Neil Gaiman - Good words for those passionate about their art...

Reviews - A study in democratism....

I read today probably the most caustic review of a work in the M/M genre I believe I've ever seen. I haven't read the book, and can't speak to whether or not the review was fair. But I can only imagine the author's reaction. And, certainly, the publisher must be experiencing a little angst, as well. 

For a short time I wrote reviews for a great site, and enjoyed the process to the extent that I found myself reading work that I otherwise wouldn't ever have thought to dig into. The site I contributed to, however, made it clear from the outset that if I didn't like a title I shouldn't attempt to review it. If I did write a review, the owners of the site urged me always to be kind, firstly mentioning the positives of the work, and then if I found issues with it, to note them gently, but always concluding the review on an up note. I believe there were only two works that I neglected to review: the first because it was just awful--no plot, sterile characters, and abysmal editing; the second was just simply not to my taste, and I found it essentially boring.  

Not too long ago, a review of my novella "Saving Skylar Hand," was posted at Goodreads that began with this: "This is a childhood best friends turned lovers romance, the 'soul mate you are the only one for me' kind. It is sweet and very romantic. The two main characters are likable, though the one called Skylar is very frustrating." I believe the reviewer gave the story three stars.

I'm not one to tarry long on the worth (those that are positive) or worthlessness (those that are illogically negative) of reviews. In saying that, I'm reminded of a quote from William F. Buckley III (Yes, I've read him) that began, "Such is the egomania of democratism...." Those six words seem to capture the essence of reviews; anybody can provide one with the only requisite being that they can read. Though, in some cases, it appears some are not able to read that well. Or maybe it's a problem with cognition? I don't know. But, such in the egomania of democratism... 

I attempt to thank everyone who takes the time to review one of my stories, regardless of their conclusions, and I did thank this reviewer who took the time to look at "...Skylar...", commenting that I was sorry the story didn't fully please her.

I suppose I should have just left well-enough alone, though, as her response to my comment was a wee bit smarmy and a little pedantic. Her response to my response was that she hoped my future writing would live up to the standards of two of my earlier stories, "Continuum," and "Just for Christmas," suggesting, of course, that "...Skylar..." hadn't made that particular cut.

Be that as it may, I probably shouldn't have continued reading her review after I'd finished the first sentence--"This is a childhood best friends turned lovers romance, the 'soul mate you are the only one for me' kind..." My thought upon first reading that sentence was, Well, I didn't know that's what I wrote, but if she says so...

The thing is, she put "...Skylar..." into a tired old category, 'soul mate', a cliche really, that she supposed was my intent in writing the thing. And, of course, obviously, she concluded her less than enthusiastic view of the work was my fault for writing it like I did. Once again, the egomania of democratism... To paraphrase Buckley further, I wanted to ask her if she valued characterization, or plot development, or secondary characters that stole the show in places, or the dynamic of families, or the pressures placed upon young gay kids by parents, or if she'd ever reckoned much the worth of an author's style--the way words flow, one after the other. 


I suppose my issue with the review was a realization that most readers know what they like, and if they don't find what they like in a story--even though the story might be five-star quality for others--they, yes, assume it is the author's fault that he didn't write to their tastes.

The bottom line is, of course, that reviews sell books. Whether or not anyone took to heart the lame review of "...Skylar..." provided by this person, and therefore marked it off their reading list, or decided not to add it in the first place, is not known. What is known is that, again, anyone can write a review with sublime temerity, and suffer no consequences whatsoever as a result. But, the author and the publisher? What do they suffer? 

I'm ever thankful when anyone takes the time to first read, and then review any of my work. Good review or bad, I do appreciate their time and effort. I doubly appreciate someone who reviews my work depending upon something more substantial than what they would have liked to have seen in the pages rather than what was actually written. So, too, any reviewer who assumes they actually know the author's intent in writing a story, is a reviewer who, I believe, assumes too much.

Such is the egomania of democratism.... 

