TO WRITE IS TO BREATHE, TO LIVE, TO DANCE

Because If I Didn't, I Would Die...

2012-01-30T06:06:00.000-08:00

I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die. ----Isaac Asimov

I doubt there is an author out there who can’t say this about their writing—that without it, they would die.

The populous grumbles about those authors who spit out what seems a hundred books a day, under severe pressure to do so, to stay on the New York Times Bestseller List. I gripe about them, too. Hey, how can they really have a love affair with writing when they’ve turned into a book machine? But you know what? I’d be willing to bet even these authors would more than likely wither and blow away like ashes on a breeze if they could not write.

Lately I’ve looked inside myself to see just why I write. What’s my motivation? What is my ultimate goal? Money? Fame? Money, fame and a big movie deal? Do I seriously harbor dreams of a movie deal in which Alessandro Gassman or Russell Crowe play my leading man? Oh, sure, in the back of my mind, I have overblown fantasies. Who doesn’t? They’re fun, they sprinkle the adventure of writing with pretty sparkles.

Seriously, though? To show you just how much money didn’t play a part in my decision to try to be published: When I received the contract for my novella, Candy G, I actually did a double take at the section that discussed a payment method. Payment? That’s right! I get paid for this! And that is the truth. Money had really never figured into the equation when I submitted my manuscript. And it still does not. It does not motivate me. Oh, yes, I do feel an obligation as an employee of my publisher to earn money for them, but if left to my own devices, I’d…yes, I’d do it for free.

But what does drive me?

As egotistical as it may sound, I want my writing to create characters who live and breathe, who—as so many of my favorite authors’ characters do—stay on your mind long after you close the book.

I want you to wish you could hang out with my characters. I want you to be attracted to them, I want you to fantasize about them. To get so mad at them that you want to slap them upside the head, but still remember them.

If you walk away from my book and shake your head, saying you can’t believe my character did this or that—how could they do that, that bastard, that bitch?—then I’m happy.

If you cry, that’s fine, although my goal is not to have a Kleenex rating on my book. I don’t feel I’m only successful if I can bring you to tears. And, on that note, those who know me well are aware that I cringe at the push in authors to see who can evoke the most tears, as though if we can’t reduce you to a sobbing mass we’ve not done our jobs. Baloney.

Okay, so I do want to create memorable characters. But what about me? What do I want for myself? That question leads me to the issue of promotion. Pimping my book. Why do I do any promo? If I claim I’d do it for free, why the promo?

Ready for the answer? I guess you could chalk it up to ego. Not money but ego. On my characters’ behalves, though, not necessarily all mine. If I do want you to get to know them, to have all the emotions I mentioned earlier, I have to pitch them.

I suppose I could feign modesty, but I’d be lying. The fact of the matters is, yes, I would die if I could not write. But is it me who would die? Or all the characters who live and breathe inside me? It’s them. So I do have to write or that beautiful, powerful force in me would expire. And I could not bear that.

On the other side of that coin, though, lies another truth.

With that very true, very live entity within me does go pride and the desire to share what is beautiful to me. My characters.

Should I feel guilty because I’m proud of them, because I want you to get hooked on them? Is that ego? Maybe. But no more than a mother who tingles inside every time a passerby compliments her child. These are my children, these characters.

The trickiest part of this, though, is that other question. So, if your characters could ever really be so powerful, so memorable, are you REALLY not—just a little—wanting to bask in that glory yourself? If I answer ‘no’ to that…well, you’ve heard about Pinocchio and his nose, right?
The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. ----William Faulkner

Sneak Peek...HONOR C...

2012-01-26T09:56:00.000-08:00

I'm at that wonderful point in my WIP--the last stretch---closing in on those elusive words, a chapter or two away from the holy of holies of phrases....THE END.

Since I've been feverishly dedicating all my free time to getting this project completed, I've not had ample room in my brian to blog. Even my spare THOUGHTS are devoted to this manuscript.

So, in my excitement for this upcoming 'event', I wanted to introduce my main characters to you, give you a glimpse into the story.

Without further ado, please welcome----from my soon-to-be-finsihed novel, HONOR C----Honor and Raimundo...(Yes, Hispanic, what did you think?)

Psst....and they are not edited....

* * * * * * * * *

My fantasy had come to life. Alone with Honor Castillo, wrapped in his arms.

But it was in a bathroom in his home with Honor propping up my drunk, limp, oh-so-sick body to hug the toilet bowl. I thought I’d lost all the contents in my stomach long ago on the emergency lane of Interstate 10.

What had I been thinking, drinking so much?

“What was I thinking, Raimundo, by not stopping you?”

Honor’s voice—along with the touch of a cool, damp washcloth to my forehead—coaxed me gently from the swirling center of the green fog in my head.

My fingers clung to the cool porcelain and my words echoed into the deep bowl. “It didn’t…feel…like so much until I…I….” Straining once more to hurl. “Until I stood up.”

“Ay-ay-ay.”

My body, pressed against his, shook with his hushed laughter.

“I think I’m okay now.” Struggling with his help, I shifted into a sitting position.

“This is the guest room and you can sleep here and—”

“No. Really. I’m fine.” I pushed away from him and, bracing on the edge of the toilet, I tried to stand. I must have left my legs back on the interstate, though. “Damn.” I slumped back onto the floor.

“Ah, no, muchacho. I don’t think so.” Honor stood and—in one swift, easy move—pulled me to my feet, holding me in the crook of his arm like a rag doll.

I’d only been on my feet a few seconds before the nausea rolled back to my stomach, full force. Because his hold was so tight, I couldn’t shove away in time to bend over the commode.

If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget Honor’s unaffected reaction to my puking all over him. He merely brushed off my babbling apology with a soft smile, closed the toilet lid and eased me onto it. “See, amigo, what did I tell you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

“Shhh.” Moving to a clean spot on the plush mat, he knelt before me and his fingers began working to unbutton my shirt. He shook his head, lending a sympathetic grin to the mess which was Raimundo Munoz. “And your beautiful new clothes, too.”

My clothes, my new fancy clothes. “Oh, god.”

He paused unbuttoning to cup my cheek in his palm. “We’ll get them cleaned.”

I just nodded. Even though weak, sick and seeing him as if through a cheap pair of green sunglass lenses, I knew the pleasure of Honor’s touch to my face. I recognized it as the tenderness my body wanted.

“I’m sorry.” I seemed to have no other words in the drunken edition of my mental dictionary.

He ignored me, tugging the shirt off my shoulders and along my arms then laying it on the floor. “Grab me around the neck, Raimundo, so I can help you stand and get your pants off.”

Fortunately, my soused brain was too numb to be fazed or aroused by the fact Honor was undressing me. In my own pickled universe, I only noticed his soiled silk tee shirt which had been so beautiful only a few hours ago.

“I’m so sorry. Your clothes. Your clothes,” I slobbered the words onto his neck.

In a sober stratosphere, I’d have been turned on with the fumbling of his big warm hands at the waistband of my trousers—their gentle touch working the damp fabric down my thighs.

“Step out of them, Raimundo.”

The nausea had faded but after standing a while, everything seemed so light, a sea of fluffy clouds floating through my head. Was I giggling?

Once he’d completely removed my clothes, he maneuvered my boneless body to sit on the side of the bathtub. With one arm holding me upright, he reached to turn on the faucet and held his hand under the water until it heated and steam formed around us.

Here I was. Naked. Pressed against Honor Castillo, just as I’d dreamed so often. But shit-face plastered. This part had not been in my fantasies.

The hot water, once I was immersed in it, stimulated me and I took the washcloth from Honor’s hands and proceeded to bathe myself.

“Can you manage by yourself?” He rose from his post on the side of the tub.

“Yes.” I nodded. “The water’s helping. I don’t feel as…as….” As fucked up?

“I’ll wait outside in the bedroom, then, just in case. You might not be as steady as you think when you try to stand again.”

“Thank you. I…I think I’ll be okay.”

“Nevertheless.” He winked. Tapping his finger on a louvered closet door, he added, “There’s a robe in here.” A gentle laugh. “A little big, but…oh, well, I have nothing in your size.”

“Thank you.” I called out just as he started for the door, “And I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be, Raimundo.” Once more he winked and left the room, closing the door.

After bathing, my legs still wobbled when I stood. The thick fog lingered in my head but I managed to dry off and slide into the humongous terry robe. Collecting my discarded clothes, I folded them as neatly as possible and stacked them on top of a laundry hamper. Hopefully I could wash them in the morning.

I stepped into the bedroom and found him half-sitting, half-reclining, on a love seat before a small fireplace in the corner. His head was propped on his fist and he snored lightly.

As much as I hated waking him—he seemed so peaceful—I figured he’d want to get out of his own filthy clothes.

“Mr. Castillo.” I touched his shoulder.

He stirred and pushed to an upright position. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned. “How do you feel, Raimundo? Much better, eh?”

“Yes. Much better.” I shrugged. “Still pretty numb, but not sick.”

A tired laugh rumbled through his frame and he fell back on the cushions, raking his fingers through his already-ruffled hair. “Ah, just wait until morning, Raimundo. You’ll think tonight was a tea party compared to your hangover.”

I shuffled my bare feet on the cool, silky fibers of the carpet. “You’d better get cleaned up yourself.” In spite of its boozed-up state, my imagination crept to a picture of Honor in the shower—big, magnificent…naked.

“Si, si, si.” Sighing, he scooted to the edge of the cushions, stood and stretched his arms above his head with another deep yawn. “I’ll find you something to sleep in, Raimundo, as soon as—”

“Please.” My hands shot up. “You’ve…you’ve done enough, Mr. Castillo. Really, I—”

“Raimundo.” He held up a finger. “It’s Honor.”

“Sir?”

“Call me Honor. Please.”

“All right.” I heaved a shaky breath. Did he realize how easy it would be for my feelings to be painted into every syllable of his name if I said it out loud? “Honor.”

There he stood, weary but smiling—clothes rumpled and stained with the ruins of my night. I’d wondered earlier if I loved him. At this moment, gazing at him and warming like happy toast under his heat, I knew. I did love him. How or why, I had no clue. I only knew I did.

“Well, I will get cleaned up, if you’re sure you—”

“I’m fine.” Drawing a circle with my toe on the carpet, I shrugged. “Still drunk as a skunk, but….”

He nodded and that odd, now-familiar but still unreadable smile feathered across his lips. Hesitation. “Okay, then.”

As he passed me, heading to the door, I caught a whiff of my own vomit on him. Oh, damn.

When the door shut behind him, I shuffled to the bed. How huge it was, how inviting with its khaki-colored bedcovers and bank of overstuffed pillows. I climbed onto the firm mattress without even slipping under the comforter and tightened the gigantic robe abound my body.

My eyelids fought to stay open and I lay, burrowed in the pillows, studying the bedroom. No paintings on the walls, only large tapestries woven in rich, earth tone colors.

I’d been too sick when I’d been brought through the house earlier to recall its furnishings. Was this room a sample of Honor’s taste? Crisp, clean, natural and—as always—classic. Masculine. Inviting.

I reached to turn off the bedside lamp and allowed the last thing before I drifted to sleep to be the pleasure of knowing somewhere in the house, under the very roof with me, Honor was showering. Naked.

During the night it hit me again. A green, roiling tide of nausea so strong it jerked me awake and sent me stumbling to the bathroom. This time, for some reason, the bout was more violent and I gasped and struggled to breath between each dry heave. I’d never felt so sick. I thought I was dying.

The bathroom door crashed open and, through a dizzying haze, I heard Honor’s voice behind me. “Raimundo! Are you all right?”

He rushed to the sink, grabbed a fresh washcloth and held it under running water. In seconds, he was on his knees beside me, holding my hair back in one hand and swabbing the cool cloth on my forehead with his free hand.

“This is my goddamn fault,” he growled. “I knew you didn’t drink You told me the night I met you that you didn’t drink. I should have stopped you, but—”

“No!” Pulling away from the commode, I tried to shove his hands away. “I’m a grown…man….” I fought to wriggle free of his grasp but didn’t have the energy. “I thought I could…handle it.” I thought I could drink my way out the disappointment of seeing the lovey-dovey crap between you and Jorge.

He let me recline against him, my back melded into his big body, and his fingers gingerly brushed the hair from my face. “Do you think you can go back to bed, Raimundo?”

I just moaned and shook my head. Not yes. Not no. Just let me stay against your body. How long we remained like that, huddled on the bathroom floor, I didn’t know. I might have even fallen asleep.

At some point, I became aware of his arms around me, picking me up. I might as well have been a sack of sugar, he lifted me so effortlessly.

I didn’t even try to wake. Whatever was happening felt too good, too right, and I didn’t want to open my eyes and realize it was a dream. My body nestled into his where it seemed to belong and I whimpered when he bent to place me on the bed.

He moved to straighten but I wrapped my arms about his neck, pulling him nearer. His body, so close, smelled of the freshness of a shower. Clean, touchable, irresistible.

“Don’t leave me alone.” My fingers twined at his nape in a death grip.

I didn’t know—so lost in a sleepy all-white world of clouds and glittering mist—if I wanted to be fucked or just to be held, loved, touched. What goddamn hell it was to know you wanted something so bad you could die from it, and to know who you wanted it from, but not to know what the hell it was.

“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.” With my arms still locked around his neck, he eased his large frame onto the bed beside me.

I arched into his body.

He slid an arm under me, drawing me closer, and circled his other arm around my waist. “Now sleep, bebe.” A funny tone in his voice, as though begging me to be too sick, too tired, to respond to the warm, stiff dick pressing against my body.

Proof positive rested between his powerful thighs, in his labored breathing. He wanted me. Maybe it was only for the moment, nothing more, but it was enough for me. He was hard for me.

Delirious with the fever of hunger for him mixed with alcohol, I buried my face in the softness between his chest and shoulder and mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh.” A shiver tripped through his body into mine and he cupped the back of my head, pressing me harder against him. He might have been able to hide any desire in his face by avoiding my eyes, but the need in his groin had grown stronger. “I told you. Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I won’t lose my job over…getting drunk tonight?”

A slight laugh, shaky. “Ah, Raimundo, if I fired everyone who got drunk, I’d have no employees at all.”

“Honor….” I breathed the word against the downy soft cotton of his shirt.

His name fit so well in my heart, on my tongue.

“Si?” He rested his chin on the top of my head.

“I really don’t drink.” I wriggled nearer but it seemed I’d never be close enough.

Lulled by the strong rise and fall of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, an unexpected yawn escaped me.

“I believe you.” His large hand touched the side of my face, his thumb tracing my temple. He laughed. “I believe you.”

I fought sleep. I didn’t want to sleep, knowing he’d leave my side. But my body and mind sank helplessly into a blissful nothingness, almost a coma, where I could hear him and feel him but couldn’t open my own eyes or speak.

Later—it seemed as though hours later—he stirred and the mattress jiggled slightly with his shifting weight.

Instinctively, afraid he was leaving, I protested by curling closer to his body. I opened my mouth to beg him to stay, to let him know somehow I wasn’t asleep. You promised to stay until I fell asleep. I’m not asleep, I’m not!

Deep, deep, deep, I rode a sleepy tide back into my white oblivion and struggled to be conscious of his presence. Was he still there?

A soft warm palm rested with a touch soft as butterfly wings against my cheek and, somewhere far inside myself, I smiled.

Honor’s voice wafted to my ears on a whisper, one he surely thought I wasn’t awake to hear. “Ah, Raimundo Munoz.” A sigh. “What was I thinking, hiring a man when I knew, I goddamn knew I would end up wanting him so bad it would hurt?”

Silence. Was he really there? Wake the fuck up. Wake up.

The voice—deep but so hushed I wanted to cry with the strain of trying to hear it from my bottomless pit of slumber—spoke again after a delicate chuckle. “You are the tiniest little thing. How huge and clumsy I am next to you. And you are so…so….” Reverent fingers brushed my lips. “Perfect.”

Like one trapped beneath a frozen pond with no escape hole, I clawed on an impenetrable barrier keeping me from rising to the surface of my dream.

Kiss me! Please kiss me! Could he hear me?

The pressure of lips—ever so light like a wisp of sweet breath—touched my forehead.

By the sudden rush of cool air beside me I knew he’d risen. Wrapping my body into a tighter ball to replace his heat, I finally mumbled words that did penetrate my sleepy barrier. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

My proclamation was met by the soft click of the light being turned off and the bedroom door closing. He hadn’t heard me.

Like Fine Wine...Alessandro Gassman...

2012-01-17T12:09:00.000-08:00

I only like two kinds of men, domestic and imported. --- Mae West

First of all, let me tell you. I've been busy trying to finish up my WIP...titled Honor C, and I'm on the final stretch, crawling toward the finish line to those beautiful, SCARY words---The End.

In this rush to this goal, I've not had time to blog not the energy to think of bloggable (is that a word?) subjects.

