November and December both turned into horrible months for me. For those of you looking to join in the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, fear not. There’s more to come. In fact, here’s some Roadie Poet.

About a month ago,
call came in.

We’d be in Denver anyway.
That makes us handy,
I guess.

They also want the best.
Seems Walter Cichewski is gonna do a show
A tie-in
With this Musical Holiday Thing.
ShapeShifter’s baby.

You’ve heard of it.

Me, Hambone, More.
We’re only some of the crew they want.

We’re handy.
And we’re damn good at what we do.

This ain’t a paid gig.
It won’t tie us up all day.
Just for the show.
Plenty of time for us to rest up.

We’d be off anyway.
And
We’re handy.

Remember, Musical Hanukkah left this blog and entered the real world this year. Buy my books between now and December 31, or use this link and make a direct donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation in the West of Mars name. You’ll get a prize or two for the direct donation. Just remember who gets the real prizes: kids who otherwise wouldn’t get to make music. Help tomorrow’s musical stars, will ya?

How can I NOT be fascinated with Scott Weiland??? The drugs, the success, the way it’s all played out in public… Of COURSE I want to know more.

Now, I can. Scott’s wife (do you believe she’s stayed by his side through all this? Good for her; I know it can’t have been easy) has a new book out, called Fall To Pieces. Go figure, but I really dig that Velvet Revolver song.

And yep, you know I need to read it, even though it covers more than her life with Scott. It’s a personal journey, as well.

I continue to drool…

Yeah, tonight’s the Monday during Hanukkah and by rights, I ought to be bringing you the Musical Hanukkah Celebration. But there’s still more pre-celebration stuff to post, and hey, it’s fiction. Time’s flexible in fiction.

Fozzy held it out to Scott. One drawing, done. Complete with color. Every line perfect.

That’s how it went with Fozzy. He didn’t do things half-assed. That’s what made it worthwhile having him in the band. As far as lead guitarists went, he wasn’t the best out there, but he could hold his own among pretty much the rest of the pack.

“Go on. Take a better look,” Fozzy said.

Scott set his DS down on the couch beside him and took the drawing. A big building filled the background; it had a giant Jewish star on the front. Scott guessed that was supposed to be the Temple that got fought over in the Chanukiah story. It was so big and dominating, it was hard to look at the people in front, dressed in the usual short, white tunics and sandals with the gay straps that wrapped around the leg up to the knee.

“Them’s the Maccabee people,” Fozzy said, pointing to them. He picked up the paper Scott had handed him. “See? They’re right here. Headed off to war.”

Scott studied them. “They have the Hatchet.”

“Yeah.”

“You know they lost the war?”

“That’s what those papers said,” Fozzy said. He pulled on his earlobe. “But they won in the end, right? People remember ’em for trying. They got a holiday out of it. The Hatchet’s never been part of a holiday before.”

The DS beeped, but Scott ignored it. “I think we nailed this motherfucker.”

Fozzy bobbed his head, his wheat-brown curls exaggerating the movement. “The Hatchet comes through again.”

“Who knew the Maccabees had such an ally?”

“Then why’d they lose?”

“It’s a better story if they do,” Scott said.

Fozzy scrunched up his face, trying to make sense of that.

Scott left him. He wasn’t a fan of history, either, but trying to explain this to Fozzy would only make both their brains hurt. It was enough that the special t-shirt for the Musical Hanukkah thing had Judah Maccabee marching into battle, carrying the Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Amy Ruttan and I have been blog friends for years now. So long, I’ve watched her quit her day job, get pregnant with a third kid, HAVE said kid, and celebrate said kid’s first birthday. Not to mention the books she’s written and gotten out into the world.

So why hasn’t she stopped in for a Featured New Release sooner?

I do not know.

Let’s focus instead on the fact that she’s here NOW. And she has a new release to talk about: Gladiator’s Revenge.

Here’s the blurb:

Taranis had one thing on his mind since the Romans enslaved him. Revenge. Until he laid eyes on the innocent beauty of Lavina, a daughter of his enemy. It was then that he knew how to wreak revenge against those who’d wronged him—by taking one of Rome’s daughters, over and over again.

Lavina is humiliated by the decadence, greed and violence of Rome. When she meets the gaze of the condemned gladiator across the Circus Maximus, he stirs a deep yearning in her heart, but it is not meant to be. She is destined to marry a man who’s soul is as black as night.

On a whim, Emperor Nero grants Taranis freedom with his choice of a wife. Taranis chooses Lavina, much to the horror of her parents. Only Lavina is not disgusted by this prospect and revels in Taranis’ touch. He finds himself caring for and falling in love with the little Roman.

Yet, a shadow falls on their happiness and soon Lavina will have to choose between her home and her heart.

Ooh, Amy! Ancient Rome!

So… what song makes her think of her book?

The band is called ES Posthumus. I’ve never heard of them, but it’s playing as I type. It’s gorgeous. Definitely a band to explore more deeply. This could be a movie soundtrack, folks. Oh, I love it!

I can see why Amy chose it, but here’s her reasoning in her own words:

I find the song powerful. It builds up dramatically and it evokes the feeling of someone betrayed rising up and taking control of their life again. Taranis, my hero, is a slave or Rome and he wants revenge on those who wronged him, but he forgets about revenge when he finds love with the heroine Lavina. When Rome tries to take her away, he fights back to save her.

