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May Writing and June Goals
May. 31st, 2021 10:06 amI had two main goals for May: release Care and Feeding and finish copyedits on Enemies to Lovers. I completed them both, hooray! Now in June, I’ve got to finalize the blurb & cover for Enemies to Lovers.
“Care and Feeding” did sell a little better than “The Mating Call of the Telepathic Warbler,” by which I mean it made $13, which by some mysterious process made it a #1 New Release in the Amazon category "30-Minute LGBT Short Reads." (No, really: I took a picture.) Clearly, not a very lively category! But it’s still kind of fun to be number one anyway.
Otherwise, mostly I’ve been messing around with Sleeping Beauty. I’ve been writing pretty steadily this month and the total word is currently a little above 30,000, even though I chucked almost everything I wrote last November. (It’s nowhere close to done. This is going to be another behemoth, like Honeytrap.)
Here! Have a snippet! The bayonet wound in Russell’s arm got infected, so Andrew has taken him to see a doctor (the mother of a classmate).
***
Russell gripped Andrew’s hand. Andrew remembered a picture he’d once seen, a reproduction of a Victorian painting, a man at the bedside of a sick friend, the two of them clasping hands, the sick friend resting his forehead on the other’s shoulder. Men did that kind of thing in the nineteenth century. It would hurt Russell’s feelings if he pulled away.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier that your arm was wounded?” Andrew asked.
“I thought I’d taken care of it well enough. When I first woke, it was bleeding, so I bandaged it up… I guess I should have washed it first… And I ought to know better, you know, there was a man in my regiment who lost a foot to a tiny little cut that got infected.”
“You really thought it would have to be cut off.”
Russell’s eyes widened. “I thought I’d have to cut it off myself with the hatchet. I was all morning trying to figure out how to do it, you can’t imagine what a relief it was when you showed up.”
Andrew couldn’t think what to say to that. He squeezed Russell’s hand. Russell squeezed back, his grip weak from weariness or codeine. His eyes filled with tears, and he scooted forward, resting his head on Andrew’s shoulder, a real-life recreation of that painting, tableau vivant they called it, it had been a Victorian amusement—Andrew’s mind babbling out this explanation as his body, guided by some instinct, lifted his free hand to pat Russell’s back.
Russell mumbled, “I know it’s unmanly to weep…”
“No, no,” Andrew soothed. “You thought all the time we were driving here that you were going to get your arm cut off? I would have been sobbing like a baby the whole way.”
Andrew meant it. But he was startled, nonetheless, that Russell seemed to take this as permission, and cried with no attempt to restrain himself. Andrew had never seen a man cry like that before, and he found it almost terrifying. He continued patting Russell’s back and wondered what he would do if Russell didn’t stop.
But Russell did stop, finally, and fell back against the pillow again, and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. Then he smiled at Andrew, gazing unabashedly into Andrew’s eyes. “Thank you,” Russell said. “Will you sleep with me tonight?”
The words practically knocked Andrew out of his body. He seemed to be hovering in a corner near the ceiling, just above the valance on the drapes, looking down on his own rigid back, his hands clenched in a death grip on the bedspread.
Russell shrank back against the pillow. “I’m sorry.”
Andrew had the sensation of snapping back into his own body. He had to catch his breath. All those nineteenth-century novels came to his rescue now: he remembered that it was quite common for men to share beds, look at Ishmael and Queequeg, it didn’t mean anything. But Andrew’s mouth felt numb and clumsy, and his voice sounded harsh even to his own ears as he said, “Men don’t sleep together these days.”
He wasn’t even sure that queer men did. At least he and Jeremy had never literally slept in the same bed.
Russell nodded. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and averted his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled again.
Andrew forced his clenched fists to open. “I could read to you,” Andrew blurted. “Till you fall asleep. Would you like that?”
