West of Mars

The outtake I posted yesterday is one of my all-time favorites. It’s a scene that pre-dates the blog. In many ways, it predates Trevor’s Song and my gazillion attempts at Trevor’s predecessor (which I still vow to get right!).

It’s one of the original scenes I’d envisioned with Mitchell and Kerri, back when I was constructing their relationship in my head. It could even date back to March of 2000, which is when Mitchell and Kerri first came to life. (Yes, you Trevor fans, they came first. Trevor would say I saved the perfection for later.)

My original idea with Mitchell and Kerri was to play with the idea of two people who happened to be each other’s muses. And then Trevor entered the picture, I couldn’t tell the Kerri-Mitchell story the right way, and … Trevor took over. For those of you who know him, you’re not surprised. For those of you who don’t, if you follow the link in his name, you’ll come to his bio page. At the bottom of the page (and for all my characters), you’ll see a list of blog posts featuring that character. Go have yourself some fun.

Back to the topic at hand: Kerri’s First Two Drawings. I swear, some of my favorite moments are these quiet ones. Visit Rain and Hands, Inspiration and, to a bit of a lesser degree, Hearts.

This one trumps them all. Maybe because I’ve imagined it so many times. Maybe because it fits my definition of romance and I’ve always wished for such yearning and tenderness in my own life. This isn’t to slight the Tour Manager in any way. This is to say that all those romantic movies I watched as a kid and the sappy songs I used to love? They did a number on my head. No wonder I’ve turned away from them so thoroughly. They set down a bar that simply can’t be attained in real life. So, I’ll let Mitchell and Kerri attain them in their fictional life, instead.

Part of me thinks that one of the reasons we writers write is to live out our fantasies. I have no desires to be a rock star or be married to one; Hell, when I almost made a career in the music business, it was with aims of working behind the scenes, for a record label.

But part of me knows that I write to create this sort of stuff in my life, and to share it with my readers. To give us all a few minutes in which we DO wish we were people like Mitchell and Kerri, or that we had a Trevor in our lives.

One final note before I’m done babbling: the end here isn’t perfect. The scene doesn’t end here; it ends with a torrid kiss and then Mitchell sweeping Kerri back to her futon for another round of hot sex. Maybe one day all you eroti-chicks will work some magic on me and I can write that sort of stuff without squirming and blushing. But for now… use your imagination.

And come on back for more.

Most guys, Mitchell figured, would freak out the first time they woke up in their new girl’s place. It wasn’t familiar, the bed felt a bit weird, nothing was where it should be.

Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He’d woken up in so many strange places — including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing — that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.

Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.

He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn’t see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they’d finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.

Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She’d thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn’t have looked hotter if she was still naked.

Quietly, so he didn’t startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.

She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. “Hi,” she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.

“I thought I was the one who liked to work all night.”

“Mmmm,” she said. “I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think.”

He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.

Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar — and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she’d noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.

“Did I get the guitar right? I’m new at them,” she said.

“Damn close,” he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they’d been on, what? Two dates — if you could call them that. Maybe he’d grabbed his guitar and played when they’d gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she’d seen two nights ago now, at the awards.

She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. “You’re not wearing anything.”

“Yeah. So?”

She pointed to the windows. “Neighbors can see in.”

“Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They’ll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that.”

“You may not say that when you see this one…” she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. “I’ve never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I’m trashing it. I can’t even believe I’m showing it to you; I barely know you!”

This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn’t stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.

She reached for it. “It sucks.”

He held it out of her reach. “If that’s your idea of suck… This… This…” He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. “It’s amazing.”

“You think?”

He looked over at her; if she wasn’t ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. “Yeah,” he said, wondering if she’d make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck’s sake, they’d been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.

Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.

But that picture. If Trev saw it, he’d shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.

At first, this week’s Booking Through Thursday made me think it was too close in topic to the one called Format, from back in February. Which wasn’t that long ago.

Here’s this week’s question: While acknowledging that we can’t judge books by their covers, how much does the design of a book affect your reading enjoyment? Hardcover vs. softcover? Trade paperback vs. mass market paperback? Font? Illustrations? Etc.?

The Format question was all about what we’d want in our library. This week’s question is all about what we like to read.

My answer is pretty much the same, in terms of trade paper versus mass market:
1. The new mass market size sucks.
2. I like trade paper best of all three formats.
3. More e-books should be available in print.
4. The new mass market size STILL sucks.