Wow! Go get this book, gang! It’s a release from Ellora’s Cave, so you know that means it’ll be sexy sexy.

Have you been following along with this year’s Musical Hanukkah fiction? There’s been a lot so far. Not as much as I’d originally planned, but enough that you may have missed some. Here’s the start of a two-parter. And Happy Hanukkah, as the holiday began at sundown last night.

“Why’d we say we’d do this again?” Fozzy squinted up at Scott.

Scott looked up from his DS. “Because you don’t say no when ShapeShifter asks you to do something for them. What’s wrong?”

“The Hatchet. How can the Hatchet do its thing? Remember what happened the last time the Hatchet attacked a kid?”

Scott did. The shirt had sold like gangbusters — until they’d had to pull it or get sued by some mom who didn’t have a sense of humor. They’d been warned not to go near anything controversial with this shirt. This was a benefit. It was doing a good deed, it was giving back. It wasn’t supposed to piss anyone off. Fucking up could mean the demise of Deadly Metal Hatchet. The band and the Hatchet itself.

Fozzy had tried arguing that controversy got better news coverage, but no one wanted to listen. Scott told him to drop it and put some effort into making the Hatchet behave for the benefit shirt. It was the first year of the expanded party thing, part of the revival of the event after last year’s cancellation. Not a lot of bands had been asked to join in. That made Deadly Metal Hatchet special.

Scott put the DS down and came to stand behind Fozzy. He reached over the guy’s shoulder and picked up the papers that had been faxed over. “All about Chanukiah,” he read out loud.

Fozzy made a loud, keening noise.

Scott looked over the pages and put one down in front of Fozzy. “Stop it. Here’s your solution.” He waited while Fozzy quieted down and looked over the page he’d chosen.

The guy was quiet a long time. Then, slowly, his head started to bob as he caught on to Scott’s idea. He didn’t say a word or even make a sound as he began drawing.

Scott went back to his DS. Fozzy would take however long he needed to get this done. It’d be worth the wait.

Yep, some Three Word Wednesday woven in here, and I’ll be posting (and promoting) this as my Friday Flash. Be sure to leave comments, stop back for the conclusion, and to either buy more of my books for holiday gifts (I have print copies here if you need some autographs) or make a donation directly to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation via the contests page. There will be a raffle for some awesome books for the folk who choose this latter option!

Most of my readers know I consider myself to be a self-respecting metalhead. To that degree, I’ve seen author Joel McIver’s name around. I had yet to pick up one of his books — professional jealousy, don’tcha know — but when my friend Mary at BookHounds turned me on to To Live is To Die: The Life and Death of Metallica’s Cliff Burton, I knew it was time to stop being green with envy and take the plunge.
I got a copy from the good folk at Jawbone Press, and was off and reading.

The first thing that struck me was the energy in the narrative. That’s the best word for it: energy. There are other words that work well, too: enthusiasm, passion, depth of knowledge. McIver is more than a fan of this heavy metal world we both adore. It’s his life, and it shows.

And you ask why I’m jealous of the man?

If I have any complaint with the book, it’s that we really don’t get to know Cliff all that well. There are two reasons for this, of course: he was a very private person who didn’t let people in very easily (if at all) and, well, he’s a little hard to reach with in-depth questions. The guy is, after all, rather deceased.

Which truly sucks. I’m intrigued by Cliff Burton. By a guy who wore bell-bottoms when no one else would. By someone who had enough money to move out but stayed living in his parents’ small apartment. By a musical genius whose presence, all these years later, still hovers over the band he found success with.

I may not entirely agree with all of McIver’s statements about the twists and turns the Metallica musical catalog has taken since Cliff so rudely left the guys, but McIver makes me understand where he’s coming from. I can respect that, especially when it’s put forth with such enthusiasm and energy.

Best of all, McIver breaks down Cliff’s parts in each of the three albums of songs he contributed to. As a non-musician, at first I thought I wouldn’t care about all that gobbeldy-gook. More kudos need to head McIver’s way, however, because not only was it completely intelligible (and, to be fair, I did have a number of years of piano lessons and the high school drumline, so it wasn’t entirely a foreign language to me), but I found myself reaching for my iPod, pushing my headphones more securely into my ears, and listening hard for Cliff’s parts. Lo and behold, I could hear them. I got it in a way I never have before.

Needless to say, that led to a marathon of music listening, sometimes with the book open so I could follow along and sometimes (Yes, I’m going to admit this) on an exercise bike at the Hoity Toity Health Club. Hey, sometimes you do what you have to do and with the entire Metallica catalog on my iPod, how could I resist? Besides, people tend to leave you alone when you’re bicycling furiously, hands plastered to your ears and that distant look of concentration in your eyes.

While I’d been hoping for more details that would flesh out who Cliff really was, what I brought away To Live is to Die wasn’t so much about the man, himself, as opposed to the man’s music. And for someone who always focused more on the music than on the men (and women) who make it, that suits me just fine.

So I’m over my professional jealousy of Joel McIver. Mostly. Sort of.