Vignettes of the Office - Darkly Told

Another dive into Amazon self-publishing, is Vignettes of the Office - Darkly Told. These five short stories are new, with the caveat I've been working on them for a while. These stories are wee visits to the dark side of anyone's office environment or experience. Ever wonder what's in those burritos Benita Mae makes for you all? Ever wonder what goes through the mind of the old guy, the one with the most seniority, but not yet promoted to the corner office by the window? And what about the oddball of the crew? What's his out-of-office life all about?

I've written a few horror shorts over the years. When I'm writing them I do enjoy it and am somewhat surprised by the dark turn my mind takes in the process. Later, after reading them again, I'm equally surprised that such came from me. Where did I get that stuff?

Here's the Amazon link. And here's a sample:

Henry hunkered in his cubby. Gave up the cup of Clorox in his bath. Popped Viargra the moment he arrived at work—the resulting rise the penultimate affirmation of his manhood. Peeked into his briefcase at ten, noon, and two, and gave a wink to the silent presence and determined promise of the .44 caliber magnum he now carried to-and-fro his and Shirley's snug condo.  He still smiled at his workmates, but without a "Hi." Avoided the break room. Ate his lunch at his desk. Ceased dispensing his wisdom to workmates, who'd yet to be born when he first occupied his cubby; a time when he first began to nurture the certainty of his destiny, his passion to be the honcho, el jefe, el supremo, the boss.

Days of Henry's funk turned to weeks, months. Workmates passed his cubby, smelled something feral, something dangerous. Those who turned their heads to view Henry's slump within his ergonomically designed chair, saw the newly exaggerated hump of his shoulders as he leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his phone to his ear, his former high-pitched screech now only a bare raspy whisper. Others noticed—their glances quick, unobtrusive—what appeared to be peaches lined across his desk. Still others saw Henry's ear holes untended, the wiry black hairs remarkably prolific, long enough to braid.

         On a Wednesday, hump day, Henry ate seven peaches at his desk, left the seeds neatly spread, one after another, across his now juiced work surface, his tie and shirt, too, had received a squirt or two. At noon—High Noon, he thought, feeling the jut of his Viagra-induced hard-on against the cotton of his boxers stubbed up against his tan polyester pants—he turned his back to the entrance to his cubby, and opened his briefcase. He gently lifted the chrome-plated pistol from its lair, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, and polished the heavy weapon until it gleamed. He smiled. 

Stories from the Yampa Valley - The Cow, Fixing Fence

If I were to be asked what stories I've written are my favorites, I would not hesitate to firstly name "The Cow," and "Fixing Fence." 

I wrote these stories several years ago, after visiting the Yampa Valley in South Routt County, northwestern Colorado.  More specifically, I visited a friend's family's ranch in order to see exactly what went into the task of fixing fence, something that my friend knew a bit about. While there, we traveled the ranch in an SUV, and saw the particular images that I later placed within these two stories.

I've self-published these stories at Amazon, the link is here.


Let me give you a taste of both:


THE COW

The forever wind huffed from the north and west, goosing a response from lodgepole pine, fir, spruce and newly leafed aspens that surrounded the bone yard. Brought with it an odor of the land, of spring, the aromas of pine and horse and cow shit.

Jack turned his head and once again studied the old cow. He’d known this cow. Passed into manhood knowing this cow. She’d dropped some fine calves, fat and sassy. But there was something else about her, something since he was eighteen that had caught his eye, his interest. She was independent, usually kept herself and her calves apart from the herd. Went her own way, he thought. She’d never bawl when they took her calves from her for branding and tagging, castrating if needed. She’d just stand off by herself, listen to her calf scream for her proximity, watch the process as though such a thing was an inevitability she could do nothing about.

He never had to check her ear tag to know who she was. She was known.

Jack finished his smoke, snubbed the thing out on the sole of his boot and breathed deep of the land, sighed, and turned to the cow.

After untying the rope he’d secured around the cow’s head and forelegs, he threw the rope in the back of the pickup, turned, stepped to her body, sat to his haunches and took off his glove. He placed his hand on her white face, gently stroked her. “You were a good ol’ cow,” he said. He pulled his hat back down on his forehead, stood up and drove the Dodge back to the home place.

