West of Mars

Okay, you need the set-up for this one. I was Twittering with Carrie Lofty and one thing led to another and I promised her I’d have one of my characters speak the penultimate line here. Now, the dude who speaks it isn’t a regular character; he’s just passing through — no matter HOW much you like him. So… I still owe her that. It’ll come around Halloween. Yep, I’m planning early this year. In the meantime, blame ALL this on Carrie. And then go out and buy her book.

Look. I own what’s essentially a porn store. I mean, I sell plenty of other things, like my signature massage oils and candles, and there are days when my wigs and outerwear sell more than the sex toys in the back room. Not many, but they happen. It’s the bath salts and the silk stockings. Once you start using them, you’re hooked forever.

So what I’m trying to say is that I get plenty of shady characters in my store. Over the years, I’ve come to know most of them, if not by name then by sight. Most usually by preference in brand of rubbers. Not all of them are as shady as they look. In fact, the metal heads are usually the ones who’ll turn the shoplifters in.

Having a band like ShapeShifter come from this city’s been good for us in a lot of ways.

Mom and I were alone in the front lounge when he walked in. We didn’t know what to call him other than Robin Hood. I mean, he was wearing green, even down to the tights. He sorta looked like that cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin was played by a fox. A cartoon fox.

It wasn’t Halloween. It wasn’t a night when the drag queens would be flooding the Rocket Theater. And even if they had been, no one dressed up like Robin Hood. Maid Marion, definitely. I’ve had to order those fancy dresses for some of my regulars.

I slid around the counter and followed Robin Hood into the toy room. Allegra was taking inventory of the movies; talk about shady characters. This one guy had been in last week, wearing a trench coat, of course, and pumping Mom for everything she’d give him about making flicks. It wouldn’t surprise any of us if he’d lifted a few DVDs; we’d found a bunch out of place after he’d left. Nothing had turned up missing that day, but one thing you learn in a business like mine is that these guys like to case the joint and come back later.

I studied Robin himself more than the way he moved through the store — how a person takes my store, with its rooms that get increasingly sexually explicit tells me a lot about the kind of customer I’m dealing with. I was hoping I’d pick up a clue about who he was, but I couldn’t help it. I kept staring at his legs, right above where they disappeared into the green suede ankle boots.

No help there; I rarely if ever see a guy’s legs below the middle of his thighs. If I even seen that much; I’m not really a leg girl.

His ass, his back, his arms, his jawline… nothing. As far as I could tell, this guy had just walked into town.

Allegra looked up at Robin Hood and licked her lips before giving him one of Mom’s special welcome smiles.

Robin looked from Allegra to me and back again. Right then, I knew I was right: he wasn’t from here. Everyone in Riverview knows Allegra and I are twins. We’re as legendary as Mom. Mom made sure of that, and now with the store, the legend continues. Not that I mind so much; if it gets people to come into the store and spend money, I’m all for it.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did Allegra. At this point in our lives, we’re over the whole twin thing.

“Need some help?” Allegra asked.

I leaned against a wall and watched the guy shake his head. He had shaggy red hair, reminding me again of the cartoon Robin Hood. I don’t know why; I haven’t seen the movie in years.

He got busy with our harnesses, pointing to them and waiting for Allegra to take them out of the case. He even tried a few on over his hose, measured the opening with his fingers.

Allegra shot me one of those looks. The WTF look.

I shrugged. By this point, I didn’t think the guy was shady. Just one of the harmless weirdos we get from time to time.

He proved me right when he picked his harness and carried it carefully up to the counter. I followed him again, slipping behind the counter and ringing him up. He paid cash, of course; I do a huge cash business when it comes to the stuff in the toy room.

And then, he finally spoke. He had this amazing English accent and he said, “Thank you. I doth rock out with my cock out.”

Mom and I managed to not laugh until the door had shut behind him and we couldn’t see his cute little green hat anymore.

If you don’t remember Lyric, click on her category over to the right. You’ll be seeing a LOT more of her at some point in the future. What that point is, exactly, I’m not sure. But the pieces are lining up on my hard drive, waiting for the perfect time.