Okay, I’m not even close to it. But I’ll certainly find a comfortable spot on his bandwagon and devour the rest of what he’s written.

“So JR was one of those kids who went to a school that had to cut their music program. What’s the big deal?” Kerri asked later that night, once Daniel had taken the manager to his house and the rest of the band had dispersed.

“So this turned into a fucking pet project of his,” Mitchell said. “Something that’s supposed to grow and advance the cause. We’re now supposed to save every last poor kid in the States, just so they don’t wind up like him.” He hung his head and shook it gently.

Kerri knew he was watching the ends of his hair dance. Usually, it amused her. Tonight, she was too baffled by Mitchell’s violent and childish response to react properly.

“Was it supposed to be yours and no one else’s?” she asked carefully. Next, he’d start accusing her of pandering to him, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. But when he got in these moods, anything was possible.

Except violence, thankfully. Unless Trevor showed up, and then it wasn’t violence. Not really.

“It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than fun,” he insisted. “That’s it. Fun. Fun for our fans, fun for us, fun for the crew and the media and everyone. Except fucking JR had to come in and fucking ruin it for us. Move out of All Access and into the Rocket Theater. Party with the fucking drag queens–”

“Watch it.”

He snarled. She stared him down. “If it’s not fun anymore, then don’t do it,” she said.

“It’d be fun if JR would stop fucking trying to grow it! It’s supposed to be small and stupid and silly and what people want to be part of. It’s not supposed to be huge and country-wide and taking on a life of its own.”

Kerri covered her face with her hands.

“What?” Mitchell demanded.

She looked up. “The problem with creating something awesome and amazing is that it does take on a life of its own. You should be flattered.”

“It just wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Kerri tried not to sigh too audibly. “Well, it is, so you need to deal with it.”

“No,” Mitchell said. He stood up and immediately started shuffling his feet, like he was ready to go out for a run or something.

Except, Kerri had never known Mitchell to run. Not unless he was chasing Trevor, anyway.

“When it starts hitting too close to home, like JR just made it do, the fun disappears. It turns into the same stupid sort of responsibility that the entire fucking band turned into. Every time we turn around, we owe people shit. And now we owe JR ’cause his life would have been so fucking different if he’d only been able to play a fucking instrument.”

“Maybe his lack of musical background is part of what makes him such a good manager,” Kerri said.
Mitchell gave her a sharp glance, like he’d had the same thought and hadn’t been able to justify believing it.

“You’re letting this get to you,” Kerri said. “You’re not responsible for your manager growing up poor.”
“No, now I’m responsible for him being fucking rich.”

“He’s every bit as responsible for you and your success. It goes both ways.”

Mitchell growled. Kerri bit back a smile; he hated it when she sounded like Trevor, pointing out the obvious.

“I’m still not making a benefit song,” he said, sneering the last word.

“Don’t. No matter what connection JR’s got to it, the benefit is still your baby. Besides, what did Daniel and Eric say?”

“No.”

“There you go. What are you so stressed about?”

Mitchell turned his back on Kerri and mumbled something that sounded like I feel responsible now.

She didn’t doubt that he did.

I had a record number of entries for my Gratitude Gives, which makes me think I’ll be doing lots more of these in the future.

Offer congratulations to the following folk:
Lisa, who wins a copy of Trevor’s Song
BJ, who wins a copy of Demo Tapes: Year 2
Cathy, who wins a copy of Demo Tapes: Year 1.

Really, the books can be read in any order, so you’re all starting in the perfect place.

I’m off to send some e-mails and get some addresses. In the meantime, if you didn’t win but still need copies of my books, check out The Books page. Click through to the book you’d like and you’ll be taken right to the handy-dandy buy links. Remember, at least 50% of my reported royalties in November and December will be headed to charity!

The Jewish tradition, I’ve been told, happens on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. C’mon. You know the drill: Chinese food and a movie. It’s a tradition I was raised on, myself.

I wonder if I’m seeing a new trend: on the night before Thanksgiving, Jews go to the theater.

Okay, so I only saw six people I know, out of how many thousand Pittsburgh’s Benedum Theater holds. But a trend’s gotta start somehow, right???

The show last night is completely relevant to my life. Rock of Ages is in town, with American Idol star Constantine Maroulis playing the role of Drew. I’m an avowed American Idol non-fan; I’ve watched about ten minutes of an episode in all the years since it began. I was more into the idea that Dee Snider would be on the bill. I’d seen a press release that he was joining the cast, but… a search at Blabbermouth tells me he’s actually on Broadway, not touring as I’d first heard. Dude, you dumped me for Broadway???? ME???

Yeah, apparently so. Buy more of my books, will ya, oh readers of this here Meet and Greet? I need to be a bigger star.

Anyway, Rock of Ages. The producers describe it like this:

“It’s the late 1980s and the final countdown is on for a legendary Hollywood rock club facing its demise at the hands of eager developers. When a young rocker hungry for his big break and a small town girl chasing her dreams land on the scene at this infamous venue, how far will ambition drive them? And will it be lights out for the club and all the regulars and rockers who have made it their home?”

