It’s New Year’s Eve? So tomorrow you start on your diet, right? OK, that’s probably a bit presumptive. It’s New Year’s Eve, so tomorrow I start on my diet. Today, I get rid of all the party food in the house, and one of the ways I do this is through soup.
You need to understand that I learned to cook as a student, when my ingredients were ‘whatever is being thrown away at the market’ and water. Despite now being many decades older, I’ve never seen any need to learn to cook any other way. You probably also need to understand that I hate cooking, and only do it in preference to starving.
There’s a reason why my characters live off supernoodles and pizza, and the most complicated cookery they ever attempt is throwing some mixed herbs, olive oil and parmesan on top of spaghetti (Finn from Trowchester Blues.) They all enjoy their food, but they enjoy it best when it’s cooked by someone else.
Have I lowered your expectations enough? Probably not. You probably still won’t believe I had the cheek to offer this as a recipe. But I did! Behold and boggle:
New Year’s Eve soup
Fry a chopped onion in a massive pan.
Take all your savoury leftovers (which you have been storing in the freezer for just this occasion) and roughly chop them. Throw them in the pan with the onions and fry the whole lot.
Add two pints of water. If you have any left over gravy, fling that in too. Otherwise, add a stock cube. Bring to the boil and then allow to simmer for about an hour.
Blend to smoothness with a hand blender.
Taste.
Add things to make it taste better. Eg, soy sauce or cumin or paprika if it needs more depth, left over cranberry jelly and Christmas pudding if it needs more sweetness. Etc – whatever you have on hand.
If it’s too thin, add a couple of handfuls of lentils.
If it’s too thick, add water.
~
Tell yourself thank God that’s over. Now I can get back to something interesting, and have your last glass of wine for the year while contemplating what you’re going to write next.
Happy New Year! May it be full of good dinners you didn’t have to cook for yourself 🙂
ZAM mentioned that I probably share this method of cookery with the Saxons, who famously dismissed the entire art of the chef by declaring “I can boil what I need to boil by myself.” So I’m going to use that tenuous hook to tie this post in to The Reluctant Berserker, in which cookery also fails to play a prominent part in everyone’s lives.
Today I’m handing the blog over to TPV to celebrate the launch of his In The Dark trilogy, the first book of which comes out on the 15th of December. So without further ado…
“What do you think of Fifty Shades of Grey?” my muse asked.
“As little as possible,” I replied.
“Bet you’ve never read it,” she persisted.
“Bet you’d be correct,” I answered.
“It’s a great book,” she continued. “But…”
“But…?” I prompted. Aha, now we’re getting to the reason for this rambling.
“I was thinking you should try something of that sort…”
“Such as…?”
“A romance…now don’t look like that,” she went on as I curled my lip and shook my head. “A contemporary romance…a sexy romance…but something a little different, maybe…yes, I know…an m/m contemporary romance!” She paused. “On second thought, never mind…forget I said anything…”
She looked extremely pleased with herself, and something else…cunning.
“You don’t think I can do it,” I guessed.
She shrugged. “You did well with Absinthe, but Romance isn’t horror. It’d be out of your league. I doubt you could have two people embrace and watch the sunset together. You’d probably have the sun explode and sear them to ashes.”
That hurt. Because it was true.
“All right.” I retorted. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll write you an m/m contemporary romance with absolutely no horror….”
“…and a Happily Ever After ending,” she added.
“And an HEA,” I promised grudgingly. Damn, that means no poisonings, or shootings, no ripped out throats, or deathbed scenes.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she replied.
Why does she do this to me? Get me to thinking of writing a book, then pretend to back out? Because my muse is a manipulator, that’s why, and she knows just which buttons to push to get me to write.
I’ll show you,” I said aloud. ‘I won’t write one book, I’ll write a trilogy…and it’ll have the happiest ending ever.”