I found this great post and since The Demo Tapes: Year 2 is coming out on September 12, I thought I’d call your attention to it.

I’d change one thing, though and that’s Point #3. Yeah, it’s great if you take the ISBN number from either book of mine and carry it to your nearest bookstore and order it. That’s a great way to make a bookseller aware of me and the Trevolution. You might make new fans along the way, and that’s always a good thing.

BUT. Here’s the thing. My royalty rate slides. If you buy the books directly from me, I get the most moolah. That’s helpful because I have to front the cash to buy the books — which eats into my profits. Plus, you can get an autograph.

If you buy the books from Lulu.com, I get the next-highest royalty. The payment on the download is higher than on the print copy. I think Smashwords, once I get the store open, will fall into this next area, as well.

And finally, there’s what I get from bookstores. Ready? For Demo Tapes 1, I get sixty-six cents. For Demo Tapes 2, I get fifty cents. PER BOOK.

So… something to keep in mind.

Now, books published by the big publishing houses don’t follow these royalty rates. These numbers are unique to people like me, people off the mainstream radar.

But it’s something to keep in mind when you buy books. As is the rest of that post. If you love an author, there are easy things you can do to help him/her/me out. We’d love it if you’d try.

No, no John Lennon songs from me today, no matter how brilliant they are.

Rather, imagine a dark concert hall.

Imagine the press of bodies all around you. Holding you tight in your spot. But that’s okay. You want to be there.

Imagine the white spotlight. Four of them, one on each band member. And darkness in between. But not real darkness.

Now, close your eyes. FEEL the music wash over you. A wave. A wall that breaks over your head and collapses down your body.

It takes you somewhere new. Old. Safe. Dangerous.

Imagine the longing. To climb inside the music. To be noticed by the men making that music. To be Someone Important.

Imagine the power. The way you feel more alive than any human being ought to feel. The way it’s not just the air that’s crackling, it’s you, too. From your arm hairs down to that center core, the one where you hide the shit you don’t have the guts to let anyone see.

Feel your lips move as you sing along. Hell, you’re not even fully aware that you’re doing it, or that you’re pumping your fist in the air. That’s because you’re not inside that body that’s crackling with vitality. You’re… over it. Inside it. Under it. On the stage. In the pit. In the nosebleed seats.

See the sweat glisten on the bare, tattooed arms of the men in those white spotlights. Watch drops of it fly off long hair, wetted into tiny spears that barely block the light and yet manage to eat the light for dinner. Don’t be blinded by the glare off their teeth, even the ones yellowed by cigarettes.

Imagine the way you scarcely dare breathe as they run from end to end of the stage. You’re afraid to blink, afraid of missing something. You couldn’t even begin to explain what that something is. You’ll know it if you see it.

The hands in the front row, reaching for a hand slap, a pick, a drumstick. From where you stand, you can see the fingers trying to wrap around a wrist, to hold on. To prolong the contact. To find a deeper meaning in it — for him on stage and for you, down below.

And then it’s done. You’re as spent as they are; you let the crowd carry you out in their swell, outside, where the air is somehow sweeter and thinner and it fills your lungs and washes it all away. All of it. Except the memories.

Imagine.

The problem with being a writer is that there is NOT enough time to sit and read. I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face about how many books are here, waiting to be read — a number that never seems to shrink, either.

So what am I doing? Adding to my wishlist yet again. Now, mind you, I’ve got over 1800 books on my wishlist. I know I’ll never get my hands on them all, let alone read them all, even if live to the ripe old age of eight hundred. When I add things to my wishlist, it’s a crapshoot, a roll of the dice. Will I get this book I want to read, or not?

I’ve come across another one — thanks to the very neat Joanne Rendell — that I absolutely must read at some point in my lifetime (the sooner the better!): This Little Mommy Stayed Home, written by Samantha Wilde.

Here’s the blurb:

Joy McGuire has gone from being skinny and able to speak in complete sentences to someone who hasn’t changed her sweatpants in weeks. But now with a new baby to care for, she feels like a woman on the brink and as she scrambles to recapture the person she used to be she takes another look at the woman she is: a stay-at-home mom in love with her son, if a bit addled about everything else.