Like I said, tailor-made for me. And then the music… Journey, Twisted Sister, Night Ranger, Styx, Extreme, Pat Benatar… the list goes on. Bon Jovi. Joan Jett. Foreigner. REO Speedwagon, whose “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” becomes a crux of the show. I may have progressed, musically, beyond this point, but that doesn’t mean there’s no small nostalgia attached to all those songs. After all, those are the songs that made ME almost take a couple of different job offers at New York City record labels. Those are the songs that turned me into the rock and roll writer you all love so much.

In a sense, that was my life up there, complete with the same ending my own rock and roll life has had. And while the storyline itself is a bit cliched — there’s even a self-referential line about how there needs to be a love interest — the message comes through loud and clear, and it’s this message that makes the show so freaking brilliant. The message that it’s okay to fail at a dream you thought you totally wanted. It’s okay to find peace and happiness with another sort of life — even one that’s more mainstream.

Because, really, how many of us with rock and roll dreams DO get to see them come true? And if you’re going to turn out like scene-stealing Stacee Jax, do you really WANT those dreams to come true? Ugh. Jax is a trainwreck, brilliantly played by MiG (anyone else vaguely remember him from Rock Star: INXS?). Horrible name; I wish he’d change it to something that sounds less like a Russian fighter jet.

I’ll let him keep the name if he keeps performing the way he did. Holy smoke, did he run off with the show — and that’s no small feat. The character of Franz is a hoot, Regina (pronounced with a long i — go on. Say it out loud. Best line of the night, “Your name rhymes with pussy!”) is annoyingly perfect, Lonny’s a scream, and Dennis … like Stacee Jax, I have known Dennis in my own past life as the city’s metal chick. Still, MiG as Stacee truly steals the show. He’s perfect: a washed up jerk who is labelled asshole by his entire band (who goes on to greater success without him), who can’t be bothered to get a girl’s name right but drags her into the bathroom anyway, who at times can’t stand up ’cause he’s so soused.

You know, I may miss a lot from my old music biz days, but I do NOT miss jerks like him.

All in all, this show is great fun. It’s raunchy the way the 80s were raunchy (I’m glad I didn’t bring The Boy Band!). It’s loud. It’s got a darkness that balances out the innocence of lead characters Drew and Sherrie. But ultimately, it’s a musical and the music is what it’s all about. Many of the beloved old hits are turned into mash-ups (see what watching Glee taught me?) — and like on Glee, they’re well done. The songs help move the story forward, they add color… I mean, hello? This is 21st Century Musical Theater. It doesn’t break new ground, but the handles the familiar structures and rules really well.

There are more musicals about music on the horizon, too. Memphis. American Idiot. And others not on my radar, or that I’m forgetting to mention here.

C’mon gang. Buy my books. Make me a star, and make those shows come here in search of the West of Mars Seal of Approval. Rock of Ages sure got it. What’s next?

Bring it on.

Note from Susan: I wrote this last Tuesday, just after getting home from the vet.

She was the cat I wasn’t supposed to have.

***

It happened like this: my sister was still in vet school when I graduated from my MFA program. Therefore, my graduation present was going to be a cat.

I knew that. I knew the kinds of cats my sister picked for herself and for our other sister. I knew I was going to get something special. No ordinary cat for Susan, who herself is far from ordinary.

And then my phone rang. “I found your kittenzz!” my sister trilled in my ear. She put the emphasis in the right place; there was no doubt she’d found me more than one.

I tried protesting. I was going to be moving back to Pittsburgh. I had no job lined up, no income on the horizon. And now I’ve got not one but two kittens?

“Mom will help pay for the extra spaying,” my sister told me. Apparently, sister and mom had talked it out before this phone call.

I wasn’t going to say no — but I wasn’t going to say yes, either. I was uneasy about this. We’d had cats when I was growing up, and there had been that orange tabby who’d hung around my grad school apartment who I’d called Enigma, but to actually take care of a cat, myself? And now I was going to have two?

My sister explained the scenario: there were only two kittens in this particular litter. Two little Devon Rexes. She’d laid claims to the little boy for me, but so far, no one had claimed the little girl. If she was still there when my sister went back to pick up the boy, a choice had to be made: take the girl, or put her down.

***

That’s how I wound up with my Chanterelle. My sister named her because she was blue and she and her brother were covered in ringworm (so was I, eventually). Ringworm’s a fungus. A chanterelle is a gourmet French mushroom. A mushroom’s a fungus. Naming my kitty Chanterelle made sense. And it fit her.

From the get-go, Chan had a sensitive stomach. I’d have to change her food every time I went to the store for more. Friskies this time, Cat Chow the next. I tried different formulas. Still, she’d throw up more than any cat I’d ever seen. And it wasn’t hairballs, either.

About six years ago, my husband and I got tired of the 3AM puke fests, and my sister helped me track down a vet who specialized in internal medicine. With Dr. Kellerman’s help, we diagnosed Chan with irritable bowel disorder. We put her on prednisone and a special diet. The vomiting, by and large, stopped.

We spent six years playing with medicines, adding some, changing dosages… it was a game of trial and error. Chan lost her vigor faster than her brother, Cooper, did. She lost interest in catching flies between her paws. She didn’t get a case of the nuts as often. But she would still play. And of all the cats I’ve ever known in my life, she was the most snuggly. She would walk up to anyone and plop in their lap — more so before we moved into the house we’re now in. As a kitten, safe in my apartment, any visitor’s lap was fair game. I had to tell dates to not bring me flowers because Cooper would eat them and Chan would tip the vases over to watch the water flow out.