As for font… like I care. Don’t print in wing dings, okay? Make it legible. I’m happy.

Illustrations? Well, okay. The Tour Manager bought me an illustrated novel for my birthday (you confused Thirteeners didn’t read carefully enough!). The draw there is the artist, not the fact that it’s a novel.

Now, clearly, a graphic novel needs to have appealing artwork. Incredible, even. *coughJoannSfarcough* But a novel? A fiction novel? *snicker at the idea of “fiction novel” being a novel concept and not redundant as hell*

Puh-leeze.

That leaves cover art. I don’t think I’ve ever picked up a book because of its art. I might have when I was younger. I’m a lot more jaded now, sad to say.

However, if I pick up a book with ugly cover art, or something I maybe don’t want my not-jaded kids to see, I do wish for something to cover up that cover art. Like one of those quilted book covers that, ordinarily, I’m just too cool for.

Congratulations to Shelly! She’s won my second copy of St. Barts Breakdown, the fourth book in the Mick Sever, music journalist, series.

I wish I had copies of this neat book for all of you who entered, but here’s a link so you can pick up your own. Grab the backlist while you’re there!

If you missed my review of the book and/or the interview with author Don Bruns, be sure to head over to Front Street Reviews and read both there. And while you’re there, check out my review for Susie Fishbein’s Passover by Design. You’ll understand why that’s one book I’m not giving away!

Now, I don’t get what all the howlin’ and cryin’s about. Seems legendary singer Sammy Spencer is reuiniting with the last two living original members of Scarred Heart. That ought to be good news and we all oughta be celebrating this. Scarred Heart was, for you too young to know your roots as proper as you should, one of the bands that brought the words Heavy Metal into our world. They took Johnny B. Good and taught him how to bang his head.

Scarred Heart’s die-hard fans been yowlin’ for a reunion for years now. Chelle here been one of ‘em ’cause she never got to see them live the first time out, and that’s one of those things that’s gotta get fixed so Chelle can die a happy woman. News of the reunion was met with a big cheer here at the Trumpet’s office, and around the world, too. It was a heck of a sound; I’m surprised you missed it. Cows in heat don’t often walk around New Orleans, you know what Chelle’s sayin’ here?

Now comes word that fans are threatening to boycott. Seems that Sammy Spencer can’t reach those high notes that make Chelle’s kinky hair stand on end. Seems that in thirty years, Sammy Spencer had the good fortune to grow himself up. For men, that means their voices get lower and they can’t get up to those high notes no more.

Oh, sure there are a few who can. But Chelle wants to know if they can do it outside of a recording studio and with the taped voice track turned off. If so, she wants to see what they got in their pants. It’s either nothing ’cause they’ve been snipped so their voices stay high, or else there’ve got something making them mighty uncomfortable…

None of those options fit the Scarred Heart style. Remember, boys and girls, this was the band that was all about keepin’ it real back before keeping it real was a trendy thing. This was the band who made us all sit up and realize that not everyone kept it real.

That means there won’t be vocal tracks piped in over Sammy’s real voice. That Sammy’s not going to hurt himself to bring us his famous high notes.

What it means is that the band’s changing the tuning of their songs, so that Sammy can sing ‘em the best way he can. ‘Cause we all know: Scarred Heart’s gotta keep it real.

Keepin’ it real is what you so-called fans are now having hissy fits over. Seems you’d rather have fake music in the name of it bein’ like the albums you probably never replaced once vinyl went out of fashion. You don’t want to know that your hero’s gettin’ old and can’t hit those high notes. You want it fake.

You peeps are spoiled. Let Scarred Heart tune it down. Let ‘em show us that they can still rock with the best of them. And quit your bitchin’. Save it for the next time ShapeShifter’s resident hottie Mitchell Voss refuses to take his shirt off during a show. Now that, that is a thing to whine about.

You heard it first, and you heard it here: Let Sammy sing it the best he can. He’ll still rock your socks off.

Why aren’t you riding the Poetry Train?

To celebrate the posting of a VERY short interview I did with Don Bruns, author of St. Barts Breakdown, I have a second copy to give away to one lucky reader.

You guys know the rules:
1. Anyone can enter; one will win. I prefer to keep my mailings on Planet Earth, however, so non-Earthlings need not enter.

2. Meanies need not enter.

3. Be sure to leave me some contact information so I can reach you, should you win. That can be an e-mail address or a website that has a space for comments and/or an e-mail address.