So today I'm going to relax and bask in the smile of my very favorite contemporary Italian celebrity...actor Alessandro Gassman, my favorite imported male.

Those who know me are VERY aware that Alessandro has been the inspiration for one of my most beloved characters who is going to be showing his face this year---Enrico Di Paolo.

So...let the buffet of Italian gorgeousness begin...

Ah! Off to a beautiful start as a very young actor, Alessandro is the son of the late legendary Italian actor, Vittorio Gassman.

Beginning to be well-known, getting better looking as time goes by. More rugged, the boyish smoothness giving way to rugged lines. Perfect character. Brooding, dark, gloriously masculine, almost sinister. My kind of man.

In 2001 he'd become so popular, he made the Italian calendar, Maxi. A fabulous, sensual collection of twelve nude photos.

If you never saw him in any of his Italian films, I'll bet you remember him as one of the sexiest villains in filmdom, Gianni Chellini in the American film, Transporter II. Deliciously wicked with the sexy accent to boot.

Okay, Alessandro, you can stop growing more and more beautiful now! My heart can't take much more of your beauty! The above photo was the one which inspired the persona for Enico DiPaolo. The picture is from his stage role in the Italian version of Twelve Angry Men.

And he even obliges by being cast in noir roles. What more can a woman ask?

And now? Just look at him. The smile. From that brooding, cloudy astmosphere of man shines this bright sun. And better looking than ever.

What can I say? Ay-ay-ay!

And, last but not least--because I love putting the rich baritone voice to this gorgeous man, treat yourself to this video. He sings. And damn well, too.

Enoy.

Wonder if he appreciates what I do for him? Sigh.

Ti Amo, Alessandro.....

Like Fine Wine...Rudolph Valentino...

2011-12-30T05:52:00.000-08:00

Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams. --- Rudolph Valentino

Although Rudolph Valentino never lived long enough to age into his autumn years or beyond, I thought--browsing through photos of him taken throughout his life--he really did mature just as beautifully as a fine wine.

Most of us know THE Valentino of film glory. The first screen lover to break the mold of the wholesome boy next door the public had become accustomed to in early film. He was the first Latin Lover. To most--inlcuding this girl--he still, to this day, is the only Latin Lover and cannot be usurped from his position of celluloid sexuality.

But for those who aren't familiar with his life--with the stages which show a remarkable maturing and, more importantly, a very obvious growth in elegance and style--I wanted to spotlight him as my Like Fine Wine subject.

Would you believe this photo was the future Love God, the screen legend, the sachem of hearts? Yes, this is Valentino in 1913 on his way to America. Only here he was not Rudolph Valentino (later to be his screen name), but was Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina D'Antonguolla. Try saying THAT three times fast. Whew.

He was a kid alone in a big, new country. Scared. But he worked his way through life with any job he could get his hands on. Even gardening. He dreamed of having his own vineyard.

Young Taxi Dancer Rudolpho.

Utilizing his dark---and very foreign----good looks, the young man began work as a taxi dancer. Dancing for money. Wooing women. Different accounts report he did many other things for money during this period, but it remains to be proven.

With the sleepiest bedroom eyes in the world, how could he have missed fame? To this day, one of the most incredibly sensual men to have ever lived.

Valentino wanted to be in movies--the bright, shiny new penny of indutries--and hung around motion picture studios, taking work as an extra and small roles whenever he could.

Beginning to show more refinement. Still the exotic beauty.

And then---and then---his life became the stuff dreams are made of.

Screenwriter June Mathis, one of the most powerful women in the industry, spotted young Rudy in a nondescript role in a film. She was overwhelmedw with his dark beauty and used her influence to push for him as the lead in the anxiously awaited motion picture The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. This was a film even the top stars of motion pictures vied for. But Mathis knew her man, she knew what would make the film work. And she was right.

Valentino was cast---a virtual unknown---as Julio Desnoyers. Mathis' gut feeling paid off. A star was born.

Rudy in his famous tango scene from The Four Horsemen...The role that put his sopt on the map forever as the Love God.

He went on to make more films, all memorable. In all of them, he stole the scenes...

He was SO believable on screen, SO handsome, even the famous Nazivoma had him deleted from her famous death scene because his charismatic presence would steal her thunder.

He married a woman with a name as exotic as his own, Natacha Rambova.

The role for which he is perhaps most famous. The Sheik. Sweeping onto the screen as the hero of Edith Maude Hull's famous erotic novel, he took the world by storm...again. Women craved to be taken by their very own desert sheik, men hated him.

He played opposite THE Gloria Swanson in Beyond the Rocks. The public adored the pairing of their two screen darlings. But it was their only chance to co-star.

Blood and Sand as the fated Juan Gallardo. Getting more and more handsome by the minute.

While the public knew him mostly as the man behind the heavy actor's makeup, the real man--the Valentino on the street--was a suave, toned-down shadow of the screen's smoldering heartthrob. But still as handsome, if not more so.

A goatee. New look, started a craze in men's fashion. The sleek hair and goatee. Barbers protested, as more and more men started to go for this look and they lost business.

The real man loved to work on cars, and loved to buy elite foreign automobiles. And was quite the dangerous driver, as it's told he refused to wear glasses for his poor vision.

His last role, The Son of the Sheik, a sequel to The Sheik. He died the year this film was released.

Valentino died while on a trip to New York to promote his last film. Only thirty one years old.

Although he never had the chance to reach old age, he still matured through his short years and left the world with an unforgettable image of true beauty, potent sensuality and unmistakable class.

He died so very young, yet that brief life was just long enough to create a household name that still whispers romance and sets pulses racing...Rudolph Valentino.

This photo says it all.

Carmen...

2011-12-20T05:37:00.000-08:00

This holiday season, I've felt my father's loss more than ever. So please accept this humble contribution to the magic that is all fathers as my gift to you for Christmas.

Bronx, 1944

The perfect Christmas Eve.

The heavy slate clouds had finally let go their burden, sending fat snowflakes—legions of delicate white crystal angels—swirling crazy and silent on the twilight breeze.
In the department store window, a collection of phonograph records hung from strings of glittery garland and the Christmas tree lights reflected on the shiny black disks.

The record jackets, propped in rows among blankets of fake snow and more lights, caught Carmen’s attention. Especially one. Thomas Beecham Conducts Carmen.

“Daddy.” Carmen shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and shuffled sideways on the sidewalk to nudge her father. “Tell me.”

Benny Franchino shot a gloved hand to the spotless glass to brace himself against his daughter’s playful shove. He tugged the brim of his fedora. “Tell you what, baby?”

How embarrassing, how silly, to want to hear the story again. He’d been telling her the same tale since she’d been a tiny tyke—probably before she even learned to talk. In fact, for years she probably never even understood the words at all.

She should have outgrown it by the time she reached her teens but she hadn’t. She never would. And here she was at twenty-five, still wanting, needing to hear the ridiculous tale. And the funny part? It was make-believe, purely fabricated in her father’s unending supply of tall fables. But Carmen didn’t care. It had been created for her and her alone. And it made her smile.

Pointing to the Carmen record cover, she sideswiped her father once more. Even to ask for the cockamamie story, as though she believed it, sent heat to her cheeks. She shifted her gaze to the sparkly flakes on the sidewalk. “My story. The Carmen story.”

“Ah.” Benny nodded. "You mean the story of how the opera Carmen got its name?"

It didn’t take much to get him into the heart and mindset to retell the absurdity.

Yes, make me three years old again. “Yes!”

“Oh, well….” Adjusting his hat once more, Benny glanced to the thick gray sky as though the words hid in its depths. “It happened, just as I’ve told you a million times….”

“Yeah?"

“The composer needed a name for his newest opera.”

“And…?” Oh, how terribly silly to even be listening to—much less asking to have it told—this outlandish fantasy.

“He came to me, Benito Franchino, because he'd seen your ma and me strolling with you in your carriage.”

Noting the smile, so lost in another world, on her father’s face, Carmen’s heart ached. A nice, beautiful ache, though. Could she possibly love him more than at this very minute? She thought not. How could her soul not swell to nearly bursting, seeing the reminiscing in his soft brown eyes, the contentment on his handsome face?

It wasn’t only the story she found so sweet. It was how he told it.

“And they—”

“Wait a minute.” Rearing back in mock disapproval, Benny narrowed his eyes. “Who’s telling this story? Me? Or you?”

Carmen slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She nuzzled into the comforting wool of his overcoat. “You."

“Well, the composer proceeded to tell us he’d been inspired by the beautiful kid in the carriage.”

“Me.”

“Yeah. You.” Benny stopped, brushed flakes from the brim of his hat and continued walking. “Could he please ask your name, he said. A child so beautiful, he said, I gotta name my opera after her.”

Wanting to be a little child again, Carmen tucked her chin, fishing for the words she still loved to hear. “I was beautiful?”

“Ay-ay-ay.” Benny’s gaze rose to the gloomy sky again. Was it a habit or did he really see answers there? “You were the most beautiful kid in the world.” He draped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her nearer. “You are beautiful, bambina.”

That rushed the warmth to her cheeks once more. Not embarrassed but pleased. “And so the opera composer…?”

“Oh, yeah, him!” He held up a finger. “Well, I put up a fight, of course. You know me.”

“Yes.”

Benito Franchino, former middle weight boxer. His career may have been over, but the fire, the intensity, in his soul burned just as bright as ever.

“Your ma begged me to reconsider. You know she always saw a future as a singer for you.”

“She did.”

“And she’d be so happy, baby, to hear about your contract with The Met.”

“Are you happy about it?”

Her father stopped so abruptly, a tiny avalanche of snowy dust drifted from the brim of his hat. “Am I happy? Am I happy?” There went his stare, squinting to the heavens, then returning to her. “I’m so goddamn hap—” At Carmen’s surprised gasp, he grimaced. “Sorry about the language....” He made a sign of the cross. “I’m so happy. Oh, baby, if I could only shout to the world just how happy I am.”

Carmen’s throat tightened. Tears were soon behind and she swallowed past the constriction to fend them off. “I’m glad, Daddy.”

Too tough—as always—to get caught in the sappiness of the moment, Benny cleared his throat and shot out his cuffs. “So this opera fellow….”

“Yes. Him.” How the love inside her wrenched her heart. Tears did well to the corners of her eyes, only to sting in the chilly air.

“Well, he put up a pretty good argument, too. So, finally, your ma and me figured why not? Quite an honor it was, we thought. You know?”

“So that’s how the opera got its name.” Carmen sighed. Yes, it was a crazy story, so whimsical. But, even in its zaniness, so necessary.

Benny turned his face to the clouds where evening had finally snuffed the feeble, muted light of day. “Guess it’s time I got back.” This time his gaze didn’t leave the darkening canopy.

“Not yet, Daddy.” Carmen wrapped her fingers around his forearm to pull him closer, a desperate grip to keep him from leaving. To hold the day like a still life painting. “A malted at Bernbaum’s?”

With a forlorn glance at the bustle of Christmas shoppers—as though watching for an approaching train—he shook his head. “I’ve stayed too long already, sweetie. I have to go.”

Like the baby in the carriage in her father’s silly story, Carmen yanked away from him. “I hate—”

“Carmen.” His gloved finger touched her lips.

She gave the tears permission to fall in earnest.

Her crying always tore her father's heart out, and she could at least make him feel guilty for leaving.

“Baby. My baby girl.” The sadness in his voice assured he couldn't be deterred by her tears this time. “You know I can’t stay.”

Carmen stalked to the store window, her boots crunching on the thickening snow. “Then go. Go.” Jerking from his attempt to cup her elbow, she moaned, “Why drag it on, huh? Just go.”

“Carmen.”

“Why did you come anyway, goddamn it?”

“Carmen.” Was there a chuckle in his tone? “Pretty talk, bambina.”

“Well….”

“I tell you what. Maybe you’ll forgive me if you see what I left you.” Tucking a finger under her chin, he coaxed her to meet his eyes. “You just check under your Christmas tree. You just look, eh?”

“Sure.” Carmen shrugged away from his touch.

Somehow, it helped to bristle. She could pretend it didn’t hurt if she could feign anger. Of course, in time the resentment would fade and love would flood back in to fill the wounds. Love that would last until the day she died.

“No goodbye hug?” He made a big fist—the perpetual boxer in him—and gingerly grazed his knuckles on her cheek. His gentle prod was filled with the same sadness that rent her own heart in two.

Reluctantly, Carmen turned and leaned into him, melted into the familiar strength of his arms. She breathed in the comfortable aroma of his Bay Rum, the sweet smooth scent of his hair pomade.

Years in the boxing ring gave his arms such super human strength.

Carmen could hardly breathe in his tight embrace.

Tremors rippled through his body to hers. He was crying, too.
After a short eternity, he loosened his hold and stepped back. “You finished being mad at your old man?”

Shuffling and not able to stifle the smile sneaking to her lips, she murmured, “Yes.”

He swiped tears mingled with tiny snow crystals from his cheeks and turned to leave. Over his shoulder he blew a kiss. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas, Daddy."

He started down the sidewalk but stopped and jabbed a finger in the air at her. “Under your Christmas tree.”

And then he left—a tall, powerful figure in a long black overcoat and hat, blending into the flock of shoppers. Soon she couldn’t see him at all.

Carmen barely remembered the walk back to her tiny apartment. She stood on the stoop for a moment, drinking in the scene of the neighborhood kids shouting in the snow. Bundled in their thick coats, hats and gloves, they constructed a gaunt snowman. The white stuff hadn’t fallen thick enough yet to make much else—not after snowball fights, anyway.

With a sigh, she shuffled up the steps to the entrance and pushed through the thick wood door.

Christmas music from stereos echoed in the warmly lit stair well. Laughter pealed from behind closed apartment doors.
Maybe she’d go to a party later. After a good nap, she’d know if she felt up to mingling and wine and Christmas trees with big bulbs of bright light.

Upon entering her apartment, the first thing to greet her was her own tree. A tiny laugh escaped her. Why did she put up a tree every year? No one ever saw it but her. Yet she could no more think of not having a scant evergreen in the small abode than she could imagine holding back the wind with a butterfly net.

Growing up, she’d given up many childhood things. But a tree was the one thing she couldn’t part with. Maybe because of her parents, she figured. The warm, happy holiday memories she had of them when—no matter how little money they had—her father made sure there was a tree.

Kneeling on the worn carpet, she plugged in the lights and sat on her knees to watch the red, green, blue, yellow and white glimmer on the fragrant branches.

Peace. There was something so comforting about a green tree with lights and bogus icicles.

Carmen carefully plucked the snow globe from its cozy nest beneath the tree and wound it until Silent Night began to twinkle from its music box. She returned it to its lonely spot, dragged a couple of pillows from the nearby armchair and tossed them to the floor.

Reclining, she rested her head on the pillows and closed her eyes. The delicate music caroled from the globe and, within a few moments, Carmen drifted to sleep.

Later—had it been hours or minutes? She didn’t know—a soft, husky voice tiptoed through the mist in her mind. Under the Christmas tree, baby. Her father’s words filtered into her thoughts and excitement jolted through her. She jerked to a sitting position and studied the tree skirt for his gift.

Nothing.

Carmen’s body shook with the sobs that finally made it to the surface in her soul.

So it had been a dream. Just a dream. Beautiful, warm and tender, gut-wrenchingly loving. A year from—exactly, on Christmas Eve—the day he’d died.

There was no proof to assure he’d really visited her this evening. Yes, just a dream. Her father, so real, so touchable, so gentle. Daddy.

But even so, even that fleeting imaginary encounter, that silly re-telling of the absurd opera story was precious to her. She supposed it was the gift.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a something—something very small—nestled in the folds of the white tree skirt. Whatever it was, it wasn’t wrapped.

With trembling hands, she reached to pick up the item.
A tiny figurine of the saucy opera character, Carmen. The very porcelain trinket her father had given her on her fifth birthday.

The figurine which had tumbled from the knick-knack shelf years ago and shattered into a handful of countless colorful pieces. Its breaking had splintered Carmen’s heart into as many fragments.

But here it was, still worn but in one piece. Impossible.

She strained to scrutinize it through the limited lighting from the tree. It was the very same diminutive sculpture whose red dress had faded with millions of loving touches. The same chipped mantilla on the tiny opera singer’s shiny black hair.
But, oddly, no marks to show it had been repaired. Except for the fading paint and injured mantilla, it was as though it had never broken.

Carmen’s breath caught and she nearly dropped the trinket. Clutching it to her bosom, she closed her eyes tight. Now she knew she was dreaming.

Another search under the tree revealed no note, no explanation. Did it matter? Even if it was a dream, it was perfect and Carmen refused to let any doubt, any questions cloud the sunshine filling the small room.

With a huge sigh she lay on her back on the floor and scrunched the pillows under her head to get a full view of the bright star glistening through the window.