Heck, that was Chan’s game. If I left a water glass on the floor — and before I had kids, there was ALWAYS a water glass on the floor by my feet — Chan was likely to knock it over. Just to watch the water flow out.

***

That’s how it is with a Devon Rex. Cooper and Chanterelle always had the run of the house. As an owner of a Devon, you’d better know these things up front. I can’t tell you how many friends I’d simply shake my head at when they’d say, “MY cat knows better than to do THAT.” Their cats, you see, weren’t Devons. They didn’t eat tape, or lick the water in the water pistol that many cat owners use to keep the cats off the dining room table.

Nope, we put the pads on our dining room table and gave up the battle. We laughed during dinner when Cooper would jump on the island and lick off whatever oils remained. I have pictures of us snatching Chan off a fully occupied Thanksgiving table, as she tried to pick her way among the fine china.

This is life with a Devon.

During those short two years in my city apartment, I had two cats who would jump into the bathtub when I’d run the water for my shower. I had cats who sat on my windowsills and looked for me when I went out. I became cat furniture, and the woman who’d turn on the faucets so my babies could drink running water. It wasn’t that I wanted to. Quite the contrary. But when you own a Devon…

***

About ten days ago, I found blood on the stairs leading to the second floor. On the exact stair that Chan likes to sit on, in fact. It was little drops of bright red blood. I went upstairs to check on her, but she was okay, curled up in the discarded comforter the cats adopted and turned into their cave, burrowing into its many folds. I looked both cats over, wondering if someone had gotten cut somehow, but nothing.

I came back down and cleaned up the stair. I found blood on two more.

I went back upstairs and found Chan hunkered at the far end of the cave, looking scared. And pools of blood in the cave.

We rushed off to the vet. I left the front door unlocked and wrote a note to the kids to come in and start their homework. I came home two hours later and stayed just long enough to load up on snacks and to hug the kids; Chan and I were headed down to the ER.

She stayed there for two nights and came home with a slew of medicines, but even before my sister and Dr. Kellerman told me they were nothing more than band-aids, I knew it. I could see it.

Yet Chan wasn’t ready to leave us yet. Every time I thought she was, she’d rally and eat and roam the house. I moved a litter pan up to the first floor to spare her the trip to the basement. She liked that. She liked being with me or the kids and would crawl in our laps as we sat on the couch, usually under one of my Mexican blankets. She purred like crazy.

But she was slipping away.

Monday night, as the kids and I gave Chan her 8PM medicines, we could tell she’d had enough. The three of us looked at each other and burst into tears. The Girl Band cried for an hour, long past her bedtime. I sat with her and cried, too.

Dr. Kellerman had wanted to see me and Chan this morning. I’d said awhile ago that I wanted her and her tech to be the ones who let Chan leave us, and although the tech had protested, we all knew it was coming. Really, it couldn’t have played out more perfectly in that regard. I think Chan wanted Dr. Kellerman to do it, too.

The Girl Band ran for the bus stop in tears this morning. I drove the Boy Band to school with his cello, Chanterelle in her carrier in the front. Chan cried at every turn, every bump in the road. And so, as my son was getting out of the car, I pulled Chan out and held her the rest of the drive from the school to the vet. Yeah, yeah. Sue me for being dangerous. But Chan was so unsteady by this point — I’d been calling her Wobble for a few days now — and so uncomfortable, being in the carrier hurt. After all she’d been through, I couldn’t do that to her. So I held her. I carried her into the vet’s office that way.

A woman was there with her dog. She saw my tears as I waited for Dr. Kellerman. She’d lost two cats and a dog over a particularly nightmarish twelve days last summer. Her condolences were sincere. As have all of you guys, on Facebook and Twitter.

Knowing it was time, knowing what all this poor cat had gone through… knowing that if it hadn’t been for my sister moreso than me, Chanterelle would have never had a life at all… none of that makes this easier. Cooper and Chan made it possible for me to work here at home and be a writer. They are my constant companions.

I hung Chan’s collar on my Shelf of Stuff just to my right. Taking it off her skinny little chicken neck was the worst part of the whole thing. But she was oh, so ready. I think we all were, as ready as you can ever be when faced with a cat who is sixteen and a half years old, chronically ill, and fading fast.

I’ll miss her terribly — I already do, even though I’m writing this at a time of day during which she’d usually be asleep. I miss my little love bug, my water bug, my venus flytrap. We called her Buggie. We called her Chanterellie. Rellie. Relly-Belly and Bells. She and Cooper predated my husband, they predate my kids. Sixteen and a half years is a long time for a cat, and I hope I was able to make them good years for a kitty who was, I suspect, sick from the start.

The Girl Band is already planning for a set of kittens. I promised. Now I’ve got to find a follow-up act that won’t disappoint. After sharing your life with a couple of Devon Rexes, any old cat simply won’t do, no matter how cute it is.

We turn our faces forward, pink collar in our hands to help us remember.