4. Entries close on Sunday, 23 March or thereabouts since it’s Spring Break and I might skip town.

5. I’ll notify the winner at some point on Monday, 24 March, either early morning or late afternoon.

6. I hope to register this book at BookCrossing. If that’s not your thing, fine. Please don’t deface the lovely bookplate just in case someday, someone, some how makes a journal entry and I can hear more of this book’s adventures.

7. Go check out the Interview!!!

As always, thanks to the kind people helping spread the word about this contest: Prizey,Blog Giveaways,

It’s Sunday night and I’m closing comments. Winner will be picked and contacted tomorrow!

“I just don’t get it,” Eric said. “I’ve done this for years. Why’s it a problem now?”

“Because we’re ShapeShifter,” Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.

“We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?”

Now Mitchell sighed. “The number of records we’ve sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?”

“It’s called success, wanker,” Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.

Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they’d had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine — until the reason for today’s talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.

Worst of all, their manager said if they didn’t start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.

He shook his head again. “I just don’t get it.”

Trevor sighed loudly. “What you don’t get,” he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, “is why the band’s in trouble over something you did. You’re the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick’s pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn’t watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she’s making noise about suing us, you’re pretending it doesn’t make sense. What doesn’t make sense is why no one’s bothered to see how bad the girl’s hurt–”

“JR told us not to try to contact her,” Daniel said quickly. “Because she’s got her lawyer involved.”

“We still ought to know,” Trevor insisted. “Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?”

“I don’t throw that hard!”

“Maybe you should have,” Trevor spit at him.

Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.

Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he’d thrown into the crowd. He’d been throwing Easter candy for years. He’d done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.

And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn’t been watching the band.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, “what about that bit about ‘Enter at your own risk’ that’s on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?”

He was met by three dumb looks.

“I’ll call JR and ask,” Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. “You might be onto something.”

“A ticket,” Daniel said. “Shit, I’d forgotten all about those things, it’s been so long since we’ve needed them.”

“That’s because we’re ShapeShifter,” Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. “I told you idiots I’d make this band big.”

“Yep,” Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. “It’s all because of you, Trev.”

“I hope this doesn’t mean the end of my eggs,” Eric said.

“It does,” Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. “Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we’re getting all this other stuff in return?”

This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they’re coming true. It’s worth it.

They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn’t mean he was ready to give them up.

Have you seen the free download yet?

You’ve just reached the end of a book . . . what do you do now? Savor and muse over the book? Dive right into the next one? Go take the dog for a walk, the kids to the park, before even thinking about the next book you’re going to read? What?

Well, I usually close the book first…

And from there, it depends. If it’s before bed, I’ll put the book on my desk and deal with it the next day. If it’s not, I’ll journal it at BookCrossing and then decide what to do with it: send it as a gift to a BookCrosser who has it on their wish list, give it to Mom or a friend, or register it at the book trading sites I use.

So that’s the mechanical, ending-the-book stuff.

As for picking up the next one, that also depends. If it was an extraordinary read, I won’t want to read anything for a bit. That means hours or until the next day, at the most. If not, I peruse my list of what’s been here the longest, pick something that sounds different from what I just finished, and am off and running again.

Because, you know, I have WAY too many books here, waiting to be read. I’ll never get caught up and onto some of the stuff you guys blog about if I don’t keep on reading.

Thirteen (?) Things that happen Every Spring 1. Trevor swaps his leather jacket for a leather vest over a denim jacket. 2. Trevor rediscovers the pack of cigarettes he left in the leather vest when he wore it last. 3. The cigarettes are now stale. He offers them to Mitchell. 4. The Deadly Metal Hatchet beheads daffodils. 5. Fozzy buys the longest shorts a guy can get away with, hoping to hide the scars on his leg. Then he makes his annual call to the plastic surgeon to see if anything can be done about them. 6. Big Buck’s wife Beverly fires up the mobile grills and begins to get ready for the summer barbecue cook-off season. 7. Walter gets ready for a new tour. 8. Eric throws Cadbury Crème eggs into the audience. 9. They’d rather have his guitar picks. 10. Chelle swaps her long-sleeved concert t-shirts for the short-sleeved concert t-shirts. 11. Pam’s classes fill up with women worried about bathing suit season. 12. Roadie Poet, Hambone, and More begin fielding offers of work on summer tours. 13. Lyric offers her yearly discount on her favorite stockings to anyone with a prom ticket. 14. Susan’s world continues to grow. And grow. And grow. Sort of like the dandelions in her front yard, only more entertaining.

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