She touched the figurine to her lips, hoping it would still be there in the morning. Hoping it wasn’t only her imagination.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy.” Wrapping the statuette in her fingers and clutching it to her chest. “See you next year?”

Then she felt—didn’t hear, but felt like the tender touch of a palm on her cheek—his voice, Merry Christmas, bambina.

Carmen smiled to herself, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The Last Bus of the Night...

2011-12-18T09:00:00.000-08:00

Chase down your passion like it's the last bus of the night. ~Terri Guillemets

Do you believe in signs? I do.

In what will be the craziest, off-the-wall post I've probably every made, I wanted to share an event that happened to me. A sign. A beautiful, crystal-clear signpost on the road to my writing journey.

Why crazy? Why off the wall? Because when you read it, you'll probably snicker. Hey, go ahead. I'm laughing at myself but--on the same token--it's just too powerful for me to ignore, though I even admit to myself how zany it is.

Last week I popped in a DVD from my Blockbuster queue. La Vie en Rose, a lavish French film of the life of the legendary French singer Edith Piaf. I highly recommend this movie, by the way. It's not only stunning cinematography but superb acting, especially by the lead, Marion Cotillard.

Mid-way through the film the viewer was introduced to Piaf's lover, the love of her life as she called him, French boxer Marcel Cerdan.

And that's when it happened. My sign.

The moment---the second---I saw the actor I knew him. I'd never seen him before in films, but I knew him intimately from my own writing. He was a character I'd written.

I knew him SO thoroughly that I immediately recognized him, even from just a shot of his back...the masculine silhouette of a stocky man in a dress coat and dark fedora. The slope of his shoulders, the outline of his body.

I thought how very cool! There he was, in the flesh. His body, anyway. I'd seen his type many, many times. What? Did you think I invented the noir figure with overcoat and fedora? Nah. But, even so, I always appreciate it when I see its form in films and pictures.

Then...then...the camera zoomed in on his face. He spoke. And no longer was he just a look-a-like, a resemblance to the TYPE of man I'd written, he WAS the man I'd written.

Just as Piaf recognized him, after just one date, as the love of her life...I knew him as the love of my writing.

The gentle twinkle in his eyes, the tilt of his head, the style and darkness of his hair, his soft yet masculine voice, his shape, his five o'clock shadow, his hands, even down to his damn wrist watch. His personality. His very soul. It was my character.

In fact, guess what? I'm going to force him on you. I was ecstatic to find a scene on Youtube featuring his first date with the singer. He's played by French actor Jean-Pierre Martins.

That's my guy. Those movie folk used him and never even consulted me. They stole my man.

All kidding aside, it gave me wonderful chills to walk smack-dab, right into my own creation. To see him so perfectly, vividly brought to life.

It was a sign. A sign for what?

Oh, geez, I get so excited thinking about this, I can hardly contain myself.

The fact is, this character--my name for his is Salvatore--was the very first character I ever penned. The very first. And, yet, through the few years that I've been writing, I've never quite placed him in the setting he belonged. I've written and re-written him so many times, I finally became frustrated I put him aside.

But a while back, I mentioned I was going to start back into my hetero romances. I saw a beautiful, romantic painting by Jack Vettriano titled Back Where You Belong. It touched my heart, it was that same dark character with the sleek hair.

Back Where You Belong by Jack Vettriano

Salvatore had begun to call again. My beloved character wasn't happy being buried beneath hundreds of other creations. He was there first, and by gods, he was demanding attention.

And then, SO determined to be noticed again, he showed up in La Vie En Rose.

Here's the part where you will agree I'm certifiably off my damn rocker.

When I first saw the actor's smile, when he opened his mouth to speak? I cried. Yep, I cried, tuned up the waterworks and cried. Not a sweet little dainty cry, either, but kind of sobbing. Happy tears, the kind when you find something lost. So ecstatic you want to shout but there's no one to shout to.

Who on earth would EVER understand that sort of emotion over something so silly? Another writer, maybe. Or maybe just anybody, everybody, who has a dream and they stumble right into it by accident.

Or is it accidental? I don't think so. I truly believe in signs, and even hold in my heart that our characters--existing ones and ones who are merely dreams yet to come--DO speak to us, they DO let us know when their time has come.

And my man spoke to me.

I've some other things to complete, but he is next.

And another thing? In retrospect, I'm really sort of glad I did NOT write him back in the day when I changed him daily like a baby's dirty diapers. THAT was a sign that--at that time--I wasn't ready to write him.

But, since I did envision him so long ago, I've learned a lot. I've got a universe of knowledge still left to learn, but I feel I'm at least in a position to return to him.

Now he's smiling as I write that I'm taking him back to his roots, back to his original storyline.

See? Told you I was crazy.

But I'm hoping--no, I'm betting--that I'm not the only one who's encountered beautiful visions that nudged them onto the road, the direction they should go. You know. Signs.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard. ~Anne Sexton

Like Fine Wine...Placido Domingo...

2011-12-15T05:21:00.000-08:00

I don't remember the first time I saw the legendary tenor, Placido Domingo. But I DO remember the impact he had on me when I DID lay eyes on him. Well, do I even need to tell YOU? Think...this is C. Zampa.

Domingo: tall, dark, handsome and...Spanish. His accent is delicate, lilting, sexy. And his voice, when he sings...smooth as the finest cognac, sensual as the softest silk touching skin.

I was head over heels, instantly.

I've never lost track of him during his career.

The first signs of aging were so subtle. But then, something inside him seemed to glow--this magnificent fountain of youth, this energy, this light deep in his eyes.

Gray hair appeared. But the inner beauty, the inner light. Still there, strong as ever. Oddly, he began to be more and more handsome.

The sensuality, the character, the beauty in those eyes. I can barely look into them without...swooning.

Eventually, the hair became this rich blend of gray and silver. Regal. Still so damn sexy.

Finally...to me, he's in his prime. Silver hair. Glorious. The eyes. Ah! That warm light, that maddening mix of geniality and sexuality...still there, strong as ever.

Placido Domingo. Living proof that--if that true light and spirit is inside---it cannot be diminished by time. It can only age beautifully...like fine wine.

I've Had About Enough, Guv'nor...

2011-12-08T08:10:00.000-08:00

I apologize in advance for my blog subject today. You've never seen me post on such a subject, and you probably never will again.

Just this once, though, please forgive me while I speak out on something I can't contain any longer. And close your 'ears' if I offend. I don't mean to.

I'm not into politics. You'll never see me in the middle of conversational cirlces at parties deep in a political debate.

Because I don't understand the inner workings of any of the levels of government, I don't speak up often. It'd be so damn easy to make a fool of myself, to get caught with my pants-of-ignorance down around my ankles.

But today I caught a youtube video, one of the newest in Governor Rick Perry's arsenal of campaign commercials.

And--although I'm still as dumb as a tree stump about politics--I DO recognize hatred when I see it.

And I saw hatred with a capital 'H' in this video.

To somehow find a way to connect the freedom of prayer in schools to gays serving in the military is--sorry, Governor--just plain stupid. Ignorant.

By producing this ad, Perry has not only embarrassed me as a Texan but I'd be willing to bet he's disappointed the very God whose platform he cowers behind.

No, I know nothing about politics. But I DO know I cannot tolerate a presidential platform which is founded on hatred of a group of people. To hear his bigoted, sanctimonious ad, I half expected him to be donned in a sheet.

And, Governor, please, please do NOT base your hatred-filled campaign on Christianity. The man on whom the very religion you cite didn't teach your brand of intolerance. He loathed it.

And one more thing, Rick Perry. When you stand on your pompous platform and say gays do not belong in the military, you're attacking friends of mine. Lots of them. And that does not set well with me.

Prayer in schools has nothing to do with gays in the military.

These gays you so hate are offering their LIVES to protect these children in these schools. They are willing to fight to protect YOUR children as well.

They are able bodied men and women who have every right to defend their country. You think their taxes are accepteble and I don't see you turning THAT away. In your supreme arrogance, money still talks--even gay money talks. Again, shame on you.

To my friends, again I apologize. Not for my thoughts, not for my words, but for the possibility it might offend any of you.
I have too many friends in the GLBT community, people who are precious to me and who are the salt of the earth.

And for once, for their sakes---and for the sake of our country's freedom to BE---I felt I needed to speak up.

Like Fine Wine...Louise Brooks

2011-11-30T11:14:00.000-08:00

Most beautiful dumb girls think they are smart and get away with it, because other people, on the whole, aren't much smarter. ---Louise Brooks

You know her face. Even if you don't know her name, you know the trademark bob hair style, the dark sultry eyes and the pouty lips. Louise Brooks. Legendary 1920's silent film star. Trendsetter, a dame way ahead of her time.

Everybody who knows the Zampster knows Louise Brooks is my idol, my girl dejour. If I could pick from a heavenly line-up of women I'd most choose to look like, it would be this beauty. Not so much because of her gorgeous, obvious looks--but because of her mystery, her sex appeal, her class.

Even without the trademark kohl-lined eyes, she had natural beauty. A glow.

Versatility

...and then more versatility

But one of the reasons I've always admired her beauty was the grace in which she aged. Though dark beauty can fade, true deep-down-in-the-soul class and grace cannot be dimmed. Nothing can touch it.

Louise in 1957

Just look at those elegant lines...

Years did not diminish her inner warmth, that exquisite glow that came from deep within.

Among her last photos, she still maintined that regal beauty, still the goddess, still that fabulous glow.

Yes, not only the men can hold their own in the aging department. If true beauty resides deep within us, it will shine, even when we are mere memories.

Oh, Louise, you are so my idol.

Like Fine Wine...Gregory Peck...

2011-11-18T07:09:00.000-08:00

I had that stubborn streak, the Irish in me I guess. ---Gregory Peck

In my series, Like Fine Wine, I take admiring glances at men and women who have not only become universal icons whose fame stood the test of time but whose lives and careers paraded before us in a pageant of beautiful, graceful aging.

This week, I'm wallowing in the pool of girlish fan worship with one of my all-time favortes.

Tall. Dark. Handsome. Suave. Classy. Classic. Character. Integrity.

Gregory Peck.

Just starting out. Would you just look at this face that have stepped out of a modern Dolce & Gabbana ad.

Peck, with his trademark chiseled featrues, played a number of personalities....

Noir (and we know this trips ol' Zampa's switch...)

Older man with a younger woman (here with Audrey Hepburn), a very sexy role for him...

Quintessential man with glasses, a look that turns my knees to Jell-O

Mad Captain...

But one thing about him--that lands him on this page--is not only his dashing, extraordinary looks but his passge from youth to late years without skipping a beat in grace or losing an iota of his distinguished beauty.

Was it in the genes...?

That touch of class and masculinity that time cannot touch...

The trademark dark brows, silver hair...Gregory Peck.

And don't forget that voice. Deep as midnight, rich as velvet.

But something else rode his persona, something no role--no matter how hard he tried--could cloud: his character. He just seemed to be an ordinary, good Joe. No conceit, no airs. Just an authentic man.

Ah. Looking at Peck with deep and dreamy sighs brings to mind the old proverbial they just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Blame it On the Bossa Nova...

2011-11-14T06:23:00.000-08:00

I am told to just be myself, but as much as I have practiced the impression, I am still no good at it. ~Robert Brault

Sometimes I fantasize I’m Joan Jett. Yeah, Joan Jett. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve rocked with the scratchy-throated hard rock diva with her song, Hide-n-Seek. In the privacy of my white truck, I’m cool, I’m badass. I’m the sultry crooner with the scruffy jet locks and perfectly smeared mascara. I’m skinny, I’m bitchin’, I’m Joan.

This morning on the way to work, I played Eydie Gorme and her 1963 hit, Blame it On the Bossa Nova. Passing driver hadn’t a clue that in the nondescript vehicle zipping down Highway 90 West was a sixties gal dressed in cute Capri pants and ruffled cut-off top—teased bubble cut hairdo, the whole nine yards. Yes, I imagined I did the Bossa Nova, just like Eydie, with some wallflower guy who just happened to be able to swing his hips like Elvis.

The car and the bathtub. My two favorite places to create imaginary worlds where I can be anybody, do anything. Singer, dancer, actress, famous author, world traveler, queen of a country, mysterious rich recluse, 1920’s flapper, swooning captive of a desert sheik.

In my dreams, I’m always cool. No matter what I’m doing or who I am, I’m…cool.

To BE cool is a fantasy for me. But in reality? I’m really pretty boring. I don’t stand out in a crowd. Hell, I’ll rarely BE in a crowd. I’m not in the ‘in’ crowd at work, I’m never on the inside track of the good jokes. I just hear the laughter from my desk. I’m not…cool.

As I’ve matured—and, damn, that seems to have taken forever—I’ve learned to accept not being on the inside of the nucleus. I’ve embraced my life, just as it is, and I’ve found it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad being C. Zampa.

One thing, though, that’s still in the infancy stages of my journey of self-acceptance is my writing.

I’m going to get some frowns when I say what I’m about to say, and that’s all right. It’s important to me to understand myself and my flaws in order to progress, to grow in my writing career.

What am I going to say that might make you frown? I’m going to be honest and say I sometimes get jealous of others’ writing talent. There. I said it.

It’s just the truth.

One of my writing idols is James Ellroy. I took a moment to read a bit from his American Tabloid last night and found myself envious of his snappy style. His ability to draw this panoramic painting with nothing but a fast-moving stream of short, clipped semi-sentences. As though he wrote the entire novel huddled under a window with bullets flying over his head…but still produced a powerhouse of a story.

I’m jealous of that. Why can’t I write like that?

I love to read romance novelist Laura Kinsale. Her characters—especially her heroes—are so achingly real, so brilliantly layered, I lock them up in my heart long after the book is returned to the shelf.

Again, why can’t I write like that?

Mary Renault. Oh, why, why, why can’t I bring my thoughts to life as she could?

So many authors, so many books, so many VOICES.

And that one word—voice—is the key. Every day, I have to force myself to focus on that one tiny word. Voice. And, if I CAN focus on it, I realize it’s not a matter of whether writers are better than each other. It’s a matter of styles. It’s a matter of readers’ tastes for various styles. Voices.

If I spend my career trying to mold my own voice to mimic an author—any author—I admire, I am wasting my time. I will NEVER grow. I will NEVER know what I’m truly capable of.

Oh, I might be successful in my echoing of some other writer, but I’ll lose out on the most fabulous, the most beautiful, the most rewarding and satisfying part of my own journey—FINDING MYSELF.

I have to cultivate my own voice.

Suppose you have two gardens, side by side. In one is a collection of beautiful cacti. In the other is a bed of lush tropical foliage. If you attempted to tend both gardens the same, one of them would die. The cactus would die from too much water or the lush foliage would die from none. They’re not the same. They each need cultivation to be what they’re intended to be, to reach their full beauty. But only cultivation for their own particular variety.

Same with our writing voices.

It’s difficult to relax, to let go and allow your own voice to mature. There is so much talent out there among my peers and it’s so hard to not be envious.

But, hey. Just as I’m not cool, I’m indeed not Joan Jett—C. Zampa is also not James Ellroy, nor does she need to try. I don't want Ellroy to feel threatened…joking here…but I also just needs to realize something. The important thing.

Being C. Zampa isn’t so bad, either. Who knows, when I realize my potential, just what that will be? Whatever it turns out to be, the voice will be mine.

And, in closing. Just what the hell IS the Bossa Nova?

~~Joan Jett~~ C. Zampa

Back Where You Belong...

2011-11-02T11:56:00.000-07:00

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she

just once said he)

it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he

how much said she

a lot said he)

why not said she
--e. e. cummings

Two things happened very recently, triggering something in my gut.

First, I came across the above painting by my favorite modern artist of all time, Jack Vettriano. The title of the piece is called Back Where You Belong.

Anyone who knows me at all can tell you the spirit of the painting could practically be a poster for my passion: romance of eras past. Although this painting depicts a modern setting, it seems to have a days-gone-by mood. The heart of the picture is timeless, though— man and woman. Passion.

It reminded me of my true love: gritty, sexy stories of men in fedoras and overcoats. Old Spice Aftershave, Lucky Strike cigarettes, fancy cufflinks, hair pomade, mobsters. Clandestine whispers on Bakelite telephones from the shadows of cheesy restaurant phone booths. Stories of a time when sex was all the more sexy because it wasn’t plastered on every billboard—no naked Joes and dames in every ad in every magazine. Lovemaking—hot, sweet-and-naughty, a secret between lovers.

Everybody tells me those times weren’t as innocent as they seemed. I know, I know, and that’s why I love it all the more! Sex and danger, hotter than Hades but wrapped up in a deceptive package—gals with soft skin, pretty lace slips, seamed stocking, satin peignoirs, powder puffs and Chanel No. 5. The tough guys in dress shirts and suspenders who lusted to get their hands on the garters they knew teased just beneath those kick pleats. But they all looked Sunday-go-to-meetin’ good with Ipana smiles and fancy threads.