Another note from Susan: In the week since all this happened and I wrote this, I’ve applied to a local shelter to be a foster home. I figure we’ll see how Cooper will do with another cat bugging HIS mom, and we’ll let the kids see what a normal cat is like.

One last note: If you click on the link in the cats’ breed above, you’ll be taken to a website devoted to the Devon Rex breed. The page I linked to has a picture that’s purportedly of Kirlee, the first Devon. Two things are interesting here: one is that every other picture I’ve ever seen of Kirlee has shown a white cat. Second: that cat in that picture could be my Chanterelle.

Yep, I’m tying this Three Word Wednesday post into the Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Sales are picking up, so be sure to be part of this extravaganza. The more books you buy, the bigger our own donation. No benefit song needed.

If the guys in ShapeShifter had learned anything about their motor-mouth manager, it was that as soon as he stopped with the verbal diarrhea, the band was in serious danger.

“A proposal has been made,” JR said.

Mitchell pushed back into the couch. Like backing away would help.

Trevor noticed Eric and Daniel were doing it, too. He figured a smart person would brace himself, but no one had ever told Trevor he was smart. Besides, whatever it was couldn’t be worse than Mitchell bringing Rusty into their lives.

Trevor Wolff hated to be wrong.

“As part of the Musical Hanukkah Celebration,” the manager said, still so slowly, a person could actually, honest-to-God make out where each word began and ended, “it’s been suggested.”

“Out with it already!” Mitchell roared.

JR scratched the back of his hand. His momentary silence was both a delight and a cause for serious concern. This was going to be bad, Trevor realized.

The manager drew in a breath, but when he spoke, he wasn’t off to the races like usual. “All the bands participating in the event get together beforehand, say before Thanksgiving, and collaborate on a song. Think We are the World, or Live Aid.”

Trevor expected Mitchell to lose it so utterly, he’d blow a few gaskets and they’d have to rush him to Amy’s office for some doctoring. Instead, the guy had face-planted in his own lap, hands dangling on the floor, oh-so-happy to have had this shit land on his head. Clearly, the guy wasn’t going to be able to come through in the clutch. Not this time.

“M?” Eric asked. “You okay?”

Mitchell shook his head. Trevor figured that couldn’t feel good, with his nose scraping his legs. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so bad; the guy didn’t have the sort of schnozz Trevor did.

“Need a barf bag?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell kept shaking his head.

Trevor leaned forward and peered more closely at the big idiot. The guy’s face was bright red; how he wasn’t shaking with rage, Trevor didn’t know.

“Quit showing us Rusty’s favorite fuck position and fucking talk to us already,” he said, turning his back on the guy. He began to count.

Sure enough, he’d only gotten to three when the dragon let the fire-breath out. “A fucking benefit song? On top of everything else we’re doing here?”

“It’s great publicity,” JR said. Something must have loosened his tongue because he started blathering about the exposure and the money they could earn. “It’s about kids, Mitchell. Daniel, Eric, talk some sense into the guy will you please We can bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars just by pricing this as a ninety-nine cent download Hundreds of thousands!”

“NO!” Mitchell howled. He jumped to his feet and got in JR’s face, shutting the manager up. “There will be no benefit song, do you fucking hear me, JR? Bringing other bands in other cities into this thing was bad enough. The whole idea here was to have fun, remember? Where the fuck did that go? Why the fuck is this all about the money to you?”

JR’s face turned red.

“Oh, motherfucker,” Mitchell said. It came out in a breath, airy and defeated.

Trevor couldn’t agree more.

This piece will be continued! In the meantime, pick up my books or make a direct donation — the latter option will get you an entry into a raffle for some great books that I did not write!

Be sure to stop in at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat, as well — see what’s been posted and add your own fiction!

If you’re here in search of my Gratitude Give, here’s the link. This sticky post will remain until November 28, at which point I’ll pick a winner.

In the meantime, don’t forget to buy my books or make a direct donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. It’s all part of the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration we do over here at West of Mars. Here’s the link for the details.

As the blog world continues to evolve and change underneath my feet, I’m doing my best to adapt and grow and change with it. It’s not always easy — after all, when I first started blogging, posting fiction was a rarity. Now there are multiple prompts and Twitter hashtags devoted to it.

Many of you guys have stuck with me from the first. With your support, I’ve been able to put out three books, with more on the way.

And now it’s time for me to give back.

As part of the Gratitude Giveaway over at I am a Reader, Not a Writer, I’m offering one print copy of each of my books: The Demo Tapes: Year 1, The Demo Tapes: Year 2, and Trevor’s Song. Each book will be autographed to the winner (or whoever the winner specifies).

I’m going to have to limit my shipping to the US and Canada only; right now, at least half my reported royalties until the end of the year are headed to charity. That means I’m only recouping half of what I’m spending!

Entry is easy. Tell me which book you want to be entered to win. Join the Google Followers (this is really important, as there are some future events that say I have to have x-number of followers before I’ll be allowed to join in!). And sit back and wait for me to announce the winners on November 29.

And if you’re an International friend and are willing to read an e-book and post a review online, let me know. I’ll hook you up with a coupon code for a freebie of any of my books at Smashwords (heck, any of you who’re willing to read an e-book and post a review can ask for this, in addition to winning an autographed print copy for your shelves!)