Russell’s face lit. It shouldn’t be possible, Andrew thought, for anyone over the age of five to look so uncomplicatedly happy. “If they have something I’m familiar with,” Russell said. “Tales of the Alhambra or Dickens or the Bible… Something I would know.”
“Care and Feeding” did sell a little better than “The Mating Call of the Telepathic Warbler,” by which I mean it made $13, which by some mysterious process made it a #1 New Release in the Amazon category "30-Minute LGBT Short Reads." (No, really: I took a picture.) Clearly, not a very lively category! But it’s still kind of fun to be number one anyway.
Otherwise, mostly I’ve been messing around with Sleeping Beauty. I’ve been writing pretty steadily this month and the total word is currently a little above 30,000, even though I chucked almost everything I wrote last November. (It’s nowhere close to done. This is going to be another behemoth, like Honeytrap.)
Here! Have a snippet! The bayonet wound in Russell’s arm got infected, so Andrew has taken him to see a doctor (the mother of a classmate).
***
Russell gripped Andrew’s hand. Andrew remembered a picture he’d once seen, a reproduction of a Victorian painting, a man at the bedside of a sick friend, the two of them clasping hands, the sick friend resting his forehead on the other’s shoulder. Men did that kind of thing in the nineteenth century. It would hurt Russell’s feelings if he pulled away.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier that your arm was wounded?” Andrew asked.
“I thought I’d taken care of it well enough. When I first woke, it was bleeding, so I bandaged it up… I guess I should have washed it first… And I ought to know better, you know, there was a man in my regiment who lost a foot to a tiny little cut that got infected.”
“You really thought it would have to be cut off.”
Russell’s eyes widened. “I thought I’d have to cut it off myself with the hatchet. I was all morning trying to figure out how to do it, you can’t imagine what a relief it was when you showed up.”
Andrew couldn’t think what to say to that. He squeezed Russell’s hand. Russell squeezed back, his grip weak from weariness or codeine. His eyes filled with tears, and he scooted forward, resting his head on Andrew’s shoulder, a real-life recreation of that painting, tableau vivant they called it, it had been a Victorian amusement—Andrew’s mind babbling out this explanation as his body, guided by some instinct, lifted his free hand to pat Russell’s back.
Russell mumbled, “I know it’s unmanly to weep…”
“No, no,” Andrew soothed. “You thought all the time we were driving here that you were going to get your arm cut off? I would have been sobbing like a baby the whole way.”
Andrew meant it. But he was startled, nonetheless, that Russell seemed to take this as permission, and cried with no attempt to restrain himself. Andrew had never seen a man cry like that before, and he found it almost terrifying. He continued patting Russell’s back and wondered what he would do if Russell didn’t stop.
But Russell did stop, finally, and fell back against the pillow again, and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. Then he smiled at Andrew, gazing unabashedly into Andrew’s eyes. “Thank you,” Russell said. “Will you sleep with me tonight?”
The words practically knocked Andrew out of his body. He seemed to be hovering in a corner near the ceiling, just above the valance on the drapes, looking down on his own rigid back, his hands clenched in a death grip on the bedspread.
Russell shrank back against the pillow. “I’m sorry.”
Andrew had the sensation of snapping back into his own body. He had to catch his breath. All those nineteenth-century novels came to his rescue now: he remembered that it was quite common for men to share beds, look at Ishmael and Queequeg, it didn’t mean anything. But Andrew’s mouth felt numb and clumsy, and his voice sounded harsh even to his own ears as he said, “Men don’t sleep together these days.”
He wasn’t even sure that queer men did. At least he and Jeremy had never literally slept in the same bed.
Russell nodded. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and averted his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled again.
Andrew forced his clenched fists to open. “I could read to you,” Andrew blurted. “Till you fall asleep. Would you like that?”
Russell’s face lit. It shouldn’t be possible, Andrew thought, for anyone over the age of five to look so uncomplicatedly happy. “If they have something I’m familiar with,” Russell said. “Tales of the Alhambra or Dickens or the Bible… Something I would know.”