My attraction for these eras, though, is the HEART of Vettriano’s painting. The one factor that turns my knees to spaghetti, gives me delicious shivers: the man and the woman. The sizzling chemistry—the sensual chemistry—between a strong man and a girly girl. Call me old fashioned, dial ‘F’ for the Feminist Patrol, lock me up in the too-old-timey-to-live slammer. I admit. I’m a goner for the dynamics of testosterone meets sugar and spice.

The second thing to happen—the second thing to trigger that uncomfortable there’s-something-I-should-be-doing feeling in my gut— was reading the above snippet of a poem by poet E.E. Cummings, May I Feel Said He. There it was again. Man. Woman. Sex. Touching. Feeling. Pleasure.

What’s the big deal? You’re talking about romance. Been around since time began.

Yeah, yeah. I know. The big deal, and it’s just a personal revelation for me, is that—well, damn it—I’ve missed writing my guys and gals.

At this moment, I write male/male romance. I do not write it because it’s a trend, nor because of money. Although I stand strong for equality, particularly in same sex marriage, I don’t even write male/male stories to address the cause. My writing is not a platform. It is a PASSION.

When I stumbled upon the true, natural beauty of men’s love for each other in a WIP of mine, I fell in love with it. It is sensual, it is sexy. But it has one benefit that I find most important: a better knowledge of men in general. Over time, through writing these male/male relationships, I began to see how really beautiful men are.

I’m not what’s popularly classified as a ‘gay man in a woman’s body’. No, I’m 100% woman in a woman’s body. And, yes, a 100%, pure, Grade-A woman CAN find passion in writing male/male stories. Like I said, I do.

To be honest about something, though, as I began to abandon my writing of the relationships I knew by heart—the woman and her man—I began to find myself in a grey zone with my own sexuality. I started to lose focus of the basic need of the feminine side of me—the love, interaction and, yes, the sex—with men. I sort of lost touch with who the hell I even was.

THAT is how closely my writing weaves into every fiber of my actual life.

To lose your footing is scary. Especially when it affects something so personal, so extraordinarily intimate.
Most female writers of male/male romance do not have this problem, I’m sure. Many vow to never write anything but gay fiction or male/male romance. My motto is to ‘never say never’. And I’m glad I did not say ‘never’ because I hadn’t expected the big hole gouged out in my heart from missing my beloved male/female characters. My friends know them: Salvatore and Kate, Enrico and Miss Anita, Sam and Lizzie, Patrick and Mary.

I love and miss them. And when I stared at Vettriano’s painting, I knew I had to return to them.

And I decided I’m going to let them share my time, my pen, with my male/male heroes: Candy and Carlos, Honor and Raimundo, Michael and Anthony, Valentino and Lucky. I think there’s time for them all. There certainly IS room in my heart for all of them, for keeping the genres separate, but still addressing both loves.

The Last Great Romantics II by Jack Vettriano

In fact, to celebrate my decision, I’m going to share a chapterfrom one of my gazillions of WIPs, a glimpse at two of my favorite characters. People tell me all the time, “Don’t post stuff from your WIPs on your blog!” But you know what? I have a thousand characters in my head and a thousand stories for each character. So I’m going to share two of them with you today. There are only a billion more where they came from.

Here are Ben and Suzy (quite unedited, mind you), just grabbing them from my Mount Everest of WIPS. And not sharing because it's good, just to show you my kind of couple.

"Night Geometry" by Jack Vettriano

* * *
Every gaze in the joint focused on him and I was sure he knew it. He always did have that sort of Svengali power.
With a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he swayed to and fro, slow and sensual—hips and shoulders moving to the rhythm of the bass in Good Rockin’ Tonight. A six-foot-four, sultry, jazzed-up tiger.

His trollop of a partner circled him with fancy dance moves like a ditzy little planet revolving around a big, lazy sun.

I took a fast drag on my cigarette, thumped ashes in the ashtray and nudged Darlene. “Get a load of him, will you? How big is New York City? How many nightclubs in this town? And Ben Cohn comes to this one.”

“Maybe he’s following you.” After dipping and twirling it in her drink, Darlene popped the cherry in her mouth. She sucked and chewed on it for a bit, then pulled out the stem to stare at it.

“He was here first.” Turning to study him once more, I shook my head. “He’ll think I followed him.”

Darlene’s boyfriend, Bobby, rolled his eyes and muttered, “He’s a conceited creepsmobile.”

The music stopped, and the band started into another song.

Ben put a hand at his partner’s back, steering her off the dance floor. They headed in our direction.

My heart rushed, all panicky. Torn between bolting for the powder room and staying at the table to face him, I froze.

They passed down the aisle, closer and closer to our table.

If luck favored me, I’d be able to ditch the joint before he spotted me.

Then the strangest thing happened. Or, considering the history between Ben and me, I suppose it was only normal.

Something sort of took over my brain, shooting adrenaline through me. One of those moments when the mind decides to do something without giving the body a chance to put on the brakes.

Just as Ben reached our table, I stuck out my leg.

I’d have paid best-seat admission to see the stunned look on the arrogant son-of-a-bitch’s face when he tripped and grabbed air, trying to keep his balance, then crashed to floor on all fours. The drink flew from his hand into the air, but he held onto the cigarette.

His five-and-dime partner’s face went a hundred shades of red and she sped away in a jiggly frenzy, clearly mortified.

Chuckles wafted from amused onlookers.

“Goddamn you!” Ben rose, dusting off his trousers. Whirling around to face me, sparks flashed in his eyes. “Why, you—” The words deep-sixed on his lips the second his gaze met mine. A husky whisper, bewildered, “Suzy Q.”

Pretending it didn’t send my heart into a nose-dive to look into those familiar green eyes, I took a slow draw on the cigarette and let my gaze travel up and down his lean frame.

I slowly blew smoke into a cloud around him. “What are the odds of running into you in the middle of nowhere?”

The Lucky Strikc mist swirling in his face didn't even get a blink from him.

He didn’t ask to sit, just pulled out a chair and sank into it, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Tapping a finger on his chin, he murmured, “I never thought I’d see you again. What the hell are you doing back here in New York, baby?”

“Business.” Shrugging. “May go to work for a paper here.” I tried hard not to smile. God, I hated the bastard, but loved and wanted him something fierce at the same time. “I see you still have your good manners. I didn’t say you could sit, Don Juanstein.”

He rubbed the tip of his wingtip on my ankle.

I crossed my leg to get away from the flirty shoe.

With a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth, he perused me from head to toe, but didn’t comment.

Darlene just eyed us during the silence, twisting the cherry stem between her red-tipped nails.

Bobby watched Darlene.

Suddenly the sun came out on Ben’s almost-handsome face. He said, “You got custody of my manners in the divorce.”

Ah. My insults never did have any effect on him.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. I sold them with your car that I also got in the divorce.”

“Speaking of....” He cocked a brow and leaned closer. “I have a brand new 1947 Series Sixty-Two Cadillac convertible, right off the showroom floor, outside.”

“So?”

With a voice soft as mink, he whispered, “Wanna go have sex in it?”

Damn. He didn’t even have to pitch me a hard-sell line to bring a smile to my lips. A glance into the deep-set eyes and I swept out to sea on his seductive tide, my legs—crooked seamed stockings and all—washed out from under me. Right back where it all began.

The schmuck had me and he knew it. So it surely didn’t surprise him when I met his gaze head-on, ground my cigarette in the ashtray and breathed the word. “Sure.”

Like Fine Wine...

2011-10-25T05:13:00.000-07:00

A man's age represents a fine cargo of experiences and memories. ----Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Wartime Writings 1939-1944, translated from French by Norah Purcell

Today’s blog is the first in what I hope will be a series, Like Fine Wine…, a portfolio of famous men in various stages of their lives. As I love the Golden Age of Hollywood, I’m starting it off with one of my all-time loves, actor Anthony Quinn.

What prompted me to begin this series was a discussion I had this weekend with a young man about society’s fixation on youth and beauty. We specifically spoke of beautiful men.

The conversation triggered me to thinking about what I personally find attractive.

Oh, yes, I love to look at the hotties—those perfect bodies with the perfect washboard abs, the gently sloping muscles of ass cheeks and (hell, yes) their family jewels. But...but...

One thing my friend and I discussed was how society’s obsession on beauty resulted in the dismissal of one of the most marvelous phenomenons of nature—maturity, the human aging process.

A fact of life which is honored by many cultures is sadly demeaned by many in our own country.

Maybe I’m alone in my feelings, but I’m here to tell you I find the maturing process in men to be extremely attractive. Nothing is more becoming than those beautiful marks of experience—every gray hair, every laugh line. There is something so graceful and regal about it. And so damn sexy
That’s all, no rambling by C. Zampa today, only a celebration of beauty. So enjoy Anthony Quinn with me.
The mature man, the lion in his prime.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince...

2011-10-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings. ~Franklin Thomas

Tomorrow marks the thirteenth anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard. You know his face—the beautiful face, the gentle smile, the angel’s eyes—which has become a universal icon for the fight against hatred and prejudice.

I can rarely look at Matthew’s photo without something ripping in my gut, something so painful that renders me sad, confused, helpless, angry, crazy angry and…terrified. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the inner fright—imagining his lonely, horrific terror when he realized what was going to happen to him. When, trapped by two bullies—no, two monsters—in the middle of nowhere with no escape. The imagery is too vivid, the helplessness as strong in my belly as though it was me.

I recently met a wonderful man on Facebook. His name is David Scrivens, and he is gay. I adore David, love chatting with him; but I noticed whenever he mentioned Matthew Shepard, it was always with such love, yet tinged with great heartache, so very, very personal. The more he talked about that pain, the more I began to see the impact of that end result of bigotry—of hatred—through a gay man’s eyes.

And I invited David to host my blog tonight, to share his heart on this anniversary. Not only did I want to find a way to address the event myself, but I wanted to give David a chance to do so as well, to offer him my humble platform to express his feelings.

And he honored me by accepting my invitation.

So please welcome my friend, David Scrivens as he takes the floor...

*******************************************************************************

Until the morning of October 7, 1998 I had never heard of Mathew Wayne Shepard but signing on my computer that morning changed that and changed how I would look at things from that day on.

I noticed a story on my AOL opening page about a Laramie Wyoming college student being found on a fence out on the prairie and he had been beaten and they didn’t think he would survive. That story caught my attention and I clicked to read more. The story told about a guy on his bike finding this young man tied to a fence and he had been beaten severely and was barely breathing from the beating and being left there all night in the cold. At that point I had no idea of what happened or why but was glued to the story for days and finally the story came out. Seems like Matt was at a bar that night when two boys approached him to offer him a ride home. Matt being a trusting young man took them up on the offer and got in the truck for his ride back to his dorm. What Matt didn’t know is these two boys had picked him out as being gay and were going to rob and beat him and leave him on the prairie. They got Matt out of the truck, tied him with his own shoe laces and beat him so bad they split his skull from front to back and beat his face so bad most people wouldn’t have recognize him. After they were done they left him there to face the cold night. A biker coming through in the morning thought at first it was a scare crow on the fence but once he noticed blood he went to look and then called for help. Matt’s face was covered with blood and dirt except for two tracks down his cheeks where the tears had washed the blood and dirt off.

Matt was put on life support and died 5 days later on October 12, 1998 and Matt was killed for no other reason then he was gay. These two boys killed him because they thought that gay boys did not deserve to live. They killed Matt because of their bigotry and hatred toward someone that wasn’t like them.

When I read that Matt had died I cried for days and every time I went to a page set up for Matt where you could light a candle and we could write our thoughts about what had happened I cried even more. I think this finally brought home to me that what happened to Matt was actually an attack on all gay men and women out there and for me being a gay man it hit me in the gut that this could have easily been me or anyone else but it happened to be Matt that took the beating and death for all of us and I cried.

It was right after that in October that Matt died and a little of me died with him as I can not and never will understand why being gay got you killed. I never hurt anyone in my life and was always there for people but because I was gay I was hated. Why, would someone tell me and Matt and the others like us why we deserve to die for who we are? I am always being told that being gay is a choice we make and that more then anything anyone could say to me pisses me off to no end. I don’t ever remember sitting down and saying, gee I think I want to like boys instead of girls. No I never made a choice to be gay and I would bet that no other gay person made that choice no more then we had a choice of hair color, eye color, skin color, being born rich or in poverty or anything else about our birth, it just is. Then we have to hear the going to hell thing for loving someone. The God I know would never create me as I am and then condemn me to hell. The God I know loves me for who he made me and knowing that as surely as I breathe the same air as the rest of you makes me a proud gay American.

I hid in that so called closet all my life up to the point that Matt was killed. I decided that I in some way was responsible for Matt’s death as I and my generation didn’t do anything to get out there and try to make a difference in how the world looked at us so that was about to end. I got involved in some of the human rights groups including HRC and supported any group that was working for equality. I came out to my parents and my brother but found out that except for my father who didn’t have a problem with it, my brother and even my mother always used it against me when they would get upset with something and then had it thrown in my face. I have dealt with that over the years but figured it was their problem and not mine so moved on with who I am. I think the hardest time was coming out to my best friend who I was in the military with and who was like a brother to me. I called him and told him I had something to tell him and hoped it didn’t cost me his friendship and he said yea, you’re gay so what. I was speechless for a minute but I think in the end it brought us even closer. I then came out to a few more friends that also didn’t care and in fact wanted to fix me up. So I found that for the most part people judge you for how you relate to them and not who you sleep with. The bigots will always be with us but we shouldn’t let their hate dictate how we live our life.

So we come upon the 13^th anniversary of Matt’s brutal death. Matt always told his parents he wanted to make a difference in this world. Matt didn’t see that happen in life but surely made a great difference in death. I like to believe we have a loving God and I know that Matt is with Him in Heaven and hopefully Matt is watching over all of us and seeing all the good things that has come out of his brutal death that seemed to wake people up to realize that gay people don’t deserve this kind of treatment and it is getting better.

A personal note to Matt: You’re my hero dude, your part of who I am now, you’re my soul brother and Matt, even though we have never met, you took a brutal beaten for all of us as gay brothers and sisters and that beating brought it to the front to be addressed and yes, things are better because of you man and Matt, I still cry for you and bro, I love you more then words can express. Rest in peace brother until one day, God willing. I can give you a hug and say I am sorry for what they did to you.

David Scrivens

Massachusetts

Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. ----Hamlet, Act V

Wait! Before You Read That Book...

2011-09-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

It was when I found out I could make mistakes that I knew I was on to something. ~Ornette Coleman

On a publisher’s loop this morning, a fellow author mentioned that F. Scott Fitzgerald was known to have said he wished he could get his books back so he could rewrite them.

I immediately connected with THAT sentiment.

Sure, I only have one published book out there in Bookland; but, even with that one book, I sometimes feel ‘writer’s remorse’ (I don’t think there IS such a term as ‘writer’s remorse’, but it seems to fit me SO well, I’ll coin it myself).

I’m probably the only author on the planet who literally cringes every time a potential buyer comments to me, I’m just getting ready to download CANDY G! I can’t wait to read it!”

I have to bite my tongue to stifle the advance apologies chomping at the bits to spew—before you DO read it, let me warn you—let me tell you ahead of time, a reviewer called it a ‘silly plot’—warning, warning—read at your own risk!

No, no, I’m not saying my book is bad. It isn’t bad at all. It is what it is. Some love it, some like it, some feel so-so about and some loathe it. That is true for ANY book.

What I AM saying is that I am the first to acknowledge that this book—my first published work—has flaws that I can see now. What I AM saying is that ALL of my writing has flaws. What I AM saying is that just because I have one published book out the door does not mean I’ve ‘arrived’ at my pinnacle writing experience.

One book—a hundred books—does not the perfect writer make.

This all could seem terribly hopeless, couldn’t it? Well, hell, C. Zampa, why even keep trying? I mean, if you’re going to just keep messing up, if you’re never going to get it perfect, what’s the point? How discouraging!

Not so, my friend. Not only am I NOT discouraged, I am ecstatic. I can see my mistakes.

I’ve been fortunate. Somehow, I’ve luckily found a multitude of friends and supporters in the writing community who work with me. But they don’t just work with me. They push me. They push me hard. They push me SO hard sometimes I feel like Lucy on the ballet episode—you know the one with the tough instructor who perpetually snapped her baton at the bumbling Lucy?

My teachers haven’t been tender. They haven’t been afraid to tell me what I’m doing wrong. Although they HAVE praised my strengths, they haven’t been easy on my weaknesses. And I HAVE been tempted to snarl at them when they point out an imperfection in my perfect work-in-progress.