FIXING FENCE

“Fence ain’t gonna fix itself.” Gus pulled the pickup alongside the sagged fence, cut the ignition, and let the truck glide to a stop. He waited for a response from his grandson, Joe. When none came, he turned, saw Joe’s chin resting on his chest, deep breaths, even a little snore. Kid would sleep through a train wreck. He studied the boy for a moment. Joe’s black hair, eyes the color of almonds behind the now closed lids, the slightly brown skin, all of it coming from the boy’s mother, a Greek beauty, the daughter of a sheep rancher from Craig who’d captured his son’s heart. The first instance of a Klynkee not marrying into a German line, Gus now, as he’d done a thousand times, looked for some little hint of his son in the boy’s face. Maybe his nose, Gus thought. He shook his head. Maybe his heart. Gus stepped out of the truck, paused a moment and turned his eyes, hard and gray as iced-over river water, toward the sunrise, his squint defining his face as crinkled paper, deep set lines earned from sixty years of worry about the lives and deaths of cows since he was ten. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his still full head of purely white hair. Put his hat back on, coughed, spit. Saw blood on the ground. Pulled his red hankie from his back pocket and wiped his mouth. He nodded his head, knew the prognosis.

 "No sir, fences just don't up and fix themselves!"
 After he said the words again, Gus slammed the door. The sound jerked Joe halfway out of the few winks he was catching since climbing in and slumping down into the passenger side of the battered pickup. Coming awake now, the jolt of the door slamming sounded like a rifle shot, fired close. Too close. Joe slid up, kept his eyes closed and remembered the orthodontist. 

Saving Skylar Hand - My Christmas Release

 

My Christmas release (December 14, 2012) from MLR Press, "Saving Skylar Hand."

Blurb: For Cody Pinnt, falling in love with Skylar Hand was easy; they had, after all, been best friends their entire lives. But falling in love and actually being with the one you love sometimes becomes impossible when paths diverge. Cody wants a life away from the rough land and prejudice of their hometown, while Skylar can see no other road than the one laid out for him from childhood.  As the years pass, Cody realizes that even the strongest love might not overcome his and Skylar’s growing differences. It’ll take loss, heartbreak, and the promise of Christmases to come to bring Skylar and Cody together.

At MLR Press
At Amazon






Excerpt

Chapter Nine

Cody Pinnt Goes to College

Skylar Hand, now having had endured almost nine months of nothing but cows, barbed wire, sunup to sunset toil, plagues of gritty dust finding even his ass crack, considered his present fate as an unanticipated unpleasantness. Niagara Falls sweat down his neck, back, and chest comingled with the dust and pooled in his once white briefs. Sassy heifers, rattlesnakes, his daddy’s less-than-patient demands, his mamma’s hound dog droop, his life on the land had devolved. In spite of the pain of it all, he waved a last good-bye to Cody Pinnt from the seat of the goddamned ancient John Deere that started half the time and the other half didn’t. Watched Mister Pinnt’s blue SUV with Cody in the backseat kick dust and pebbles as it headed toward College Station, Brazos County, where Cody would begin his matriculation. He sat for a while, let the John Deere sputter a threat to quietude. Felt the stifling presence of another dog day, flinched with the irritating bawl of a calf. Wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into. He wished he was in that car sitting next to Cody and headed for anything other than what he now found himself immersed within. Realized for the first time since quitting high school that all those summer and spring vacations he’d helped his daddy out, spending entire days, hell, months working the ranch were always tempered by the certainty it’d all settle down to twice-a-day chores when school started up again. Now, as the John Deere did shake itself to death, he believed the call of the land looked fine from the perspective of impermanence. Now that it was permanent…well…

Delores Pinnt raised a hand to Skylar, smiled past the tinted glass, felt the iciness of the A/C against the top of her breasts loosely haltered by her yellow sundress festooned with blue daises and pink chrysanthemums. Felt a twinge of regret that Skylar, her son’s best friend, had taken a different road than what she’d early on envisioned for her own baby boy. She flipped down the sun visor mirror, glanced at Cody, saw his gaze focused on Skylar. Feigned a lipstick check then looked at Cody once again, who’d turned his head to keep Skylar in his sight as they sped past him.

