.
  • Winter Wonderland, book three of the Minnesota Christmas series, Samhain Publishing, Christmas 2015. Paul Jansen finally gets his man, even though he’s not exactly who was anticipated.
  • Clockwork Heart, Samhain Publishing, early 2016. Steampunk romance, alternate early 20th century Europe, sky pirates.
  • The re-release of Nowhere Ranch and its sequel (currently untitled) through Samhain Publishing in 2016.
  • The re-release of Dance With Me through Samhain Publishing in the summer of 2016. No specific sequel planned there at the moment, but they will definitely be around. Keep your eyes peeled in any Minnesota-set book.
  • Book Two of the Roosevelt series in 2016, featuring David from Carry the Ocean, a C4 quadriplegic living in the same building as the characters from book one. My first heterosexual main MC romance.
  • Book Four of the Love Lessons series in late 2016/early 2017. Rose and Mina promise me they will have a fiery, passionate, and tender romance.
  • Book Three of the Roosevelt series in 2017.
  • Book Five of the Love Lessons series sometime in 2017. Not telling who the characters are, but you’ve met one already and the other appears in Lonely Hearts.
  • The release/re-release of several shorts and novellas previously published and some you’ve never seen before.
  • The re-release of the Etsey series (high fantasy romance) and eventually the last three books in the set.

Now, perhaps, you can see why the only convention I’m going to next year is RWA in New York City?

For the next few weeks, outside of the newsletter contest and quick peeks, I’m going to do my best to stay offline. So if I don’t see you before then, have a merry Christmas, happy holidays, and wonderful new year. I’ll leave you with a picture of Sasha prancing beside our Christmas tree. This was the day after we put it up, when it was in considerably better repair.



The One With the Kitten

If you follow me on social media, this isn’t big news, though this will be a more coherent telling of the tale. I’ve meant to blog about this and a zillion other things for weeks, but I had a book due and a blog tour I was grossly behind composing posts for, and I wouldn’t let myself blog for fun until I had my work done. As of yesterday, I have my work done, and this morning I pulled up the manuscript for Winter Wonderland (Minnesota Christmas #3) with full intent on forming a partial in the next fourteen days. So now I have permission to tell you about the kitten.

This is the kitten.



On Sunday last weekend I was at the barn with Anna, frantically editing Lonely Hearts in the lounge when a girl Anna’s age came in with a kitten. A tiny, mewling kitten who could barely walk. She tried desperately to knaw on everyone’s fingers, because she was starving. The mother cat had stopped feeding the kittens, and they were only three weeks old. No one knew where the other kitten was, but this one had been found stumbling around. The girl pleaded with her mother to take it home. “I’ll take care if it, I promise.” The mother balked, the father scolded the girl for putting the mother in this position. Meanwhile, the kitten screamed. Eventually the girl got up, tearful, to put the kitten back where she found it.

It was cold, and dark, and the raccoons and other predators would be out. I knew the kitten would be dead by morning if not sooner. Plus I couldn’t get that scream out of my head. It helped nothing she looked like my first cat or my Sidney, two of my favorites who have passed. Without thinking or letting myself analyze anything, I said, “Don’t put her back. I’ll take her.”

I didn’t even ask the barn owner. I simply took the kitten and ran. We stopped at the first pet store on the way home, bought a bottle and formula, and fed her at the checkout. I didn’t call Dan to tell him what we were doing–I couldn’t explain myself. All the way home Anna said, “Mom, are you okay? You seem upset.”

Yes. I’d just stolen a kitten I didn’t want to keep.

Sasha and Mitch chilling before a fire.

Sasha and Mitch chilling before a fire.

The barn owner wasn’t upset–she was thrilled, because she’s wanted us to have one of her cats. Dan wasn’t upset–shocked, because we walked in the door with something mewling, but he got one look at Sasha and melted. “We won’t keep her,” I kept saying. Another woman at the barn was willing to take her, my sister wanted her, and so did half of Facebook and Twitter. Because we have five cats, and it’s too many. Six is insane.

But this kitten is teeny. Younger than any cat I’ve ever adopted. Part of the reason the other mother said no is the kitten needs to be fed every 3-4 hours. When we took her to the vet on Monday, our vet explained how at this age the mother cat would lick the baby’s anus to stimulate defication, so we had to simulate that with a wet cotton ball twice a day. Her fat belly was intestinal worms, but she was too young to worm. So many things about her were intense work. We couldn’t let her loose in the house, or even in a room. We had to drag out the cat kennel my father-in-law had built years ago and set it up in the TV room. Someone had to feed her every three hours, mixing her formula and warming her bottle.

This someone quickly became Anna. It started as she was the one who slept with her the first night, but it was aided by the fact that she was always the one who most wanted a baby kitten around. She was willing to do this intense work, so we let her. But as we talked with our vet and realized no one but we could keep her with the care she needed for several weeks, we acknowledged it would be Anna doing this care…and Anna forming a bond.

We didn’t want another cat, but we couldn’t justify asking Anna to do all the hard work and then pass her off just when she gets easier to manage. So we’re leaving it up to her. If she wants to keep Sasha, she can. If she wants to give her to her aunt, she can do that too. Anna says she’s still making up her mind, but she’s pretty sure she’s going to keep her.

Sasha and Mitch snuggle

Sasha and Mitch snuggle

The other cats overall aren’t sure what they think of her, with the exception of Mitch. Mitch loves Sasha. Grooms her, snuggles with her, plays with her. Sam seems to think she’s a particularly interesting toy. Glinda thinks she’s the antichrist. Walter thinks she’s annoying, and Daisy hates her in the same way she hates most of life. It’s hard to say she’s settling in, because she’s basically an infant, with all the care and work that goes with them.

She is, I will admit, terribly, horribly cute.

Sasha and me

Sasha and me


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