I’m over at Drey’s Library today, talking about what it is about Trevor that makes him such a great character.

Come see it through my eyes — and then share it through yours.

By now, you ought to know what a Jennifer Estep fangirl I am. I just finished her newest book, Spider’s Bite, and so… I had to ask.

You guys know the drill, right? I ask ONE question to an author about her (there haven’t been any men yet!) new release. That question is a simple one: What song makes you think of your book?

Jennifer picked Human, by the Pretenders. (Jennifer and I share a taste in music!)

Here’s why:

The song “Human” by The Pretenders makes me think of my main character, Gin Blanco. On the outside, Gin is a tough-as-nails assassin and ready to battle any bad guy who comes her way. But on the inside, she has a lot of inner demons, including her guilt over not being able to save her murdered mentor/foster father as well as all the bad things that happened to her the night that her mother and older sister were killed by a Fire elemental. The line from the song “I’m only human on the inside” just really sums up Gin’s character.

Here’s a link to the song at YouTube. Let me know what you think. And pick up Spider’s Bite! It’s available now. In fact, here’s a buy link, to Powell’s.com (Yes, I’ll earn a commission. No, I won’t spend it on myself. When I have enough moolah, I’ll give a book away to one of YOU.)

Now, Chelle here got a toughie for you, so don’t come back and complain when you hear somethin’ you didn’t wanna. Anyone remember Gene McLean, the dude who made them horrid death metal growls for Forbidden Hope that gave Chelle here nightmares?

Yeah, yeah. We all heard of Forbidden Hope, especially us who ruled the scene in the nineties. We heard about how they broke up in ’98 and how Pluck Remy went on to make that Fermented band happen and get so huge and all. But what none of us heard about was what happened to ol’ Gene. Gene McLean, the meanest dude with the rhymin’ name.

Turns out, no one knows what happened to our boy. That child went and vanished on us as if he’d been spirited away by some underworld demon come to get his voice back. Probably was.

Two months ago, word got out. Pluck went and did what no one thought could ever happen. He dissolved Fermented. Just … up and said to all them members of that hard-workin’ band to go and find themselves new gigs. Told ’em all it’d been fun but there was a door they all gotta walk through and hope it don’t hit ’em on them hineys.

Next thing, we be gettin’ word that Pluck’s found Gene. Brought him back into the fold or whatever it is those two had goin’ on. They be bringin’ back Forbidden Hope and there’s death metal heads all over the place havin’ all sorts of unmentionable sorts-a dreams over this news.

Ever seen a happy death metal head? That is some scary stuff right there, boys and girls. But that’s how you all was. Comin’ up to Chelle at shows and tellin’ her all about how great it was gonna be. Forbidden Hope. Back together. Rulin’ the world the way they should have back in the day.

Now, this is the bad part. Chelle here’s gotta break your hearts.

Word came down tonight that Gene McLean got down with the business end of a shotgun. No one knows why. Word came down from Pluck hisself, along with the request that we not bug the Pluck man for a bit. He be needin’ to grieve.

Chelle don’t blame him. Around these parts, there’s people wonderin’ if bein’ saddled with a girl’s name gone and done Gene in at last. Wonderin’ if the magic between him and Pluck couldn’t hold up over the years. There’s a million reasons why Gene coulda gone and done this.

Chelle ain’t sure why someone would up and off themselves like that. All she knows for sure is that it’s stupid. No matter who you are, there’s people who love you. Or like you. Or need you.

Or all of the above.

You hear me? No matter how bad it gets, when you face that demon who’s gonna take it all away from you, say no. Look for that angel who’s never near enough when you think you need her the most.

That’s the one you wanna say yes to.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Say yes to livin’. Without you, who’s gonna be readin’ Chelle’s columns?

***
This Sunday Scribblings came together because of the real-life story of Joe Ptacek, the singer for a nineties death metal band called Broken Hope. He was 37. I was never a fan of the band, but that doesn’t really matter. His story’s a tragedy.

I’ve been reading too much Captain Underpants ’cause I want to giggle, all Beavis-like, at the idea that I’ve started a movement. (“I said movement!”)

But maybe I have. I sure hope so.

You’ve been hearing a LOT about me trying to sell LOTS of books so I can donate part of the royalties to charity (So far, we’ve raised about $12. That’s it! I was hoping for … more).

Two authors have joined me in this effort, and I want to tell you who they are, so you can buy THEIR books if you won’t buy mine. (*sniff* books make great gifts, you know!)

First is Sue Lange. You can buy her collection of short work (the stories even have intros, like The Demo Tapes do!) via Smashwords. It’s called Uncategorized, and yes, I’ve read it. (here are some of my thoughts, in case you missed them) For a whopping $1.99, you can read it, too. AND help make a donation to Haiti.

Second is my good friend Wylie Kinson. I love Wylie; talking to her is like talking to a super-strong breath of fresh air. She’s got two books out via Ellora’s Cave, and while I’ve only read the one (Law of Averages), I’m confident in telling you to pick up both these books and settle in for a steamy read. These books are on the pricier side (yes, sarcasm intended); one’s priced over five bucks and the other just under four and a half.