So I kept my promise to my muse and wrote the In The Dark trilogy. I started out with a premise…boy meets boy, boy loses boy, boy gets boy back…and proceeded from there. It does have a few “dark” elements, but there are absolutely no vampires, ghosts, family curses, duels to the death, magic, or any other paranormal or supernatural elements…although one character does use the word “vampire” once.
It’s simply the story of Kimberly Crosley, a London rent boy, and Christopher (Kit) Laurence, a retired soccer champ, two people as different from each other as day from night, who discover they have some things in common…
I’m not too good in contemporary settings, at least I don’t think I am, so immediately I decided not to set this story in the South. As if wanting to get as far away from those southern roots as possible, I placed my heroes in London.
I envisioned a dark London side street…far away from Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square…a young man stands with his fellow gentlemen of the night…a mysterious black car comes down the street…he notices it, not merely because it’s a 1930 Chrysler touring saloon and this is 2014, but because it’s come by every night for a week…and he’s curious about who owns that car and what he does with the young men he picks up…
…and the story began.
Being who I am, I immediately knew I was going to do a ton of research. After all, what did I know about London other than what I saw on PBS’ Masterpiece Mysteries? By the time I finished, I knew a damn sight more than when I started, from street slang to soccer awards. I learned what a jumper is…what Manchester UK and Madrid Real are…how to spell “tire,” “jail,” and “curb” the British way (my editor and I had a terrific row over the word “gaol”)…the parts of a British automobile…and quite a few other things.
Like Gaul, my book was divided into three parts, and I found I didn’t need any supernatural elements. Angel Delahanty, Kim’s pimp…pardon, I mean, entrepreneur supplying elements of physical satisfaction, is devil enough despite his name.
In Book One, Kim Crosley, a rent boy with too much curiosity, tries to discover the Chrysler’s identity, leading him to meet Christopher “Kit” Laurence, a retired soccer champ who’s been a virtual recluse since a sports injury finished his career. They’re obviously attracted to each other; though Kim’s willing, Kit keeps him at arms-length. Both men have secrets getting in the way but neither has the courage to speak those secrets and dispel the threats they offer to their relationship.
Book Two deals with the progression of their relationship. Kit becomes merely a Pygmalion to Kim, making the sow’s ear who’s a rent boy into a silk purse of a young gentleman, which is definitely not what Kim wants from him.
Here’s where I let Devlin, Kit’s Irish chauffeur/bodyguard come into play. I enjoyed writing this character. I envisioned him as a hefty guy, rough on the outside to hide a mellow interior, and fiercely loyal to his boss. He tells Kim plainly he thinks he’s simply a fortune-hunter who’s going to abscond with most of Kit’s fortune as well as the family silverware. The other important secondary character is Toby, Kim’s flatmate. It’s what happens to Toby that helps him convince everyone he’s not after Kit’s money but actually cares for the man himself.
In Book Three, Kim is welcomed into Kit’s life. Kim learns the reasons for Kit’s hesitation in showing affection. There’s a breaking down of all the walls between them as Angel arises to threaten everything Kim has gained.
I think it’s a good story…and a good romance, too. It has an HEA and there’s no doubt about it, because this time, it was a done deal. Though my characters struggle to get what they want, they certainly deserve it when they achieve it.
It’s an m/m romance, yes…but it’s also the story of two people—who could be any two people in the world—facing unusual odds to be together and achieve that HEA.
Why the title In The Dark? Because both Kit and Kim discover they can speak their most hidden fears into the safety the dark offers, and it’s only after they’re said those words can their love come into the light.
~*~*~*~
EXCERPT from Book One, Whispers in the Dark:
The black car came around the corner just as I emerged from the alley. As Angel instructed, I always waited a few minutes, giving the john time to put a little distance between us. Let him get about eight steps ahead before you move. So I did. I always tried to follow orders. It was best all around. Saved unpleasantness later.