C’mon, all you moms out there! You TOTALLY get this. This was you. Admit it. And while I was able to shower AND change my sweats, this blurb really describes me back then.

One of these days, I’ll get my hands on a copy and see just how closely it parallels my life. I’ll even review it if I can get a copy sooner rather than later.

Just right now… excuse me while I go hug my kids. Now school-aged, I’m darn glad they’re not babies anymore. I don’t miss those addled days of parenting an infant.

And if you’re looking for the usual fiction, stay tuned. I’m all tied up in another piece that might make some rounds as a short story. Or not. We’ll see. In the meantime, don’t forget … Demo Tapes: Year 2 on September 12! Preorder through me ONLY.

This week’s Booking Through Thursday question asks what our recent best read was. They were a bit more eloquent in the wording, however.

I was thinking last night, before I saw this question, that it’s been awhile since I mentioned some really good reads. Let me fix that now:

I think Bound by Honor, Colette Gale’s latest, is her best yet. The emotions run deeper here; more’s at stake. And from my limited knowledge and innocence, I’d say this sort of scenario isn’t that out of the question.

The Pleasure of My Company proved that Steve Martin isn’t a fluke as a writer. He has a knack for picking up really odd characters — the exact kind I can’t stand — but infusing them with a warmth and emotion that can’t be denied. I wound up loving Daniel. There’s nothing pathetic about this guy, as it seems at first glance.

I’ve raved about Hank Philippi Ryan’s Prime Time before. I’m gonna do it again. As others have said, it’s totally refreshing to see a character in her mid forties be so … normal and contemporary. It gives me hope I won’t have to turn into a fuddy-duddy as I age.

That’s it for now. I haven’t been reading as much of late — there are books of my own to promote, and books of my own to write. And the past few weeks, I’ve been giving up on more than I have thus far this year. Maybe because I’m trying to read more. Maybe I’m just on a streak.

Either way, it’s making Mt. TBR shrink, and that’s a good thing. It’s a bit daunting, my TBR mountains.

Yes, boys and girls, you can’t get enough of Trevor, Mitchell, and the rest of the gang. By popular demand…

1. On September 12, you’ll be able to buy The Demo Tapes: Year 2.

2. I’ll be debuting it at the Bridgewater Book Fest outside of Pittsburgh. That’ll be your first chance to hold it in your hands.

3. You can preorder it now from me. I take PayPal. It’s $13.98 (shipping included) if you’re in the States. I’ll mail out your preordered copies on September 14.

4. Need Years 1 and 2 for some reason? Until September 12, you can get them for $23.96 — a $2 savings on the books themselves.

5. Autographs are up to you. If you want ‘em, I’ll give ‘em.

6. Electronic versions are in the works. You can get Demo Tapes 1 at the Kindle store now, however.

7. If you’re outside the US, contact me for shipping charges.

8. Now that we’ve gotten THAT out of the way… what ARE the Demo Tapes and why do you need them???

9. If you’ve met the fictional band ShapeShifter here on the Meet and Greet, you know how much fun they can be. And how frustrating it can be to read their adventures out of order.

10. The Demo Tapes collections take one year’s worth of fiction that I posted here at the blog and puts it onto a timeline. This lets you follow the band’s growth.

11. You also get to revisit some old favorites, like the story of how Mitchell got his pierced ear. Part of that story made up a Thirteen, if you recall.

12. There’s even a bonus piece, that never appeared on the Meet and Greet. Pretty cool…

13. So c’mon. Join the Trevolution. Pick up either version of the Demo Tapes and have some fun for yourself.

Nincompoop

It’s too easy to say that Mitchell’s a nincompoop and that’s all there is to it. Trevor Wolff does not take the easy way out. Ever. So that means I gotta say more about nincompoops.

We meet fans who are nincompoops all the fucking time, youknowwhatI’msayinghere? Fans who gotta brag to us about how great they are. Fans who tell us we suck or other stupid shit like that. If you think we suck, why the fuck are you listening to us? Why the fuck did you buy a ticket and a t-shirt and the CD and probably the official ShapeShifter stuffed dragon? You do know, asshole, that we made those dragons for the girls who dream of fucking Mitchell, right? Put a dragon in your bed and it’s the next best thing. It’ll let you spend the night, too, which Mitchell never would, even in the days before Rusty.