But none of my mentors--not even one--will hesitate to tell you that I never balk at their advice. Oh, sure, I get second opinions--often--as anyone should. But as far as pointers that can make my story stronger, get more bang for the buck with tighetning, structure, etc.? I'd be silly not to listen. My mentors will tell you I grab help and run with it, feast on it with greedy passion. Sometimes I find I cherish the negatives because I know, I just know from experience, they can almost always be turned into positives. They have their own beautiful power.

To find your pristine manuscript isn’t so flawless after all…well, it stings. But I’d rather feel the sting now—as I’m writing the manuscript—and learn to correct my mistakes than to feel the much bigger bites of the readers who catch my blunders.

Winston Churchill said I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught.

Like I said, I’m lucky.

Of course I wince at first upon hearing my errors.But the opposite end of that spectrum is the unfortunate author who either has not had the opportunity to learn or who DOES have the chance but refuses to accept they DO have weaknesses, even when those more experienced have tried to point them out and help them improve. To ignore help will keep them from growing. Even worse, to think they don’t NEED help will stunt their writing growth completely.

An unknown author said, Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player.

And that’s just it. By sending our writing out to the public, we ARE sending our errors to be counted. So, like the ball player, it’s in our best interest to practice, to listen to the experienced ones who try to help us, to learn from OUR OWN experience, to be grateful that we have the means to sharpen our skills.

On the other side of that coin is this: in order to do all the above, we have to know and accept that we are always going to make mistakes. We aren’t going to reach that perfect moment in our writing when we know everything.

Harry Truman said, It's what you learn after you know it all that counts.

And another unknown author said—and I love this—Experience is what causes a person to make new mistakes instead of old ones.

And that’s the beauty of it all. In writing, as with everything else in life, we DO make mistakes. And, as everything else, we grow from them IF we use them as valuable learning tools instead of gauges of failure.

Some time ago I stumbled on an excerpt of a book. The short piece I read was so laden with mistakes and bad writing I actually found it comical. But the tragic part? It wasn’t supposed to be comedy.

My first—and lingering thought—was…didn’t this person have any one to help them, to mentor them? How sad that was to me to think.

But, then, my thought progressed to…what if this person DID have a mentor who tried to help them and they just knew more than the person offering the advice? THAT would have been the ultimate tragedy. Because that book is now out there—like the earlier quote said—with all its errors to be counted. And if an inexperienced eye like mine could even trip all over the mistakes and horrific writing, think how it will bode when an experienced eye zeroes in on it?

Falling prey to critical eyes is going to happen to all writers. It’s part of the game. But when my writing DOES fall victim to dissection, at least let me know in my heart the faults that get counted aren’t there because of my refusal to have opened my mind to learning.

One Bright Day in the Middle of the Night...

2011-09-09T04:53:00.000-07:00

The king died and then the queen died is a story. The king died, and then queen died of grief is a plot.
----E. M. Forster

Years ago, while in high school, I decided to learn to crochet. How hard could it be, I figured.

I bought supplies at Woolworth’s—yarn, needles (or were they called hooks?), an instruction book. My yarn was beautiful pastel blue. I envisioned a beautiful shawl, maybe even an afghan.

I hunkered down on the floor in my bedroom. Supplies ready. Adventure on the horizon.

Basic crocheting was pretty easy. Fun. It was the other techniques I couldn’t get the hang of—edges, corners, the critical steps needed to make an actual design.

I just kept going forward, no corners, no turns. Eventually I used up the yarn and had nothing to show for it but a forty-foot-by-six-inch mammoth wool boa constrictor. Discouraged by this monstrosity that I couldn’t even give away as a Christmas present, I never crocheted again.

Believe it not, I have a point to make by sharing my arts and crafts fiasco.

And the point is…

I found writing is pretty much the same as crocheting. One can be a skilled writer, one can be an eloquent writer. But, as Donna Tartt said, Storytelling and elegant style don’t always go hand in hand. And I can tell you, this is true.

First of all, I’m not knocking my writing. My prose has its strengths. I’ve been told my characters have good, strong voice, they are vibrant. Reviewers have commented that I get a lot of bang for the buck with my choice of words—simple but strong. And, no, I’m not boasting. As a writer, I must recognize the good stuff as well as the bad stuff. Those strengths are foundations for story building, and it’s not vain to want to insure your good, strong bricks are in place.

One strength I do NOT have is plotting.

I remember my very first adult attempt at writing.

It was to be the story of Sam and…oh, hell, I don’t even remember the heroine’s name, she was that forgettable. The story was titled Letters to Lola.

It began with words spouting from my mind, not much rhyme or reason, just a vague setting with even vaguer characters.

Reminiscing over Letters to Lola, I realized the damn story had reached seventy-six chapters when I’d finally abandoned it.

SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTERS! What? How? Why?

Was my writing also destined to be a wooly forty foot muffler?

The story—although it had its merits, it had some potential—had no plot or logic. I was just…writing. Going nowhere. There was a beginning but—like my ill-fated pastel blue shawl—there was no middle, no direction, no end. No course plotted whatsoever. It was one little emotional scenario after another, but no reasoning to any of it. It would have made a wonderful soap opera—a million pages of little unconnected vignettes with no apparent resolution in sight. But, then, I ask: if there is no plot, how COULD there ever be a solution?

At least my first published novella, Candy G, consisted of a beginning, a middle and an end. I cringe at times, even with this book, to see its weaknesses, the holes. Somestimes I re-read some of the scenes and wince, thinking how silly it seems for my character to do this or that. But at least I DID plot a course for it and finished it. It was a struggle, but I did it.

A writer may walk into this craft with natural talent, it may be their destiny, their calling. It can be a gift like drawing or painting. But even drawing and painting have rules. Who knew?

So does writing. I didn’t know that when I began. I honestly thought it was merely a matter of having a talent at word crafting and just….well…writing. Put the pen to the paper and the words would come.

There is the matter of plotting. Fleshing of characters. The prose itself—passive verbs, redundancy, effective description. Hooks. What is a hook? That certain something that draws the reader in from the beginning, that keeps them interested in the story.

This issue came to my attention recently when I became discouraged with my writing. I felt lazy. I could begin a story, I couldn’t finish one. I’d look around me to see my peers announcing new book releases every month, and I became disheartened, glaring at my one lone book on the shelf.

I had to take a close look at WHY I couldn’t finish. And, during a discussion on my authors’ forum, some harsh realities hit me.

A fellow author, upon some brainstorming about an idea I had for my story, analyzed a part of my plot in these words (piecing together fragments from their conversation: I think you're actually creating two big problems for yourself: characters planting a legal briar patch for no logical reason and stacked coincidences…. More problematic is the number of "just so happens" you employ in order to make this unlikely showdown occur……. It starts to look like a hat on a hat on a hat on a hat. Genre fiction can sustain coincidences, but this explosive sleepover has more to do with you wanting drama (as an author) than the way people would act in the situation.

They were right. I was aiming for drama, but—repeating my crocheting catastrophe—I still needed more insight into the complexity of writing, of plotting, of storytelling, of logic.

I came across this quote (author unknown), and it…well, it was me: One bright day in the middle of night two dead boys rose to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot one another. A deaf policeman heard the noise, and saved the lives of the two dead boys. If you don't believe this lie is true, ask the blind man, he saw it too.

In that one silly little ditty was my writing experience in a nutshell.

Part of me is discouraged. I can’t plot. I can’t crochet. But the other part of me—the part who yearns to write, who doesn’t want to repeat the afghan that ate Tokyo—is ecstatic because this obstacle standing in my way of creating a complete story is learnable. It is not out of reach. It is only a matter of desire to make the hurdle. And I have the desire. I’m going to do it.

But do not ask me to crochet you for an afghan for Christmas.

Welcome, Alan Chin...

2011-09-02T05:42:00.000-07:00

Today I am so pleased to welcome to Casa Zampa a fellow author I’m absolutely crazy about. Alan Chin.

I love Alan’s writing—his eloquent style, his emotional depth that somehow manages to be both painfully raw and beautifully delicate at the same time, and his big as life characters.

But I’m also gaga over the man himself, Alan Chin. As I’ve come to know him over time, I’ve often found myself smiling at his gentleness and his…gentlemanliness; but I’ve also seen his fierce side when he feels called to fight injustices.

I specifically requested him to share with us his thoughts on love. One thing I’ve enjoyed about him has been his tone and the obvious tenderness in his words when he speaks of his husband, Herman.

Lucky for us, he obliged. I’m sorry I was not able to post this last week, as that was Herman’s actual birthday, but Alan’s tribute to Herman is just as beautiful today as it was that day.

Have at thee, Alan…

***********************************************************************************

Happy Birthday My Darling
Written by Alan Chin

Today is my husband’s birthday. Yes, I said husband. Herman and I were married the day after it became legal to wed same-sex couples in California. We are both the same age, 58, both the same build and coloring, and both still in love with each other after being together for seventeen years.

Tonight I am treating Herman to a romantic dinner (yes, even at our advanced age we still enjoy a little romance) at a tapas restaurant that sits only a block from the spot overlooking San Francisco Bay where we first pledged our love for each other.

I’ve been thinking about him all morning, like someone studying a flawless diamond from different angles to fully appreciate the beauty forever locked in the stone. And I’ve been thinking about our relationship, our affection for each other, and what it means to me. I freely admit I’m a romantic—notice I did not say hopeless romantic—but what I’ve discovered is that our love is still developing, moving toward a destination that is richer and more meaningful than what we have now. That is, our love is both growing and deepening as it moves toward an endpoint I have no clue about. Let me describe how I see this, and then determine for yourself if you think such a love is possible, or am I seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.

The affection I give this man is built on a foundation of consummate respect, and I know that it is unequivocally pure. Not that we don’t have our issues, our moments of bickering—we do. I’m talking of our love being pure, not the day-to-day expression of it. More than anything I want Herman to understand that I choose to spend the rest of my life with him because I want, need, simply to be with him each day, not because of social pressures or a piece of paper or to escape loneliness, but because he, more than anything, fills me with happiness. I feel that it is his companionship that gives me the strength and confidence to do all other things in my life.

Our love seems to subsist amongst us as a living, tangible thing, an unbelievable magic that we both know is possible because we occasionally touch its perfection. What we have is what you get when two people surrender completely to each other—a whole, a complete entity. Think about the concept of becoming whole: half of yourself does not cheat or injure or transgress the other half. There is no perception of being anything other than one being.

I know from analyzing my own feelings that what I say for me is true. I must admit I often find myself wondering if Herman feels as deeply as I do. Of course I like to think that he feels even more so, and that he is leading me down a path to that unknown destination I mentioned above.

So ask yourself, is such a love possible? Is it something you have experienced for yourself? Or should I have included the word ‘hopeless’ in front of the word ‘romantic’ above?

Alan Chin

Novels: Island Song, The Lonely War, Match Maker, Butterfly's Child

Short Works: Haji's Exile, Simple Treasures

Screenplays: Daddy’s Money, Simple Treasures, Flying Solo

http://AlanChin.net

http://AlanChinWriter.blogspot.com

...A Right Guy

2011-08-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

I looked it at like this way. To get folks to like you, as a screen player I mean, I figured you had to sort of be their ideal. I don't mean a handsome knight riding a white horse, but a fella who answered the description of a right guy.—Gary Cooper

One of the sexiest men in the world—in my humble opinion—is Russell Crowe. I hear that gravelly voice and my belly contracts with delicious spasms. No matter what role he plays, he reaches from the screen and grabs me by the hair, drags me with him into this dreamy, sexy world and kisses me senseless, makes love to me until the proverbial cows come home. He’s earthy, virile, sensitive, romantic, dripping with sensuality.

Is he handsome? I think so, many don’t. To tell you the truth, I’ve never paused in my hero worship long enough to really focus on his looks. His aura, his charisma, is so strong it snaps my lovesick brain and libido straight from his face to his soul. And there—in that soul—lives the man. There lives the sex.

As Crowe has aged, though, the press has had a field day with his added weight, his sometimes scraggly appearance. They’ve crucified him for doing what we ALL do, what none of us can avoid…getting older.

It’s this celebrity’s grace and detachment from the tide of ridicule that has also made this woman take a deeper look at him. He just is who he is, he’s happy with that and the rest of the world can kiss his Aussie ass.

That’s a hero to me.

The reason I’ve mentioned Russell Crowe today is because I recently introduced the hero of my WIP into the story. I wrote him as a big man. An entire football team in one body.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Many sexy heroes in stories are very big men. How sexy is that? Very sexy. But…but…I knew I could get away with him being big. I knew I could still have him fit the traditional mold of big, bulky hero—as long as I could conventionalize him and make him muscular, make him ripped. Even sexier, eh?

I could construct him carefully as a big guy and still make him marketable.

But, knowing I was eventually going to come face-to-face with this hero in a scene in which he would disrobe, the ripped image wasn’t what my mind truly saw. It never had been.

My heart and soul held a very clear image of a big man who wasn’t perfectly built—a massive fellow who had love handles, thick waist, a belly instead of a six-pack—the whole big guy nine yards.

But the inner light from this man, combined with his confidence and unquestionable power are his sex appeal.

Some might say, Oh, cool, a character SHOULD be flawed.

Joyce Maynard says, The painter who feels obligated to depict his subjects as uniformly beautiful or handsome and without flaws will fall short of making art.

Hold on there, though, chicas and chicos. THERE is the rub. I don’t find my character’s extra weight, his abstinence from the gym, to be flaws.

And I become livid with constant attention to these ‘flaws’ in men (and women) suggesting they cannot have sex appeal, they cannot be fabulous lovers or are less than perfect in some way because they aren’t svelte or ripped.

As I’ve watched some of my favorite stars mature from beautiful youth into even more beautiful middle age and beyond, I’m enraged at tabloids that slap pictures of them with their new ‘love handles’ and softer bellies as though they ought to be put out to pasture now. As though those very cosmetic features were what made them sexy in the first place. Hogwash. No, forgive my language, but I’m mad—bullshit.

Anyone who knows me knows that another of my favorite heartthrobs is the Italian actor, Alessandro Gassman. Sure, when I first laid eyes on him, he was young, he was tall and lean, he was gorgeous. As he’s advanced into mid-life, the newspapers and magazines have been merciless in their critical attention to his physique.

But, to me, he is one hundred times—no, one thousand times—more beautiful BECAUSE he’s maturing. He’s evolving into one of the most unbearably handsome men I’ve ever seen.

For this reason—this fury over the preoccupation with physical perfection—I knew I could not, would not, betray my beautiful, big, beefy character by denying him his very identity. No way will I do it.

I realize my character may not be a money-maker. By stripping him of any physical perfection he may have had, I could very well be also stripping myself of royalties. Hell, a publisher might not even accept him.

And, again, I want to remind you that I’m not considering his less-than-pristine physique as a flaw. It is not a flaw. It is just who he is.

In my mind and heart, I see a very sexy, charismatic man. A man I’d love to melt into, to be snug against every extra inch of his warm body. His soul is excruciatingly beautiful.

The challenge? To, by the power of my writing, make the READER see the same man I see. To endear the reader to the PERSON, not his body, to drag them straight—like Russell Crowe does me—to his soul.

Bottom line. Age, maturity, the beauty of experience that only life can produce and the evolution of bodies are not flaws. Wrinkles around a pair of eyes are character attributes—awards for having lived—not flaws.

And, sugar, if anybody ever told you that sex comes only in one size, that it’s only offered in size thirty-two waist or less? They told you wrong.

A Good Deed in a Naughty World...

2011-08-13T06:46:00.000-07:00

How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
~William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

My blog today is dedicated to one of the most beautiful men I know. Tom Webb.

And this day, by coincidence—as I’d already planned the post—is his birthday. So I not only am able to celebrate the work of this man I’m simply mad about but I can also celebrate his birthday.

Tom, it IS okay to tell everyone that today is your big 5-0? Fifty years old today!

Tom is a hero. Not one whose name you’ll see in People Magazine, but one of those priceless souls who works behind the scenes for a huge cause—serving individuals and families living with HIV/AIDS.

He is the Director of Finance for Living Room, a non-profit agency in the metro Atlanta area. This agency provides emergency housing related services (utility support, rent/mortgage payments), housing referrals and subsidized housing support. Their goal is to help low income and/or homeless people and families find housing, and assist them in moving to some kind of permanent housing.

Living Room was founded in 1995 by a nun who worked with Trinity Community Missions. She worked with Grady Infectious Disease Program (IDP) and saw a need for people who came in to get hooked up with housing. Eventually, it was incorporated as an independent nonprofit organization. They have served more than 21,000 households since formed.

Tom says of himself, I am really just an average guy. I decided to take the talent I have for accounting and finance and use it to help those who need it most. I am VERY good at stretching a dollar and using it to get the most bang for the clients. I am told by other staff I am good at learning program, and translating it to finance and explaining how we arrive at financial decisions. Also at learning how to streamline operations and utilizing staff and resources to get the most work done for the least amount of money, so we can use as many dollars as we can to get to kids, HIV positive individuals, or whoever needs to.