Delores flipped the visor up, folded her hands in her lap, and looked straight ahead. Had known for a while, as all mothers in similar circumstances do, that her son’s friendship with Skylar Hand existed on a level that defied the notions of manliness that were well-settled and inviolable by Texas standards. She thought it fortunate she’d engineered her son’s future to one day get off the ranch, out of Big Spring, and certainly away from the pitiable Skylar Hand. Didn’t remember — or chose not to recall? — the eyebrow-raising effect she’d had on the minions of Big Spring when she’d sashayed her way into Calvin Pinnt’s life.

Cody knew the John Deere would die on Skylar, seeing as how it always did when he braked the damned thing to a stop for longer than a minute. He saw Skylar take off his hat, wave it half-heartedly over his head as the dust from the SUV enveloped him, the tractor, his now arthritic Blue Heeler, Davy Crockett, and most likely eventually two or more acres of the Iron Hand Ranch itself.

Cody turned his head and saw his father’s eyes in the rearview not on the road ahead but on him. His father immediately snapped his focus back to the road when Cody caught his glare. Cody shook his head. Knew his father was having misgivings about this adventure his mother had obsessed about for the past eighteen years of all their lives. Felt a twinge of guilt about leaving his daddy to not really go it alone with the toil the ranch demanded but now to trudge his days without his son by his side; both had enjoyed those times when Cody learned the lessons of the land and the critters his father so thoroughly loved and nurtured. The three Mexicans his father housed, fed, and paid a meagerly sum to undertake the monotonous tasks would still help. Maybe his daddy would hire another Mex to help fill the void. Was I ever capable of doing what a Mex could do in a day? He thought. No, of course I wasn’t. If that realization lessened his guilt, he didn’t immediately feel it. Maybe later. Maybe later he’d make his daddy proud with a degree in fine arts and then on to law school. That was his plan, anyway. But the guilt? He’d wait and see on that one. A larger guilt still sat in his gut: he was leaving Skylar Hand.

His mamma was happy. He scooted over to the middle of the back seat and looked at her profile. He’d hated it when she’d dyed her hair a rusty-red color a week before. He’d been kind and said it looked, “Okay.” His mamma had raised her head slightly (he now stood three-inches taller), and placed her hands on her hips. She had appeared, as she always did in these kinds of situations, on the edge of a fury (exacerbated now by the red hair) that usually sent both him and his daddy out of the house, both seeking shelter from the flow of tempestuous Spanish that invariably commenced with: “Para el amor de dios!” And, for the love of God, she’d not fumed. Her expected fury had instead given way to a smile. “All right. So you don’t love it. I accept that,” she had said, inching closer to him, wrapping her arms around his chest. “You’re going to college, mi hijo! College!”

Cody studied his mamma’s face, her hair, the child’s dress she’d chosen to wear for this portentous occasion. She’s trying to look younger. That she was not yet forty and kept the beauty that had, and probably still, enchanted his father, served only to further confound Cody. She didn’t need this self-inflicted gussying up. Cody slid back next to the window. Caught a whiff of some new perfume his mother had dabbed upon herself. He looked out the window. Wondered if he’d have to explain to the roommate he’d never met that, yes, that was his mother, not his kid sister.

Once off the county road and onto the state highway, his daddy gave the vehicle enough gas to ease up to fifty-five. Cody watched the flatland scrub off the side of the road he’d known so well for so long slip past him, just like the image of Skylar Hand waving his beat-up hat had just slipped away, now lost to memory. And all those other images of Skylar? What about those? Would he let those just slip away? He believed he wouldn’t. No, he and Skylar to this point had lived their entire lives together. You don’t just let loose of a lifetime as if what’s ahead will make all the difference in the world. Goddamnit, he thought. God-damn-it! He’d tried to explain to Skylar the consequences of accepting the present circumstances as a fate that had no options.