And then there’s the people we meet on the road. The fucking nincompoops who gotta make a big deal of our hair. Yeah, so it’s long. That doesn’t mean we want to be girls, you loser jackass. It means the girls dig our hair. They dig running their hands through it. They get off when we let the ends of it tickle their bare bellies.

Assholes like that are probably too stuck on themselves to know what it means to give a girl some pleasure. Real pleasure. Not the kind those losers see in porn flicks and think happens in real life.

Real life is way better, losers.

Look, the world is packed chock full of nincompoops. Surviving this shit we call life turns into Nincompoop Avoidance. And if that doesn’t work, go for Nincompoop Humiliation.

Just so long as Trevor comes out on top, it’s all good.

I met at new friend via Win a Book yesterday. Her name’s Martha and she blogs over at Reviews by Martha’s Bookshelf.

She knocked my socks off when she said she’s only been blogging a month.

And then she tossed those socks out the window (bummer. They were SmartWool) when she told me I inspired her.

Inspiring others is second only to being inspired by you guys. That’s definitely Only the Good.

Be sure to stop in at Shelly’s to see who else has Only the Good to talk about today. Or better yet, be inspired by me and join us!

I asked the cast of characters around here what’s worth conviction. You know: standing up for, no matter what.

I really ought to know better…

1. Trevor: Sex
(Susan would like to point out that Melody is pouting. That was her answer.)

2. Mitchell: Music
(Susan would now like to point out that Chelle is upset. That was her answer.)

3. Eric: Guitars
(Susan would now like to point out that was Mitchell’s next answer.)

4. Daniel: kindness
(Susan would now like to point out that everyone is looking at Daniel funny. That was no one’s answer.)

5. Kerri: Chocolate
(Susan would not like to point anything out. Including the half of a candy bar jammed in her mouth.)

6. Mitchell: A good show
(Susan would like to finish her chocolate bar before pointing anything out)

7. Trevor: Girls
(Susan is joining Kerri and the band in rolling her eyes. And finishing the candy.)

8. Lyric: Feeling good about yourself
(Susan would like to point out that’s what Lyric’s store is all about)

9. Trevor: Meatball subs
(Susan would like to point out that no one was going to say this.)

10. Mitchell: Love
(Trevor would like to point out that shit like this makes him gag.)

11. Eric: Faith
(Trevor would like to point out that this is more shit that makes him gag.)

12. Eric: Family
(Susan would like to point out that the band has started to think of themselves as family.)

13. Mitchell: ShapeShifter
(Susan doesn’t need to point out that everyone agrees.)

Stay tuned for news of Demo Tapes: Year 2, gang. We’re close!

“Roberta! Roberta, where are you?” Daniel yelled as the band dragged into their dressing room.

That had to be, Mitchell thought, one of the truly dumb questions in the world. Ma always said there were no dumb questions, but come on. Daniel knew damn well that Roberta was behind them, handing out the towels and bathrobes as they came off stage.

“She’s not here,” Loren said, peeking around a corner. “She’ll be back in a few. What can I help you with?” A hip appeared around the corner. Nothing more. Just the hip.

Loren wasn’t long for employment by ShapeShifter, Mitchell thought. Not if that hip was some sort of sexual thing.

Daniel plopped down on the couch, pulling the hood off his robe and tossing his towel beside him. He crossed his right foot over his left knee and pulled at a flap of rubber on his shoe.

Mitchell and Trevor peered over the back of the couch at it.

That flap of rubber made up the edges of a hole square over the ball of Daniel’s foot. He’d worn through his favorite pair of stage shoes. Mitchell peered more closely. Sure enough, he could see skin through there.

“Are you fucking crying?” Trevor asked, attention focused on the drummer’s face.

Mitchell shoved Trev so hard, the bass player stumbled a few steps to the side. He bit back the smile; it had been a good line. Daniel did tend to get a little bit too attached to certain things. These stupid shoes were one of them. If they’d been Mitchell’s, they’d have been trashed awhile ago.