Let me tell you something. I know Tom, and he is no average guy. He’s a beautiful soul. He makes me smile. Every day. Not only because I’m aware of his magnanimous heart and his quiet but huge work in his field, but because he’s simply a lovely heart.

Tom—close your ears, my friend—is truly one of those wonderful men who fit the classic female complaint, All the good ones are either married or gay. He IS gay; but, if he were not, I’d be knocking at his door because he’s strong but tender, fiercely protective of his friends and—well, hell, he calls me McCarol. How could a girl not love that?

Okay, now that Tom is thoroughly blushed out by my shameless gushing, let me tell you how he got into this vein of work.

In his own words: I lost several very good friends—one especially—to HIV and AIDS. My best friend from the age of 12 contracted HIV, and he decided rather than to ask for support and love, went to the west coast, where he went to college at Stanford, and die unannounced and unmourned. I didn't even know what happened for three years until I finally found a cousin of his who I went to school with. She told me, and I just can't tell you how it made me feel to know he died alone because he was afraid to ask for help. He was too proud. So, I try to do what I can to make sure another Jim doesn't have to happen.

Much of Tom’s story is best told in his own words, as he told to me. To give you an example of some of the things my friend has seen up close and personal is this account from another agency, The Bridge, where he worked prior to Living Room: It broke my heart to hear some of the stories of these kids. One young boy had been forced to have sex with his mother and sister, and it was videotaped for his mom and her boyfriend to sell for money. He was also prostituted for money so they could buy drugs. When he came to The Bridge, he was about 13 years old, a tiny beautiful little boy who had already been in 20 out of home placements. We helped him learn to deal with his issues of trusting adults and knowing how to interact with people who didn't want to use him sexually. He was eventually able to move to another placement, either a group home or foster family, I can't remember which, and was doing very well last time I heard.

I got to interact with these kids, learn to love some of them as very special to me. They called me Mr. Tom, and I always kept this huge bucket of candy in my office so they could come up to see me and get a treat when they were on good behavior and wanted to come talk. I became almost a mentor to some, and some of them would come just to talk to someone who didn't judge them or want to provide therapy. We all learned to talk the same strength based, family focused way of dealing with the kids (identify their strengths and support them in those traits, and not buy in to their behaviors that didn't work well for them).

We had a pet therapy program, and the kids would love and handle pets and even talk to them where they couldn't do it with an adult. I would bring my new dog in to work, and they would be able to work with our Animal Assisted Therapist, with a pet, to learn trust, impulse control and empathy.

Tough stuff, isn’t it? Hearing Tom’s account of such horrific treatment to such innocents made me grateful that—although we weren’t wealthy and there were many things I could not provide for my child—I knew my daughter had love in our home. Sometimes we take this free but priceless commodity for granted. But I’m betting Tom, after his eyewitness experience with kids and families less fortunate, would tell us to cherish our love-filled homes.

Tom said this to me: I am really nothing special, McCarol, just someone who does the best he can to help somebody else with what meager talents I have. No shit. What I want people to know is, anything they have to offer agencies like the ones I have worked with is appreciated, whether it is time, money, or sometimes just mentioning it to a friend who may know someone who knows someone with deeper pockets.

I disagree with Tom on his not being special. He IS something special. He’s an urban angel. He’s a wonderful friend. He’s…Tom!

Tom, my friend—and, I swear sometimes I think my guardian angel—I adore you, I admire you, I love you, you unselfish man. You inspire me, you make my heart smile with hope. The hope of knowing there are caring hands for those who need them most.

So can you all see why this is such a special day? This wonderful, quiet hero turns fifty today!

Wishes for a happy, happy birthday to you, Tom! Wish I could be there to give you a huge hug in person and to share some birthday cake with you, and to sing—at the top of my warbling lungs—For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow! A DAMN good fellow!

The willingness to share does not make one charitable; it makes one free. ~Robert Brault

Welcome, Erik Orrantia...

2011-08-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, C. Zampa here.

If you know me at all, you know I am enamored by all things Mexico. Of course, there is my infamous obsession with Hispanic men. But, beneath all the obvious—the dreamy perception Americans like myself have of the mysterious, wildly beautiful romance of the quintessential Latino male—there is a serious fascination with the country, its people, its culture, the very flavor of Mexico.

But my blog today is not about me and my fascination for Mexico. I’m only reminding you about my love affair with Mexico so that you’ll understand why I’m ecstatic to have—as my VERY first blog guest ever—author Erik Orrantia.

I chose Erik because my radar immediately picked up his signal when I read about the release of his first book, Normal Miguel. I was intrigued by the

premise of the story, the cover, everything. Orrantia had become a quiet, very interesting presence in the literary world. Then he announced his second book, The Equinox Convergence—which promises to be a compelling read—and I was excited. I knew this author was going to bloom into a powerhouse writing voice, and it thrills me to have front row tickets to witness his journey.

Erik lives in Tijuana, Baja California with his partner of seven years. He has traveled extensively throughout Mexico and hopes to share part of his experience through novels.

I’ve begun reading The Equinox Convergence, and I’m already hooked. Below Orrantia shares descriptions of this book and Normal Miguel.

He has also included information and buy links below as well as a link to his blog. And I insist you visit his blog, as his latest post is about…sigh…Mexico. A beautiful essay about the contrast between the country’s infamous corruption and crime and its true, breathtaking and simple beauty.

So, Erik, welcome to Casa de Zampa! The floor is yours….

****************************************************************************************

Mexico, the Unreported Side (by Erik Orrantia)

Just short of 500 years ago, the great Aztec emperor, Moctemuza II, respectfully received Hernán Cortés and his entourage whose shiny armor protected pale skin and whose forged helmets offset their strange beards. The visitor might have been the god-king Queztalcóatl returning to reclaim his throne—the Aztecs couldn’t be too careful. Instead, the invaders executed the emperor, brought disease and slavery to his people, and set off Mexico’s modern history rank with revolutionary and civil war, corruption and pillage, oppression and classism, and economic and natural disaster.

Though today Mexico has enjoyed nearly a century absent of major political strife, its continued reputation as a third-world, Central American country has been further tarnished by its ongoing War on Drugs as it attempts to eradicate drug cartels from its premises. Because their combined income reaches as much as $50 billion per annum, they represent a formidable adversary to a country whose entire defense budget is barely $6 billion per year. As Mexico applies pressure to the cartels centered around urban and border centers like Acapulco and Tijuana, the entire trade is spreading into the rural areas the way clay squeezes between the fingers of a clenching fist. Gory photos on the front pages of daily newspapers announce the on-going presence of the cartels between the streets of everyday life…and their growing desperation—rival members tortured and beheaded, police and military personnel kidnapped and slaughtered, and politicians assassinated in front of the public eye. The War on Drugs has claimed over 40,000 people since its inception less than a decade ago.

There is another side of the story. Take it from a person who has lived in Mexico for the past fourteen years. Life continues to flourish, culture develops, and a new consciousness of conservation and humanity is not whispered but boldly spoken among the people, the vast majority of whom are honest, hard-working, amicable folks with strong ethical values and respect for others. For every Mexican laborer seeking work in distant lands, even more foreigners follow the 20,000 gray whales, and millions of monarch butterflies and tree swallows who enter Mexico to partake in its abundance of natural resources, cultural offerings, and serene beauty.

Though only a quarter the area of its northern neighbor, the length Mexico’s coastline equals that of the contiguous United States. Its peaks reach to heights of nearly 10,000 feet, its canyons boast depths greater than their Arizona counterpart, and its enviable latitudinal position provide ecosystems the gamut of ecosystems from expansive deserts in the north and lush rainforests south of the Tropic of Cancer. Though the ancient times of the Aztecs and Maya are over, Mexico still recognizes over 60 indigenous languages in a population of 10 million indigenous people, many of whose tribal ways of life have endured. Like the awesome sea turtle once hunted to near-extinction, the value of the indigenous cultures has been formally recognized, and legal protections have been instilled to protect them.

Let’s put away the statistics and the big picture for a moment and stand on a small town street corner, or walk inside a typical home, attend a quinceañera or a wedding, or chat with a señora or a muchacha. They will instantly disarm us—not literally, of course; we will quickly forget what our friends back home told us about keeping our wallets in our front pockets or hiding our necklaces beneath our blouses. They’ll offer us their humble homes and meticulously prepared food. They’ll practice the Golden Rule. They will remind us about the importance of education in both its formal, academic sense, and its second meaning—good old-fashioned manners. They will show respect for elderly and for teachers. They will make us wonder about, and maybe even embarrass us inside for, all the preconceived and largely incorrect notions we had about the country we were (hesitantly) about to visit. Hopefully, we’ll apply that same doubt to all the other preconceived notions we had about everything else in the world. Well, one step into foreign territory at a time.

The point is that, despite the lingering distrust many commonly feel toward Mexicans or about Mexico in general, and despite the real and bloody war against the powerful drug mafia, the greater truth is that most of the world misjudges and, consequently, misses out. True, one has to be as vigilant in Mexico as in any unknown place, or even in the streets of many familiar but potentially dangerous places. And true, there are people out there, including Mexico, who take advantage of others, especially rich tourists. Also true, one’s life expectancy is automatically and seriously reduced when he decides to directly participate in either side of the War on Drugs. But life is full of risks, isn’t it? And we take risks that Bilbo Baggins via J.R.R. Tolkien summed up better than I ever could: “It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no telling where you might be swept off to.” Take an adventure in Mexico. Its bad side is not nearly as bad as one might think, and its good side is probably far better than one might imagine.

Now, in case you haven’t read either of my books to date, and might prefer to take a virtual trip before you get your plane flight to Mexico, I have tried to capture many of the nuances, splendor, and reality of the culture that I have so far discovered. Normal Miguel, a Lambda Literary Award winner, tells the story of a gay student teacher as he completes his year of student teaching in the rural hills of Puebla. He discovers many tricks of his trade as he gets to know his students and those with whom he works, but he also confronts obstacles as he develops a relationship with the local candy store owner. The Equinox Convergence is another genre altogether. This is the harrowing story of a young shaman girl in Guerrero who crosses paths with Bennie, a young drug runner. He aspires to quick wealth but finds himself stuck in the drug trade where his only choice is to follow directions, even when demanded to go beyond any moral limits. But like the equinox, light and darkness balance out. I hope you’ll consider them, or at least stop by my website, http://erikorrantia.com/, to check out my posts and carry on the conversation. Thank you, C. Zampa, for the chance to share.

Excuse Me, But You Are So...

2011-07-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely. ~Roald Dahl

It was the mid-1980’s. A young woman—no Marilyn Monroe, by any stretch of the imagination, but reasonably attractive—sat with her date in a club. Dressed in a pretty pink blouse and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (I DID say this was the 80’s!), she looked and felt pretty sexy.

But her companion was a bit inattentive, his Rico Suave gaze roaming the place. His attitude shouted loud and clear that he was sure he could do much better than the pretty-ish woman beside him. And he probably could have.

Then something happened. Something so unexpected, so odd, so startling, it changed the woman’s life.

A stranger, a very good-looking man, stood at his table and said goodnight to the waitress as he laid his money on her tray.

Then he walked straight to the lady in the pink blouse and stopped at her table. He addressed the woman’s date first, Excuse me, he said. I’m sorry, man, if I’m out of line, but I’ve just got to say this. Then the handsome stranger turned to the woman and murmured, You are so goddamn beautiful. Before the lady could react, the man smiled at her date, saying, You’re a lucky man.

And, just like that, the mysterious man was gone.

One flash in time, a little basketful of verbal flowers, and the lady in the pink blouse’s inner beauty—which had surely been dormant, as she never knew she even HAD inner beauty—lit up inside her. She glowed that night, smiled, flirted, felt—beautiful.

Her date suddenly saw her through this total stranger’s eyes and, from that point on, became quite the attentive escort.

The lady in the pink blouse? That was me. And the odd thing? I was not, still am not, outstanding in the looks department. Who knows what that stranger saw? Who knows exactly what attracts one person to another? Chemistry? A soul connection? Maybe he just liked pink blouses on brunettes? I’ll never know.

But since that night, and through the years, I’ve been fascinated by human attraction and its uncanny mystery.

For myself, sure, there are the obvious draws that I find attractive in men. It’s no secret I love my dark-haired men. I have exquisite, exotic fantasies of my Italian lovers with their black eyes and full lips, their perfect bodies. Gods in men’s physiques. A charming accent is, without a doubt, irresistible.

But that’s just my fantasy. That is what I like to look at in pictures, to admire in public, to drool over. But it’s not real to me, it doesn’t appeal to me beyond the external, the obvious allure.

There’s a reason this has all hit me today. Earlier this week, I blogged my thoughts about finding soul mates. The thought had been so strong in my mind.

Then, this morning, I accidentally stumbled on a picture of someone who I found, much to my surprise, to be incredibly sexy. So sexy I couldn’t take my eyes from him. And, in truth, he’s sort of lingered in my mind all day.

He was a very young man—what?—no older than his twenties, probably. Skinny as a beanpole, he wore glasses and had bleached blond hair, wild and curly. Not ripped with six pack abs—actually, he didn’t even have a three-pack set of abs. At first glance, very ordinary.

In fact, he would fit perfectly in one of those vintage ads for body building. You know the ones. The buff guy mocking the 98-pound weakling, taunting, Hey, Skinny! Kicking sand in his face. He could be the poster boy for the old Charles Atlas ads…Do you want to look like THIS? He’d BE the 98-pound weakling.

Then his most outstanding feature—his smile—caught my attention. A huge, brilliant, need-sunglasses-to-look-at-it blinding smile. Very toothy. A skinny little scarecrow with huge teeth and glasses.

Somehow, inexplicably, I found myself so attracted to this young man, actually finding him incredibly sexy. No, not lothario sexy—let me bed you, my darling, and wrap you in roses and kisses sexy—just…sexy.

The beauty, the intense beauty, that radiated from this man drew me to him, then caused me to stop, to tarry. From the brilliant, effervescent smile, my gaze moved to see that he had very nice hands…expressive hands. Nice, strong, handsome feet. Light, smooth skin. Details which, when observed as a whole picture, blended to make a very handsome person.

But the personality. This shit-eating, lively, I-love-me-I-love-you-I love-life burst of sunshine from this skinny little person. Made him ten feet tall, transformed him into an Adonis, made him bright as the sun, made him so damn sexy and irresistible this girl can't stop thinking about him.

I knew, deep down, if that smile—that glorious, infectious smile—walked into my life, no matter how skinny, how heavy, how tall, how short, how much hair, how rich, how poor…I’d beg to dance in the light of him.

I noticed that my young, broad-smiled, bespectacled dream man is married, and I—like my own stranger/admirer long ago—thought of his wife, You’re a lucky lady.

To be lucky enough to bask in a smile I loved, to see that sunshine everyday, to be the one to cheer him up when his sun wasn’t shining, to be the one that exceptional smile shined on—what a romantic idea. What a sexy idea. Not the stuff romance novels are made of, but real-life, you-are-my-sunshine, you-are-so-goddamn-beautiful-inside-I-can-hardly-stand-it reality.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross said, People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.

And I’m pretty sure this was the caliber of beauty I saw this morning in my skinny little dream man. Something so bright, so full of life, so obviously dredged in sweet love—not only surely for his wife but for the world around him—exudes when one has this kind of inner light.

I hope, hope, hope that while being surrounded in the romantic world of fiction by streams of well-built gods in Speedos with their tight abs and powerful chests, I keep my mind open to his alter ego—the man who might not hit the mark of movie-star looks and body-builder physique but who has THE SMILE.

And hold me back. Because, if I do see such blinding sun in person, I’m going to march right up to him and say, Excuse me. But you are so goddamn beautiful.

You Are My Sunshine...

2011-07-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come. ~Lord Byron

It started with Ed. My quest to listen, to watch for signs, to find…my soul mate.

I stood at the coffee counter in the customer service area of my office. I heard a voice behind me. The beautiful husky tone, the charming Latino accent. I knew that voice intimately. And why not? I invented it. It was the voice I’d imagined my fictional Italian hero, Salvatore, to have.

Slowly I turned toward the voice and there he stood. Salvatore, in the flesh. Gorgeous. Well over six feet, dark-skinned, dark-haired, well built. He wore glasses, which shot my libido into orbit.

In a move completely out of nature for me, I forced myself to speak to…Salvatore, whose name turned out to be Ed. Not much. Just a casual how are you doing? Fine, thanks.

I was in love.

It was a sign. I mean, after all, Salvatore is my quintessential Latino man—not particularly handsome as handsome goes, but gorgeous in his virility. One hundred percent M.A.N. Glasses, accent, coloring, voice, build. Made to order. The man of my dreams. Ed was my soul mate, I was sure.