Go visit more of the 180 or so blogs joining in. See what else they are giving away. Have some fun, meet some new folk.

And remember, if you want to support me AND a charity all at once, at least 50% of my reported royalties between now and the end of the calendar year are headed to help kids make music. If you make a direct donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation, you will be entered to win some pretty nice books.

And I’m meowing at the cover of Francis Ray’s It Had to be You. LOOK at this cover model!

Hot, huh?

Yep, it’s another rock book — about a hot rock producer and … of all things, a violinist!

What a cool twist. Violins and rock music… sounds a little bit like a certain Finnish band I happen to simply adore…

Given how much I liked What the Librarian Did (read my review) despite its flaws, I’m curious to know if Francis Ray can pull off the rock world, too.

My friend Candy requested some Trevor. I doubt this is what she had in mind, though. It’s pretty dark.

Getting away was the immediate need. Getting away, getting safe. Helping Eliza and HJ get away, too. Jeremy would take care of himself. He always did. He’d stay there and taunt Hank for awhile, give the rest of them time to get away, and then somehow escape without too much damage to himself.

He’d turned it into an art form.

It had to be something like that. It sure as shit wasn’t a gesture of kindness on Jeremy’s part. Fucker had no kindness in him. In his own way, he was worse than Hank.

He gave HJ a shove to help him get further under the trailer faster, then held out a hand to Eliza. Of all of them, it bugged Trevor the most that she had to face this shit. She was the only girl. She was the family treasure. Even Hank said so. He cried before he whaled on her.

But he’d started doing it anyway.

Trevor figured it sucked, but not so bad if the fucktard never found Eliza’s bedroom. He and Jeremy slept in there sometimes on nights when Hank wasn’t needing some exercise, taking turns, keeping her company and guarding her from things that went bump in the night. Or worse.

Eliza took his hand and turned her face to his. She was biting her lip, but it trembled anyway. Her eyes were big, huge, scared.

Trevor knew the feeling.

“C’mon,” he whispered to her. “The faster we get safe, the sooner Hank gives up looking for us.”

A tear leaked out of one eye. “Trevor.” Her whisper started to get loud, to turn into one of those whines that wound up sounding like a fucking air raid siren from those old movies his mom would watch sometimes.

Trevor tried to shush Eliza, whipping his head around to look for people in the window and door of their trailer. Hank didn’t know about this hiding place, right under his stupid fucking nose. He figured sympathetic neighbors were hiding his kids, even though he’d put fears worse than God into them and now, none of ’em would even so much as look at the Wolff kids.

Trev bent down so he was closer to Eliza’s eye level. “It’s okay. We gotta get under there for awhile and then when Hank passes the fuck out, we’ll come back in. Come on, Eliza. You’ll like it under here. Me and HJ fixed it up. We got bottled water and maybe there’s some cookies left, too.”

“When I grow up,” Eliza said, her voice rising again. Trevor waved it down. She whispered, “I’m gonna play the violin. I’m gonna go all over the world. And I’m never gonna be scared again.”

Trevor swallowed down the impulse to cry. She was fucking eight years old. That was too fucking young to want to run away.

Then again, HJ was nine. He was eleven. Jeremy was twelve. They were all too fucking young to have to face this shit.

A crash came from inside the trailer. With a terrified squeak, Eliza dove for the hiding space. Trevor followed on her heels, not wanting to know if that had been Jeremy or their mother who’d just gone flying.

He let Eliza climb onto his lap, let HJ snuggle up against his side and cling to his arm like it alone was the only thing that would save him. He’d figure out a way to get them out of this mess. He would. After all, he was Trevor Wolff, and Trevor Wolff could do anything he set his mind to.

Somehow.

More Three Word Wednesday for you (immediate, treasure, gesture), and some Friday Flash as well. Remember, too, that 50% of my reported royalties in November and December are being donated to charity, to help fund music programs in schools. Join in — and if you already have my books (and so do your friends; autographed books make great gifts!), remember that if you use my donation link on the contests page, you’ll be entered to win… more books!)

Yep, I’ve also linked this at Weekend Writer’s Retreat and Writer’s Island. What can I say? I like maximum coverage. Which is a dangerous thing to say when Trevor’s around…

“I think,” Mitchell said, “we should go over to the Rocket early, so I can catch a nap in the production office before the show this year.”

Kerri eyed him. “Don’t you remember? There’s no couch in the production office at the Rocket Theater. It’s not big enough.”

“But I play better when I get a nap in the production office before the show.”

“I know,” Kerri said, wondering where this fit of diva behavior had come from. Even for Mitchell, it was an abrupt shift in attitude. “It’s also a month away.”

“They’ve got time to put a couch in there,” Mitchell said.

Kerri gaped at him. Of all the stupid things… “M,” she said slowly, trying to keep cool, no matter how tempting it was to smack some sense into him, even if she had to do it verbally, “if they put a couch in there, half of it will stick into the hallway, and that’s after they move the desk out. Really. The production office at the Rocket is an old coat closet. I can guarantee you Penis and Chrome don’t fit in there at the same time.”

Mitchell snickered. Kerri rolled her eyes. The whole world spent hours trying to figure out what sort of relationship Penis and Chrome had. Both were, apparently, hetero. But there was something more between them, something about the idea of the two of them stuffed into that small production office…

“I don’t even think they use it as an office,” she continued. “I think it’s just a place to store old paperwork.”