I stopped just outside the alley entrance, rubbing my left mandible. My jaw muscles were still aching. He’d been built like a retired footballer, heavyset and thick…everywhere. He was already gone, back to the main thoroughfare and his life, wherever that was. I, however, was stuck here. For a moment I wished I could follow the man, but my life was on that street corner and I had to get back to work no matter my personal preferences.
That was when I saw the car. It was definitely something commanding attention. A 1930 Chrysler Royal Touring saloon, big and black, bulky as a Sherman tank and about as out of place on a London street as anything could be. It looked like something from a 1930’s American gangster film, a car Al Capone or someone of that ilk would ride in. The car itself appeared in pristine condition, as I imagined it did when it came off the assembly line eighty-three years before. The chrome was immaculate, the wax job reflecting the streetlamps like a mirror. It was as conspicuous as Hell and obviously whoever owned it didn’t care he was announcing his appearance as loud as if he had a brass band marching in front of him. It was past midnight so perhaps he thought that late at night no one would notice.
He was certainly wrong there.
There was another reason I noticed the car. This was the seventh time in as many nights it had been here. Not that we didn’t have returnees. All of us had regulars, but not in seven consecutive days. I was curious to see the insatiable gent riding in the back of that car, someone obviously so wealthy he had a chauffeur driving a classic antique auto, someone picking up rent boys and carrying them away for several hours each night. Also someone who didn’t give a damn.
The car came closer, slowing to a crawl. The engine purred so the original one had been replaced with something much more modern and powerful. I stopped near the streetlamp, my usual spot. It slid to a running stop at the kerb.
For me?
I took a step forward. The car moved on. I watched to see who was the lucky one tonight. The car braked halfway down the block. In front of Raven.
Damn.
The streetlamp highlighted his pretty painted face as the window on the driver’s side rolled down. Raven sauntered over. He put a hand on the sill, leaning down to peer inside, speaking to whomever was driving.
His name wasn’t really Raven. It was Calvin Mackay and he was a Scot from Inverness but Angel called him Raven so all of us did, too. With his dark hair, slightly sharp features, and hazel eyes, he looked a little like a blackbird so that was appropriate. His hair, cut in a rent boy handle—shaved on the sides and hanging long down the back like tailfeathers—furthered the image. We all had aliases and weren’t allowed to use our real names while we were working. Since we rarely associated once we left the block, our streetnames were how most of us knew each other.
Raven straightened, moved to the side of the car and opened the back door, getting in. It was dark inside and the windows were tinted, another modern touch. I couldn’t see the mysterious john, or even if there was anyone in the back seat. Maybe the chauffeur was taking Raven to his employer. Hell, for all I knew, maybe there was a mattress in the back and he was just going to drive around the corner and stop so the gent could get the drubbing he wanted then and there. The car was certainly big enough to house a queen-size bed.
As it disappeared, I hoped I was around when it came back. I decided I was going to satisfy my curiosity and corner Raven and asked him what’s going on?
“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”
Those words, spoken behind me, drew my attention away from the car and back to work. A big, broad gent stood there, basket bulging. Sod it all, another rugby player gone to seed. My jaw muscles clenched in protest.
“Maybe it’s you, luv,” I said, reaching out and grasping the lamppost and kind of swaying back and forth against it. My version of a pole dance.
“Why don’t we discuss finances?” he suggested. “And then take a little walk.”
Oh cute, this one.
“Why don’t we step away to where it’s a little quieter for our discussion?” I countered.
“Good enough.”
He followed me into the alley.
~*~*~*~
The In the Dark trilogy (Whispers in the Dark, Confessions in the Dark, Lovers in the Dark) is being released December 15 by Class Act Books, www.classactbooks.com.
Thanks ever so much to Kazza at On Top Down Under for a fantastic review of The Reluctant Berserker, and for choosing it as one of the site’s books of the month 🙂
It’s a lovely detailed review that does delve into a lot of the plot – so Spoiler Alert. But it was great to see that Kazza enjoyed some of the thinking about religion and spirituality in the book. I’ve had a few reviews where the overt Christianity of some of the characters was a problem for the readers, and I’ve been thinking that I should probably do a blog post to say why I chose to go that way.