Ed and I, over the course of time, began to talk on the phone. Long, wonderful, sensual, conversations. Seems he was Puerto Rican, a perfect romantic, every woman’s dream of spicy teasing, the promise of tender lovemaking, the anticipation of being adored in those deep brown eyes. It had all been so magical, I was sure it was meant to be. I was madly in love.

Just like Mrs. Ed. Yes, alas, there was a wife Ed neglected to mention.

To hell with soul mates, then. What a bunch of crock.

No more listening to my inner self, no more tuning my senses, no more opening myself up to finding my ‘mate’—as they do in the shape shifter books.

If only it could BE so convenient. Why, hell, if I’d only been a shape shifter, I would have immediately known Ed was not my soul mate. I’d have realized, by his scent if nothing else, that he was indeed not my destined partner for life.

I’ve encountered a few more soul mates since Ed. And with every case of ‘mistaken soul mate identity’, I find myself less and less hopeful of finding ‘him’.

With every wrong choice—which always began as the perfect choice—I felt more convinced such a thing did not exist. Such perfect mating, perfect love was just fiction. Only happens in the romances. Those damn shape shifter, vampire folks who smell chocolate chip cookies in the air and home in on their life mates. Give me a break. As if.

You want to know something? It sort of hurts. It’s an ache. This unfulfilled quest. This curse of writing romance but not being able to live it.

But.

Yes, there’s a but. And it’s a beautiful pause in my reign as the self-proclaimed Queen of Pity.

The other day, I browsed Facebook and stumbled on the page of a fellow author, Rick Reed. It was Rick’s birthday. One post on his wall jumped out at me.

It was a birthday post from Rick’s partner, Bruce. It was so simple, so sweet—a photo of Rick and their dog, Lily. I don’t remember the exact wordage of the little birthday wish, but I DO remember, with sunshine bright clarity, that, along with the wish, it said, ‘To Rick and Lily. They are my sunshine.’

That little bitty sentiment made me cry when I saw it. For one thing, because I could very well see how Rick—who seems to be a genuinely sweet man—could be the sunshine of someone’s life.

But the main reason it touched me? Because, all the sudden, from that simple but hugely eloquent little statement, came the realization to me that maybe it’s not all about mating, of throwing out your vibes into the unknown of the Universe in hopes of crossing paths with a mate of my soul.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s about just plain ol’ walking right into the sunshine of another person, of being their sunshine, of making them smile, making their life a beautiful place in the sun—just by being there.

I knew, then, that my longing is not so much about marriage, the perfect man, me being the perfect woman for that perfect man. Not about romantic Latino men, gorgeous Italians, perfect bodies. Not even about soul mates.

But it’s about being the smile in another person’s life, whether it’s your spouse, your lover, whether it’s opposite sex or same sex. Being a warm, comfortable body to melt into when you wake from a bad dream. To hold you tight when thunder and lightning scare you. Having that hot cup of coffee ready when you come home from a long day at work. That person who will sit beside you while you take a bath and let you gripe about your day. The person who shares the remote. The man or woman who lets you have time to yourself to write, who tolerates your cat, who will vacuum the floor or fill the dishwasher. The person who is allowed to see you without your makeup. Who you’re not embarrassed to brush your teeth in front of.

Maybe I’ve overcomplicated this process of finding the love of my life.

Robert Frost said, Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

That is very simple. No body scents to have to recognize, nothing fancy.

Tim Robbins said, We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.

And he’s right, I guess. If love is truly like Rick and Bruce and Lily, then all one has to do is be their own sunshine, make their own sun. Fresh-squeezed, beautiful, yellow and bright sunshine.

If it’s meant to be, the love of our lives will walk into that sun, and we will become each other’s sunshine. If it’s not meant to be? Shine on anyway. Sun is good.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’ take my sunshine away.

Dear Father...

2011-06-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen. ~Edward de Bono

I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from Jonathan Livingston Seagull right now. Seems appropriate.

I guess you know today is Father’s Day, Daddy. And, oh God, I still have to remind myself that you aren’t here to celebrate it.

Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army. Before I knew you. And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am.

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work the other evening, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a Father’s Day card; and, damn it, I got hit with it—you are gone. You are gone. No more cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again.

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card—the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy.

Hallmark insisted on taking the pure ol’ goodness, the ‘Daddy-ness’ away from you and turning you into an ad for Disneyland. They just didn’t get the reality of you.

I suppose I never realized it at the time, but you were so big and important—so crucial in my life—it went far beyond what any Hallmark poem could ever convey. Somehow, their sentiments seemed silly in light of your practicality, your down-to-earth existence, the humanness of you. And your brand of ‘ordinary-ness’ and steadfastness was so easily taken for granted, because it was SO constant I became to expect it—never realizing it was as essential as air which I also take in stride.

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should. How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Hell, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all. I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often.

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we?

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year—that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of Father’s Day cards, the Holy Grail of greetings.

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card. I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you.

Well, I’ve whined enough. Father’s Day is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But—wherever you may be—Happy, happy Father’s Day. I love you.

You Already Knew...

2011-06-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder

A woman I know--her name is Wendy—had been deaf since she was five years old. A while back, she underwent surgery to retrieve some of hear hearing. She still cannot hear as well as you and I. But, even with the limited world of sound which had been opened up to her, her life became an adventure in discovery. Things that you and I take for granted are awe-inspiring for Wendy.

When I saw Wendy on Wednesday evenings (she served at our church dinners), she would have something new to share about her learning experience. I was touched and immensely humbled by the beauty of ordinary life that, to her, was a new universe, bursting with audio color.

I wanted to share how Wendy’s experience touched me, and the only way I could think to do so was with this humble tribute to…Wendy. These discoveries were just a few of the discoveries that she mentioned.

You Already Knew

You already knew that
A soft drink can hisses when the tab is pulled,
A potato chip bag crinkles really loud when it’s opened,
Forks, spoons and knives clang when you open the silverware drawer,
Food makes a sizzling sound in a frying pan,
Your shoes make noise with every step you take,
Water makes a splashing sound when you pour it in a glass,
A toilet makes a swooshing sound when you flush it,
A door makes a thud when you close it.
I didn’t know that.

You already knew that
A car makes a noise when you start the engine then
Purrs as it’s running,
An airplane hums as it passes in the sky above,
A lawnmower roars as it glides over the grass,
A hammer pounding echoes loudly as it strikes a nail,
A fan buzzes as its blades turn,
A light switch makes a clicking sound when you flip it,
Scissors make noise as they cut paper,
Windows make noise when you open or close them.
I didn’t know that.

You already knew that
No two people have the same voice,
Dogs do not sound the same as cats,
Babies don’t sound like grown ups when they talk,
Different species of birds sing different songs or that birds make sounds at all,
Wind makes a soft sound when it blows through trees,
Rain makes a gentle sound when it hits the ground,
Gravel makes a crunching noise under your shoes.
I didn’t.

But the moon, sun and stars don’t make any sound after all.
I didn’t know that. But now I do.

A Hard Man is Good to Find...

2011-05-25T12:27:00.000-07:00

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West

It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, and partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides and no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer; but, then, this was one of the things I loved so about him.

Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his narrow wire-rimmed glasses.

I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the type of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.

Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”

“This is Antonio.”

Craggly cocked a brow and nodded, studying us. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”

Antonio didn’t return the greeting.

The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After coughing once more, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”

Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.
* * *

First of all, Antonio is NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference. So there.

But I can see you’re still snorting. So let me tell YOU what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for YOU the reasons my darling Antonio happens to be a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

1) How many men would actually let you NAME them? You love Italians as I do? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I was in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name could quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.

2) How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did so? The freedom for your work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made VERY possible with Antonio.

3) How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?

4) How many men do YOU know that can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer; and I find this handy feature quite valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would NEVER intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making a noise while he’s being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!

5) Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.

6) Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.

7) Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He does not even eat.

8) On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion, though. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he does not eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.

9) Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but he does not return the attention. A faithful sort, he is.

10) Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushiony comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.

11) There are never any disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.

12) Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.

13) Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.

14) Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.

15) I think Antonio’s only disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He IS, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. One must be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Oh, sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in so many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really CAN be quite a sensible solution to companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he is actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the overrated blow-up doll.

I’ve not convinced Dr. Craggly that Antonio is not an outward sign that I’m a few wings short of an airplane. But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

Happy Birthday, Valentino!

2011-05-06T06:12:00.000-07:00

Ah. I knew some excuse would come along for me to write about one of my most beloved fantasy men. My favorite actor. One of the handsomest men in my world’s menagerie of gorgeous hunks.

Rudolph Valentino. The original gorgeous hunk. The original heart throb. The man who put the word Latin in Latin Lover. The sleek, brooding panther who invented “bedroom eyes”. The young film idol who rode onto the screen in 1921 and put the word “sheik” into the world’s vocabulary, making the word an icon that symbolized exotic passion and smoldering eyes. The first Great Lover of the Silver Screen.

Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Piero Filiberto Guglielmi was born on this day, in 1895, in Castellaneta, Italy. Today is his 116th birthday. So—Happy Birthday, Valentino!

I’m not going to go into a lengthy biography. I only want to dedicate a birthday card to the man who came to the United States in 1913, as a kid of 18. The kid who, by the age of 26 became the biggest male sex symbol in history by shocking the world with his exotic, erotic tango scene in Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The story behind this legendary role was the stuff dreams were made of—a proverbial but true “rags to riches” story.

A powerful screen writer, June Mathis, by chance spotted him in a miniscule role in a film and knew she’d found “her” man for the role of Juan Gallardo in the much-anticipated production of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the role that every big-name movie star vied for, including Douglas Fairbanks. She used her weight to get the unknown, dark-skinned kid in the lead role for the film; her hunch paid off. Rudolph went to bed the night of the premier as a nobody immigrant kid from Italy—a bit part player, usually cast as a “heavy” because of his dark coloring—and woke up a sensation with the face that would launch women’s hearts to romantic depths until this very day.

The primo celebrità of all time was born.

When he played the role of Ahmed Ben Hassan in The Sheik, bringing to life the sweltering sexuality of Edith Hull’s novel of the same name, he only cemented his standing as the greatest screen lover of all time. A position which, in my mind, has never been usurped.

Rudolph Valentino. You might have never seen one of his films. But very few can hear the name and not immediately summon a vision of romance. Even if you can’t place his face, you know when you hear the name Valentino that it means romance, it means sensuality, seduction. You just know it. Your mind is immediately swept to black lace and tangos, blacker than black hair, hypnotic eyes, kisses on the palms of hands, romance under the desert stars, lips speaking silent words of passion, tuxedoes, swank grace, feline masculinity.

Behind the bigger than life veneer, though, stood a man who actually was very simple and very much in awe of his sex symbol status. A man who loved good books and owned an extensive library. A man who loved poetry (even had a book of beautiful poems published, titled Daydreams, which you can buy here), good music, art, and who knew several languages. An extremely educated man. He loved animals. He loved to work on cars. He fenced, rode horseback with the skill of a seasoned equestrian (did most of his own riding in his films, even the dangerous scenes). He loved to cook, especially for friends in his own home. He was a man whose real life was a far cry from the sizzling persona on the screen—a sweet, decent, loving man. A man who wanted desperately to shake his “sheik” image and find serious roles—he was, in fact, a very good actor.

He separated from his wife, Natacha Rambova, in 1925. Their parting at the train station was a highly publicized event—a photo journalist feeding frenzy. Photos still remain of their parting kiss as she stood on the train steps. They were to never meet again in life.

On August 15, 1926, during a stop in New York City for a promotional tour for his final film (tragically, no one could know it was indeed to be his last film), The Son of the Sheik, Valentino was stricken with an attack caused by a perforated ulcer. He was hospitalized in New York and lingered until August 23, then succumbed to complications of this condition.

His passing affected the public in a way unlike anything the world had ever seen. Public pandemonium ensued. At only 31 years old, The Great Lover was dead. Over 100,000 mourners packed the streets in New York where his body lay in state. His body was returned to California to be interred, where it still remains, in Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

I’m not sure why I’m doing this tribute to him. I have nothing to add that isn’t already common knowledge. I suppose I do so, wishing that those who only think they know who Rudolph Valentino is would stop for a moment to know him. Watch a silent film. You’d be surprised how beautiful his films are—how really interesting silent films are in general. A world of art that should be explored, where treasures of the senses wait, ready to delight.

So, happy birthday, Rudolph Valentino. You would have been 116 years old today. My, my. But, as tragic as your too-early death was, it served to forever stamp the picture of your youth, at the height of your beautiful life, forever in my mind.

Do Men Who Wear Glasses...?

2011-04-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons

What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question.

I mean, when Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern in spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!

Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.

But what about men who wear glasses?

Speaking for myself, I’ll tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure?

I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his glasses.

Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass. A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames.

If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him.

Oh, I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome. You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that. Or is it?

You just might be right.

I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!

So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.

But still. I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy. Bill. Tom, my husband.

To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with YOU as the target.

But wait.

He pauses to pull off his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.

Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy? He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming.

Oh, I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in second grade. But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me.

So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will.

I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and NOT wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? IS he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.

To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.

So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!

Gladiator: An Author's Thoughts on Reviews...

2011-04-07T10:39:00.000-07:00

The important thing to me is that I'm not driven by people's praise and I'm not slowed down by people's criticism. I'm just trying to work at the highest level I can. ----Russell Crowe

Damn, I love Russell Crowe. I mean, he is so…oh, wait a minute. Wrong subject. This blog isn’t about Russell Crowe; but it is awfully cool to me that, while browsing for inspiration for this blog, I happened upon his quote on the subject of criticism. Because one of my favorite—if not THE favorite—of his roles was Maximus in Gladiator. You’re scratching your head, I know you are, asking what does this have to do with anything?

Well, the gladiator experience is just what I’m blogging about today. My experience in the arena, the big literary coliseum—the review.

I’d received a google alert which advised me that my book was going to be reviewed the following week on a popular review site. So, like the gladiator of old, I was doomed to wait for the reviewer to post it as I watched many of my fellow authors go boldly into the arena before me—some to march away with high rankings, some not so high.

You want me to tell you what my rating was, don’t you? Well, I’m not. That’s not what this is about. The rating itself is not important, or rather I cannot allow it to be, whether it was good or bad.

What it IS about is the experience—the anticipation, the event, and the aftermath…the lesson.

The event itself? Oh, pretty much what you’d expect.

I learned important things in the arena. You don’t argue or defend yourself. Sure, you want to. I chomped at the bits to protest, but I didn’t SAY my story was a mystery, and hey, you spelled the bad guy’s name wrong, or hold on there, the EDITIOR told me to use that word!

Why, though, would I argue? With real fighters in the arena, you do NOT talk your way out of it with them. You just face them. A true sport will be gracious and will not lash out at a review, no matter how bad.

Just like in the coliseum of old, there are the anxious spectators, which in cyber terms are those posting comments. Some can be very considerate and kind to the gladiator, but some shout with chants of thanks, now I know I won’t buy that book! Thanks for the warning! I’ll pass on this book! Taking this book off my TBB list!

Ouch.

But, if it really were a coliseum, would it do any good to turn to the jeering masses and blubber, Stop laughing at me! Of course not. It would only goad them on and make you appear silly. So, with true gladiator courage and composure, you simply smile and understand that spectators are simply part of the game.

While standing alone, staring down the lions, every word of advice I’d ever been told by fellow writers rushed to my brain. It’s only opinion. You can’t please everyone. You can’t take it personally. And I found that, after this expedition into review-land, all this advice is true—all of it. And it is good counsel.

One of the most VALUABLE pierces of advice I received was one I feel compelled by duty as an author to pass on. And it is this: Weigh the negative points in the feedback and, if there is substance to it, think hard about it. There is the chance that the reviewer is spot-on, that they really have spotted weak links in your writing. Don’t brush it off. Be open minded. If you CAN learn from it, then LEARN from it.

If you cannot be humble enough to admit you might have flaws in your writing, and if you refuse to learn when it is legitimately pointed out, then you’d best just drop your pen right now and stop writing. Because you’ll never grow unless you allow your craft to be nurtured by solid advice and feedback.

Sure, some feedback is strictly a reviewer’s personal opinion. They are humans with different tastes just like anyone else. The next reviewer may adore the very thing that the other found annoying.

Just as fellow writers tell you that a bad review does not necessarily mean your book was bad, the same applies to a good review. It is, bottom line, one person’s evaluation. Period.

Here’s s surprise for you. I’m realistic and humble—or maybe it’s just a horrific lack of self-confidence—that, when a review of my work is TOO good, I tend to scratch my head and take a second look at my book cover on the site. Wait a minute here. Are you talking about MY book? Are we talking about the same book here? My book’s not THAT good! As much as I adore and genuinely radiate at the wonderful praise, I am my own biggest critic. And I will know, it my gut, that my book just simply had flaws that the reader missed.