Mitchell set his guitar down — the bright yellow one tonight, with the black piping around the edges that made it look like a deformed, demented bumblebee — and got up. He started pacing around the TV room.

“Why are you so tied in knots about it this year? It’s got to be old hat by now.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “You get to the point where you get lazy. Or Trevor figures out how to sneak one in. Or something else goes wrong and you’re so stuck on autopilot, you can’t react in time.”

“And a routine nap before the show will…”

He grimaced and ran a hand through the top of his hair, pulling it away so Kerri could see his ears. He was wearing the graduated diamond studs she and his sister Amy had bought him; the diamonds glittered in the low light, pinpricks of light marching up his earlobe.

“Fuck you, Ker,” he said.

She smiled. “That’s not routine yet, either?”

He returned the smile, locking eyes with her. “I don’t think that’s possible, babe.

“You know,” Mitchell said, breaking their gaze and making it obvious he was contemplating the couch. “There’s a couch here. I could nap on it before the show.”

“Do other things on it, too.”

His grin was as wolfish as Trevor’s ever were.

So much for routine, Kerri thought.

Some Musical Hanukkah Fun for you. And the usual reminder — up to 50% of my royalties in November and December are being donated to charity. Buy my books! Or while you’re checking out the contest page, make a direct donation and be entered to win a book NOT written by me.

By now, you boys and girls oughta know this stuff every bit as good as old Chelle here does. Them cutie ShapeShifter boys can’t be held down. Not when they want somethin’. And when it comes to these Musical Hanukkah benefit shows they been doin’ the past few years, these boys want this. Bad.

If you remember right, Chelle’s favorite band up and cancelled their big Musical Hanukkah shin-dig last year. Or they started off sayin’ they did. Instead, those sly rockers went and threw themselves one big party on the down low and you’d better believe they came outta that show with cash for them little kids.

That’s our ShapeShifter boys, all right.

Now, Chelle figured that’d pretty much be the end of these here parties. Once it gets cool to take part, the people behind these do-gooder parties get all frustrated ’cause they get all crowded out, so they pull up stakes.

That ain’t our ShapeShifter boys. Chelle digs bein’ able to say it ain’t even close.

Instead, the band’s done gone and challenged all them friends who tried to hone in on that action that oughta belong to us small people.

This year, there’s gonna be more than one Musical Hanukkah Celebration. They’s gonna be a lot — and not only in Riverview. I hear tell Deadly Metal Hatchet’s got a show — and a shirt to match! — planned for Phoenix. Hammerhead’s gonna tear up some joint in Jersey. Walter Cichewski’s gonna come out of retirement up there in Denver. Them Maelstrom boys might join the fun, too, but that ain’t confirmed yet.

Count on that cutie Mitchell and the rest-a them boys to grow this thing in true ShapeShifter style.

Best of all? You whiners ain’t got no excuse to miss this-here chance to get involved. Chelle herself is workin’ on puttin’ together a couple good bands for a New Orleans-style celebration.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Musical Hanukkah keeps gettin’ bigger and better. Chelle’s right to love her ShapeShifter boys so much.

And here we go! Starting yesterday, at least 50% of my reported royalties until the end of the year are headed to charity. Books make great holiday gifts — and help ShapeShifter make band dweebs and orchestra geeks around the United States!

Wanna see a shirtless Penguin??? There’s a nice one where I’m hanging today — over at Pudgy Penguin Perusals. Come check it out — and check out the big news, too, in the comment trail. You’re gonna love it, especially if you’re a Kindle person…

We’ll kick off the Musical Hanukkah Celebration a little bit later today. Don’t wait for Chelle to start hitting those buy buttons, though — remember, at least 50% of the royalties I earn in November (hey, that’s now!) and December will go to charity. Books make great holiday presents and YOU can not only buy a book, you can help ShapeShifter be responsible for band geeks and orchestra dweebs the world over.

It’s Friday. I’m gearing up for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration to start with all sorts of behind-the-scenes stuff you’re going to LOVE.

AND I’m hanging today with Anna, who runs the most excellent Diary of an Eccentric. Come on by and say hi — and check out my latest ambition… nope, I never do stop. Sorta like a bass player we all know and love…

Don’t ask where this came from. I don’t know.

They run rampant through me, the tremors. I live in fear of them, of the reminder of how fragile I am, of how fragile life is.

I despise them, loathe them, hate them. I want them gone. Out of my body, off this mortal coil. Gone, banished, denied entry ever again.

I dream of knives that will cut them out of my body. I dream of peace. Of stillness and solitude.

Of an end of fear, of pain, of this isolation the tremors have caused me to build around me. Of friends and family and people who visit because they want to, not because they are duty-bound.

I despise. And I dream.

A three-word Wednesday prompt (and all three words are in the first line!), but I’ll link it all over the place, like usual. Friday Flash. Weekend Writer’s Retreat. You guys know the drill. Another thing you ought to know? Starting Monday, at least half of the royalties from sales of all three of my books will head to charity. Be sure to check the contest page — more books are being donated for anyone who makes a direct donation, too!)