(Short answer – because most of the written evidence of Saxon society shows a markedly religious/spiritual world view, and I was attempting to be true to that.
I probably also ought to say that what the Saxons called wicce craft is not what we would call wicca today. I studied Anglo-Saxon paganism for a year at university, and not a lot of evidence survives to tell us what it was really like. So in drawing Saewyn, I drew heavily on the Leechbook of Bald and Stephen Pollington’s book Leechcraft, Early English Charms, Plantlore and Healing, and various other sources…
But I’m getting distracted into writing that other post now, and I should really do it separately.)
For now I was talking about this book review, which sums up:
All characters were given time to develop, secondary characters included. Overall, the writing is glorious – lyrical, intelligent without being arrogant, thought-provoking, nuanced perfectly for the setting with licence taken where it should be in fiction. It sets a realistic tone for the period and the characters, and stands up to any literary fiction written in any genre by any author. I loved Wulfstan and Leofgar, both independently and as a couple.
And which I feel I could not possibly be happier about. Thank you Kazza!
Let’s face it, I’m scared to try to start a newsletter. Everyone tells me it’s something a writer needs. It’s *the* essential thing that a writer needs after books. I personally wouldn’t join an author’s newsletter, though I have been joined up by people without my permission to theirs and have – if they happened to be someone I knew – been too apathetic or embarrassed to unsubscribe.
I certainly don’t intend to do that with mine. No one’s going on that thing unless they sign up for it themselves.
Which brings me back to fear. My fear is two-fold:
1. Nobody will sign up because nobody is interested.
2. Several people will sign up and then I’ll disappoint them.
The rational thing to do in this instance would seem to be not to try to do it at all, but I’ve just been reading a book on social anxiety, and for getting over your fear they recommend doing the thing anyway and then trying to persuade yourself that it’s not that bad.
So, in the spirit of behavioural therapy, lets do the thing 🙂
You can sign yourself up for my newsletter over here:
http://lists.alexbeecroft.com/mailman/listinfo/newsletter
or you can do it by emailing here
mailto:newsletter-request@alexbeecroft.com
To make this prospect more appealing, I have an Advanced Review Copy of Trowchester Blues available to be given to one random new subscriber. There are only 5 of these ARCs – which are produced to go out to reviewers before the book is given its final proofing – in my hands. I’ve reserved two for giveaways elsewhere, one for me and one for a friend, so this is a fairly exclusive offer. I’ll draw that on New Year’s Day.
I don’t know whether it makes it more or less appealing to know that anyone who did sign on would have free rein to tell me what they wanted to see in a newsletter, because other than news of new releases I’m not sure what people would want to see in there and I’m more than willing to be told. I personally see it working a bit like an email group, with everyone talking to each other, but IDK. What do you think?
I’ve always been weird. I remember my parents being concerned because I dressed so much like a boy. “Don’t you want to look attractive?” they would say, and I would think “Why on Earth would I want to look attractive? I don’t want to attract anybody.”
At university, I was briefly locked in a rivalry with another girl over the affections of a boy with lovely, long, coal black wavy hair. Eventually, because he apparently didn’t really have a preference, he told us that he would go out with whoever would have sex with him that night. I could see no point in that and slept alone. He went out with my rival, and I was briefly angry about the shallow and unfair nature of his selection criteria. But a couple of months later he cut his hair and I realized he’d never been much of a catch anyway.
In my fourth year at university – when I was doing a Masters degree in the Cult of the Horse in Early Anglo Saxon England – I had a conversion experience and became a Christian. If I thought about sex after this, it was simply to assume that my total disinterest in sleeping with anyone was a case of natural virtue. But really, I didn’t think about it. I was busy and happily employed thinking about the Saxons, playing AD&D, listening to Prog Rock and writing my first novel, and I didn’t have any time for or interest in all that. It didn’t seem strange to me at all that I didn’t want to have sex with anyone. I didn’t feel I was missing out. My life was full and lacked nothing.