But there’s sweetness in the missing of the flaws by a reader who just enjoys your work and is not looking beyond the pleasure of your story. When a reader just lets it BE a story and isn’t critiquing it, isn’t digging for mistakes OR good points. When they grasp the things that were most important to you when you wrote the book—the emotions, the characters. When they forgive your errors and love what you wrote just the same. We may not learn from this kind of acceptance, but we can beam if maybe—just maybe—the heart of the story was NOT missed and was embraced. I can’t let myself be sidetracked by that beauty, though, to the point that I feel I need not try to correct something simply because it’s invisible to some.

And my own advice? Do not hinge whether your writing has been ‘worth it’ based on a review—any review. I’ve heard more than one comment since I began writing from authors who, when reviewed with praise, felt their writing endeavors had been validated because they were sanctioned by a review site.

I personally can only use a review as a possible tool for learning, and I refuse to allow it to be a measure of my writing worth, to employ it as a gauge of my success.

I cannot and will not crowd my writing ambition into such a narrow little space of worth. I will not gear my writing toward hopeful positive reviews. If I did so, I’m afraid I’d lose my natural flow, my voice, and I’d be writing for the wrong reasons.

I hope to NEVER walk away from a good review with any arrogance; but, even more importantly, I intend to never exit a bad review with any chinks to my armor of self-esteem.

To fellow authors: If you get a bad review, learn from it and move on. But DO NOT jump off the writing cliff because you think you are a failure with one bad review, with ten bad reviews. You have two choices: you can walk away from the edge and devote yourself to strengthening your talent, or you can just…jump and crash. Depends, I suppose, on how badly you want to write and why you’re even writing in the first place.

To reviewers: As authors, we and our publishers entrust our products to a reviewer to observe and offer feedback. And we have the right to demand—not ASK, but demand—that they treat us respectfully in their report. They do not have to like our writing, they do not have to like us. They do not even have to say nice things about our writing. But, as a representative of the site who enlists their services, they owe it to us, to their websites, to readers and potential readers, to respect us and to show dignity in their presentation.

If a reviewer fails to do this? Then they must understand that their opinion will not be taken seriously…not by this writer, anyway.

As a kid, I used to have a recurring dream in which I was (who knows WHY) pitted against a lion, much like the gladiators of old, no weapons, no nothing. Well, in every dream the lion overtook me. And, surreally, I laid there beneath him and he began to…well, to do what lions do. LOL. And, as one can ONLY do in a dream while a lion feasts on them, I thought to myself, This doesn’t hurt as bad as I though it would. And neither has the review experience.

So I stand before you, fellow writers, to say Zampas Maximus has survived.

Goodbear...

2011-04-05T11:06:00.000-07:00

She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes. ~Frank Deford

This morning, while rummaging through my desk at the office, I stumbled on the printed program from my father’s funeral. He died in 2009 and, for some reason, I’d kept the little memento in my desk drawer. I’d forgotten it was there; so, to come unexpectedly face to face with Daddy—at the office, of all places—something inside me just tuned up, and I cried.

Somehow, in my romance writer’s mind, thoughts of Daddy dredged up a memory of something he and I shared, something that I realized ended—the sharing of it, anyway—when he died.

What was that something? A fantasy that my father unwittingly ignited inside me long ago. Goodbear.

Since he is a real person, I won’t divulge Goodbear’s first name. I wrote about him long ago in another blog, using a fictitious first name, but today he blossomed in my mind and my heart once again with the sight of Daddy’s funeral program, and I want to think about him for a while.

Goodbear was an army buddy of my father’s during World War II. I first saw him years ago while browsing through my parents’ scrapbook. Although the album was filled with many, many black and white photographs taken during Daddy’s army days, Goodbear’s picture stood out among the others. And, here I was—this young girl who lived in dreams with her books and writing and drawing—having a crush on an illusion in a sepia snap shot from long ago.

Back then, I suppose I liked him because he was different. He wasn’t a blond, home-town boy like the other photos. There was just something--something special--about him.

Today, as a woman, I know what it is about Goodbear that appealed and continues to appeal to me. Sure, as an adult, I appreciate his lithe body as he stands perpetually frozen in time with his leg causally bent and his hand resting on his hip. I shiver a little at his nice form, his dark complexion. I think, just as I did when I first noticed him, that he is so very handsome, so very sexy. Seems my appreciation for the dark men started long, long ago.

But every time I look at the photograph, my attention is drawn to his face—his sort of sad, knowing, serene eyes and the gentle smile. So relaxed, yet so unique from the other boisterous young men in the other photos. As though Goodbear had a secret, as though he KNEW someone would look at his photo one day and wish they knew him. As though he knew I would see him and wonder about him.

Daddy didn’t know much about Goodbear, only that he was American Indian from Oklahoma. The seemingly quiet fellow would playfully torture the Japanese cooks by grabbing them and thumping them on their heads. And that’s about all my father recalled of Goodbear. It had been, after all, over sixty years.

But every time I saw my father, we still talked about his army days, and he still recounted the same details about my secret crush, Goodbear. Daddy seemed to enjoy the telling of it all, and I treasured the hearing of it.

Well, Daddy is gone now. And, only this morning, did the truth settle sadly into my heart that, with my father went Goodbear as well. I realized that, with his passing, Daddy and Goodbear are both mere memories. I see now that the mysterious young dark-headed man was not only a fantasy of mine, but a link between me and my father’s past. Goodbear served as a piece of memory that my Dad loved to relive, of a time when he was young; and it offered me a brilliant photograph of the man my father was BEFORE he became Daddy.

So, Goodbear, I owe you, man. I knew, and I think—somehow, mystically—you knew, too, that you’d serve a purpose in my life, somehow, somewhere, down the road. Everybody does, I think—serve a purpose in other lives, that is. Wherever you are now, Goodbear, thank you.

Birthing a Book: An Author's Postpartum Reflections....

2011-03-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~Elizabeth Stone

The day I brought my newborn daughter home from the hospital wasn’t like the television and magazine ads where beaming parents climb out of a car, sunny smiles on their faces, holding a pink or blue bundle. Oh, I held a pink bundle alright. And I wanted to smile, I really did, but I was terrified. I’d just left a beautiful nine-month journey—dreams of frills and pink lace, baby showers, attention from friends and family, a wonderful birth experience—and stepped right into the big middle of motherhood.

Oh, yes, I was happy. I’d brought a beautiful baby girl into the world. I was a parent. I’d dreamed and planned for this day. But, the moment I stepped across the threshold into my own home—far from the pampering security of the hospital where I merely admired and held my child while nurses actually tended her—I was ONE MY OWN.

I made a bee-line to the sofa, my daughter in my arms, and sank into the cushions, then sat there for a long time…frozen. Scared. Wondering what the hell do I do now?

Sure, I figured it all out in time. I did pretty well as a parent, and have a lovely, well-adjusted daughter to show for it.

What does this have to do with writing? I would never have dreamed it WOULD have anything to do with my writing journey; but every day I’m learning that it has everything to do with being an author.

On March 2, I gave birth to another child. A book.

Just as the glorious time leading up to the arrival of my daughter, I reveled in the splendor of the pre-published process—winning the contract, edits, approving the cover art, the galley print and…finally…the RELEASE. The birth of the baby.

Who knew? It’s happening again—sitting on the proverbial couch of fear with my newborn baby. Because now, just like with my daughter’s arrival, the exquisite preparation and the joy of birth are over. And, just like the real kid, I’ve found I have the same parental concerns with…yes, a book!

You know about post-partum blues? Well, who knew there could be such a thing as post-publishing blues. That’s what I’m going to call it.

Damn! Here I am again, with the same parenting concerns. I’m staring around, scared, blank, asking what the hell do I do now?

When my daughter was in high school, there was the debate over whether she should try out for cheerleading. And now, here I am, weighing the pros and cons of cheering on my book through promo. Go, book, go! Ra-ra-ra—siss-boom-ba! Do I promo? How MUCH promo? I still haven’t found the answer to that question. Some moms were really good cheerleader moms. I wasn’t. Some authors are natural-born promo-ers. I’m not. I’m bumbling with promoting my book, and the process frightens me. I’m out of my element. I suppose I thought it would be like a bird, I could let it go and it would fly on its own. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.

On the subject of promoting, I’d babbled to some author friends about my failure to elbow my way into a loop chat, what a disappointing experience it had been. I’d been told it was a good way to gain exposure for my novella, so I felt the need to put myself through this torture in order to promote my book. Upon complaining that forcing myself on others was not my cup of tea, one of my friends advised me to do what was comfortable for ME, to promo in my own way. And, again, here was a flashback to motherhood—remembering that much of parenting is feeling your way around for what works with YOUR child.

The old motherly fear—will my kid fit in? Will other kids like him?—is no different with a book. If you have children, do you remember what you told them when you had that discussion? I do. Some may like you, some may not. And you can’t take it personally if they don’t.

To carry it a step further: will my kid be popular? Maybe. Maybe not. Again, I have to fall back on my child-rearing experience for THAT question. In following my own advice to my child, I won’t push to be popular. I’m not a rock star. I’m an author. I’m selling a book, not myself. If it’s ME I’m pitching, then why put any effort into my writing? My dazzling personality will sell the book, right? Wrong. The bottom line: I want my WRITING to count, I want my WRITING to be what a reader enjoys, what they remember.

I was blessed with the friendship of other experienced parents when I became a mother. I’m not sure how I would have survived the parenting game without their support and advice. I listened to all of them. Same with being an author. I’ve had the honor of having a host of supportive friends in the writing business. They are generous with their tips and suggestions. I listen to them all. Some of the tips I use, some I don’t. But I listen and absorb it all. It’s valuable education, and it’s free.

Last but not least, one of the biggest similarities between being published and being a parent is this: My first book, like my first child, will be the one I learn the most from, simply because it’s MY first step into publishing parenthood. I’ll learn from subsequent books. I’ll continue to learn as long as I write; but that first time will have been the orientation to the process. It will always be the most special because it WAS the first. I’ll be no less overjoyed with the next book and the next, but this baby will always hold that special spot in my heart. The characters will always be my precious first babies.

Like a mom feverishly taking pictures of her kid on prom night, I open the publisher’s page, or the Amazon page, and look at my child, I admire the cover, still revel that this is MY offspring going out into the world. His first date, if you will.

Just like that half-thrilled, half-scared mom on prom night, I find myself ‘waiting up’ to see if my child makes it out into the world safely, wondering if my book will fly or not.

No matter how much I cheer him on or worry over him, one thing—just as a real child’s debut into the big world—he’s on his own, and he’s really not mine anymore. But if I put all the love I had into him, if I wrote him to the best of my ability, he’ll be whatever he was meant to be, and he’ll be okay.

...Just to Be Sure of You...

2011-03-07T07:25:00.000-08:00

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you." ~A.A. Milne

I’m dedicating my blog today to a person who’s become such a part of my everyday life that I fear I’ve taken her for granted. She’s become a constant in my world, and I’ve come to see her as a fixture in my daily life as much as the clothes I wear and the food I eat; and, just as clothing and food, she’s just as necessary. Just like those staples, I’m not sure I could do without her.

For a writing term, I’ll call her my crit partner. For a personal term, a more endearing one, I’ll call her my friend. Her name is Sarah.

Once, a couple of years ago, on a writing forum, I put out a request for a person to read my manuscript and offer feedback. I’d never ‘met’ Sarah before, but she posted and offered to read. And we’ve been together ever since.

Sarah is not the only one who helps me with my writing. But, bless her heart, she IS the one I run to when my feelings get hurt out there in the cyber world. She IS there—now that my book is released—to listen as I angst over reviews that are surely just around the corner. She IS there when I throw tantrums—and, oh do I EVER throw tantrums—about things that irritate me. She IS there when I brag about myself, and she does NOT come up with smart remarks to knock my ego down a billion notches when I do slip up and boast.

I’ve run Sarah through the proverbial wringer. I’ve bitched, complained, whined, criticized, pouted, shouted, preened, bragged.

I’ve worn her out with constant revisions to my WIPs. She knows no chapter is final when I send it to her. She knows there will be one, or two, or a hundred follow-up emails, prefaced by an apology, with a change to the manuscript. I’m sure it wears her out, but she doesn’t complain, just gladly reviews each and every change. All this while she is trying to write and promo her own works.

I do not mean to slight others who help me. It’s just that a bond has developed between Sarah and me over the time I’ve known her, and we’ve come to rely on each other in our writing journeys. And when I say ‘rely’, sometimes it’s nothing more than just knowing the other is out there in cyberspace when we sit down to write at night. We LOVE writing ‘together’.

She knows this silly little truth, but I’ll share it with you. I have trouble writing when I know she’s not around. Told you it was silly. But she’s an anchor, and I somehow feel adrift in writing waters if she’s not just an email away.

So, sure, maybe I need therapy. Maybe Sarah IS my therapy. She might as well be. I go to her, like I said, as my sounding board.

I feel as though I use and abuse her good nature. If I DO, she doesn’t slap me upside the head for it, but just remains there, true and steadfast.

Oh, the time she probably screams silently, You BITCH! Because, oh, boy, can I ever BE a royal bitch. But I’ve never heard her say it. I’ve never felt it in her ‘voice’. She’s a hell of a lot more resilient and patient than I ever dreamed of being.

And we DO fight. I figure, if we were in person during our bouts—as we are both very feisty, outspoken females—we’d literally pull hair and claw at eyes. But that’s one of the things, oddly enough, that I cherish about her. The only other person I have this sort of relationship with—the kind where you can fight like cats and dogs and continue to care and respect each other afterward—is my sister.

I crit for Sarah as well, and I use the term ‘crit’ very loosely. She’s incredibly talented and doesn’t really need my feedback, but she graciously allows my input anyway.

On the release of Candy G. my very first published novella, Sarah was as much—if not more—excited than me. She cheered me on during the book’s conception until its birth, and is my biggest fan. On the day of my release, which happened to coincide very closely with my birthday, she sent a bouquet of beautiful, sunny daisies to my office. I’m looking at them now. Talk about a touching moment.

And while I’m embarrassing Sarah, let me also introduce you to her two books, Down in Flames and Run to You, both available from Noble Romance Publishing. I had the pleasure of ‘critting’ these two wonderful works, and heartily recommend them for wonderful romance reads. Check them out here and get to know what a wonderful writer Sarah Balance is.

Well, have I mortified you enough, Sarah? What an awful way to pay you back for being a rock for me. But I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say you are a dear friend and a priceless jewel in my writing treasure chest.

Here’s to you! Thanks and I love you, lady!

A Ship in the Harbor...

2011-03-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

A ship in harbor is safe - but that is not what ships are for. ~John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic

It’s here. Now. The eve of my first book’s release. Yes, tomorrow, March 2, my book, Candy G, will be released.

There are so many emotions on the rampage in my gut. Primarily, excitement. Of course, excitement. I’m published! My book has the coolest cover!

The process has been a fabulous roller coaster of giddy thrills that began with finishing the book, writing the end, submitting it to the publisher, being offered a contract. In time came edits, the cover approval, the galley proof (oh, the galley proof, the first real look at your soon-to-be-born baby), and then…and then…the release. All these things I’d heard other authors discuss, and I longed for my turn. And the experience has been every bit as joyful as I imagined. No, it’s been better than I imagined.

The other emotion? The emotion I didn’t expect? Fear. Of what? This is my dream. What’s there to dread?

Well, it was all fun and sunshine and lollipops until this countdown on the eve of release. Until now, my baby, my creation, my Candy G, had just been locked in my heart, embraced only by me and a critique partner and the handful who helped me. My baby didn’t have to learn to fly, he was safe in the nest with Mommy.

But, as of the clang of midnight, my precious boy is going public, he’s no longer mine exclusively. He’s going to be pushed off the comfortable precipice where he’s lounged since I started writing him, and he’s really no longer mine.

Whether he flies or hits bottom like ol’ Wyle E. Coyote—you know…when he plunges to the ground below in a cloud of dust…a quiet poof?—remains to be seen. It’s all in the hands of the future now. And that realization is sobering.

But should I have never submitted Candy G because I was afraid? No. I feared rejection, but submitted anyway. I fear a new kind of rejection now, as any author would. But do I wish I hadn’t begun this journey? No. I’m glad I did. If this book does a Wyle E. Coyote and hits the canyon bottom, I’ll write another book. And I’ll submit it. And another, and another until some publisher begs me, Please, for God’s sake, Stop!

I could write book after book and stay safe, never submitting them, like the quote above says—staying within the safety of the harbor. But, like John Shedd also said, that’s not what ships are for. And the realization that I DID sail my ship, I left the safe harbor and took a chance…well, it’s probably the most exhilarating part of this entire journey.