“What’s wrong?” Loren asked. This time, they could see all of her. Skinny black jeans. Black t-shirt that clung. Why did they keep hiring these skinny twigs as wardrobe assistant? This one looked more like a boy than a girl. She even wore black Chuck hi-tops and an earring in only one ear. Her dyed-black hair was still short enough to be gelled into spikes on top.

“My shoe,” Daniel said, plucking rhythms out of the raw edge of the rubber.

Mitchell had to give the guy credit for not whining. To Daniel, this was the same sort of tragedy as a bad review — something to sulk about and get cranky over. Only this would last for days. Maybe longer, if the new ones took awhile to break in.

Loren shrugged. “I’ll go out with Roberta tomorrow and get you a new pair. What’s your size?”

“I want the same style.”

The girl held out her hand.

Mitchell gaped at her. Eric audibly gasped. She was actually asking Daniel to take off his shoes? While she was right there, in front of him? She really wasn’t going to be long in this job, but this time it was because what was going to come out with Daniel’s feet was going to kill her. Already, Eric and Trevor were moving off, and Mitchell was straightening up, ready to bolt.

Daniel shrugged and pulled at the laces. Mitchell retreated to his wardrobe case. It was past time for a shower, anyway. Maybe he’d get lucky and be gone when the shoes came off and the funk came out.

No such thing. Holding his breath, he darted for the shower. On the way, he noticed Loren, cradling the shoes to her chest, oblivious.

He froze. Eric did the same thing beside him. They couldn’t help but stare at the girl. She acted like this was some prize she’d been handed. Something precious, like a newborn baby.

Mitchell knew she wasn’t cut out for the roadie life.

“Maybe she’s got no sense of smell,” Eric whispered.

Mitchell nodded agreement. It was better than admitting they’d hired another groupie.

Roberta arrived, her nose squinching up. “Let me guess. Daniel’s shoes are off.”

Loren held them out. “He got a hole. We gotta get a new pair.”

Roberta waved at the offering. “What we need to get is a couple of pairs of the same style, like Mitchell has. Give them time to air out between shows.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Roberta said.

Daniel stood up and turned to face the wardrobe manager. “No,” he said again.

Trevor chuckled and lit a cigarette. “This could be good,” he said.

Mitchell agreed. Daniel didn’t get assertive very often, but when he did, look out. Same for Roberta. Watching these two go at it was going to be worth the delayed shower. Even if his back was starting to itch.

Loren still cradled the shoes to her chest.

“We’ll buy them and set them out the way we do Mitchell’s shoes. What you do from there is up to you,” Roberta said.

Daniel looked at Mitchell. “Is it awful? Can you feel the difference?”

Mitchell shrugged. Like he cared about his shoes when there was so much else to worry about during a show. Was he hitting his marks? Reading the set list right? Controlling the crowd? Playing well and singing better?

Yeah. He had time to freak about his shoes. Uh-huh.

With a heavy sigh, Daniel stood up and unbelted his robe. Eric took that as a sign and moved off. Mitchell turned to follow, but stopped when he noticed Loren.

She was rubbing Daniel’s shoes over the front of her t-shirt, her face screwed up in the pain she hadn’t shown earlier.

“That oughta keep that fucking creep off me,” she muttered and tossed the shoes into the trash. “I gotta fucking job to do. I’m not here for him.”

Mitchell made a mental note to find out what that was about. First, he had to take care of his back. An itch this bad meant it’d break out for sure. And then his guitar strap would rub, making the zits hurt every time he moved, which was pretty fucking often during a show.

Daniel, Mitchell decided, was getting off light if all he had to worry about was his feet.

Yes, this is one of the scenes that Iron Maiden inspired! Don’t ask how or why; I couldn’t even begin to tell you. I will say, however, that there’s more. I’ve been intrigued by Loren and while I don’t think she’ll be a regular around here, we’ll definitely see more of her. In the meantime, as I play with Loren, you should go visit the other people who took up the Sunday Scribblings challenge this week.