It wasn’t until I was out of university, settled in London and established in my first job that I began to feel that perhaps I was doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. They said that if you didn’t have a boyfriend in university, you never would. And although I still had no desire to sleep with anyone, I started to feel very much that I would like to have someone to love – someone I could settle down with and share the rest of my life with, in sickness and in health. I prayed that God would bring the right person into my life, resigned it to Him, on the understanding that if He chose for me to be single and celibate all my life, I would accept that with good grace, and about a month later I met the man who was to become my husband.
Because I had no notion that anything like asexuality existed, I naturally assumed that when I got married my sex drive would kick in and of course I would want my husband. I loved him very much, and I was delighted and disbelieving and overwhelmed by the fact that he loved me back. It stood to reason that if sex was a basic drive for every human, I would have it too.
But I didn’t. And now that I was married I went from being ‘virtuous’ to being ‘frigid’. That wasn’t a nice thing. I had to face the fact that if sex was a basic drive for every human, then I must not be human.
I had also struggled with my gender when I was growing up. For a long time I thought I was transgender. I wanted to be a boy. I had always found m/m stories hot, and m/f stories skeevy. So I thought “Perhaps I don’t want sex because I’m not the right sex myself? Perhaps what I want is to be male so I can have the kind of sex I find it hot thinking about?
When I found the slash and m/m writing community, I discovered that there’s a name for that, and it is ‘girlfag’. So for a while I thought ‘maybe that’s what I am.’
But it seemed out of true to ascribe myself an identity where sex was central, when the truth was that for me sex has always been so peripheral that most of the time I forget it’s a factor at all. I am always, continually surprised and put off by the number of ways people will find to make a conversation about sex when it wasn’t, and that just derails from the genuinely interesting thing you were trying to talk about instead.
So the more I thought about that, the less right it seemed.
It wasn’t until about 3 years ago that I came across a mention of asexuality. I no longer remember where, but I followed it to AVEN and I found out that there was a community of other people who would also genuinely rather have chocolate than sex. When I read their discussion boards, I discovered that these were people who thought the same way I did – people who also forgot sex, who didn’t find it particularly interesting. People who looked at human interaction and zeroed in on all the other things that make us human.
At first I wondered if this too was a label that would fit less well the more I thought about it, but it hasn’t been that way. The more I’ve reflected on myself and my childhood, on the way I interact with the world now, on the basic thought processes of my mind, the more I’ve found that the label fits. It explains things. Finally, after 49 years of feeling that there was not a box for me – that I was inhuman, incomplete, badly made, wrong, frigid and useless – I’ve found that no. I’m actually just queer.
I find it typical of myself that I should be queer in a way that isn’t universally considered ‘properly’ queer – that I should be queer in an invisible way. After a lifetime of being weird, after searching for a label that was so carefully hidden that it took me half a century to find it, it’s fitting that the label I found is still relatively unknown. I’m not getting into whether we should be considered part of the queer community or not. After having lived so many years thinking I was uniquely broken, it’s revelation enough for me to know that an Ace community exists and that I’m actually not the only one in the world after all.
This week is asexual awareness week, so I am making this post to say that I am aware I am asexual, and I’m very glad about that.
We are apparently 1% of the population, which means there are as many of us as there are redheads in the world. That’s… actually quite a few. If any of this sounds at all familiar to you, I can do no better for you than to pass you over to AVEN where you too can find out you’re not alone. If you’ve felt peculiar all this time and you’ve tried to find out whether you were some desultory version of gay or trans or one of those better known labels, but they’ve never quite fitted either, you may be looking for this very label yourself. (Or one of the others on the asexual spectrum, such as grey-a, demisexual or aromantic.) Go and find out! You may actually, finally have come home.
Look! We even have a flag 🙂