So. Check out some Susan-approved authors. If you hear of more authors who’re doing the donation thing, let me know I’ll help spread the word. Many of you have been helping spread the word about me, so please. Let me return the favor.

Let’s do some good in the world. Royalties to help Haiti.

I swear, today’s Booking Through Thursday is a retread. I’m even going to begin my answer the same way I did the last time.

But first, the question:

Who’s your favorite author that other people are NOT reading? The one you want to evangelize for, the one you would run popularity campaigns for? The author that, so far as you’re concerned, everyone should be reading–but that nobody seems to have heard of. You know, not JK Rowling, not Jane Austen, not Hemingway–everybody’s heard of them. The author that you think should be that famous and can’t understand why they’re not…

Answer: ME! (especially since until the end of the month, I’m donating at least 50% of my royalties to the Red Cross, in response to the earthquake in Haiti. What a good time to buy my books.)

Want a less ego-centric answer? Jennifer Estep. Anya Bast. Ann Aguirre (although she’s well on her way). Carrie Lofty. India Edghill. Marcia Muller (she’s been around forever but has never really broken out. What a shame. She writes great stuff.). Cody McFadyen. KL Going. Don Bruns. Hank Phillippi Ryan.

Sheesh. Dig around the index here. Go under “Books” or “Susan’s Book Talk.” Find the books I’ve talked about. Ninety percent of them are written by non-best-selling authors. That’s because I prefer the hidden gems, the non-best-sellers-that-shouldn’t-be-non-best-sellers. I’ve started trends before. No reason I can’t do it by championing some of my favorite books.

I decided today was going to be a Sweatpants Day. After all, I wasn’t really going anywhere. Why get a good pair of jeans dirty when I was going to be cooking and writing all day long?

That, of course, made me think of our favorite band.

1. Sweats are perfect for the tour bus. Especially for overnight trips.

2. As the band gains popularity, though, they often feel the need to change into jeans before going into the hotel.

3. After all, their fans are hanging out, waiting for autographs, pictures, whatever they can get from the guys.

4. Trevor, of course, once vowed to wear sweats the first time the band walked a red carpet at an event.

5. Everyone ignored him, trusting that his vanity would win out when the actual time came.

6. It did.

7. Of the four guys in ShapeShifter, only Eric and Daniel are likely to hang out in sweats.

8. Trevor says he likes his pants tighter.

9. Mitchell doesn’t like to feel sloppy. Or so he says.

10. Kerri thinks he just wants to show off his legs.

11. Kerri also wonders what he’s got to show off, and why he’d want to. Showing off is more Trevor’s thing.

12. Still, sweats make for a comfy way to pass a long, boring day on a tour bus.

13. Just so long as there’s no one to see you, I guess.

Remember, I’m donating a portion of my royalties between now and January 31 (at least) to the Red Cross. It’s the least I can do, don’tcha think? Books make great gifts, remember — and I’ve posted a coupon code for the print version if you buy through Lulu. Read all the details yourself.

Come visit with me over at Drey’s Library, where I’m the January Featured Author. Today, I’ve written about the books I love. Which, I’m sure you guys know, is a wide cross-section of goodness.

I need suggestions to add to my wishlist, though, so stop on by and see if you can make the list grow to 2100. Yes, Two Thousand One Hundred.

I guess when I created the characters of Mitchell and Kerri (guitarist and artist, respectively), I wasn’t that far off the mark. After all, lots of rockers make art in their free time. KISS’ Paul Stanley is one of the most visible of them.

Enter David Lee Roth.

I gotta say, I like the demon with the drumsticks. And the woman with the hair and the weird skivvies. The warring fingers are a bit of a mindfuck, no?

Go on. Give me some perspective that I’m missing…

Maybe it’s a sign from above, but last night as I was writing up my Thirteen (scroll down or click through to see/read it), royalties from Smashwords showed up.

So there’s our first concrete donation… keep the sales coming, gang. Keep spreading the word. All it takes is a few minutes of your time — and you get to keep the book, too!

The other thing is that I’ve neglected to mention I’ve been out and about lately. I’m the featured author this month over at Drey’s Library, one of my favorite places (it helps that Trevor’s got a crush on Drey). And today, I’m at Booking Mama, talking about my awesome book club.

It seems that everyone who’s leaving comments wants to join my book club. Talk about the compliments you guys can pay me…

Don’t forget to pay the highest one: buy The Demo Tapes. Both Year 1 and Year 2. Let’s make a nice, big, fat difference for the people of Haiti.

1. If you were here with us a long time ago, (way back in October of 2007, in fact), you know that the big tragedies in the world bother me.

2. Maybe more than I let on. *grin*

3. And if you follow me around when I guest blog, you’ve seen me talk about my desire to be a great philanthropist.

4. This morning, we woke up to images of Haiti.

5. I knew better than to hope that we’d never see things like this again. I still remember the great tsunami of 2004.

6. I’m in a better place this time. I’ve got two books out.

7. I can. And I am.

8. Donating part of my royalties on those book sales to the Red Cross. (Although, after reading this, I might need to change my mind.)

9. Buy one (or both!) before January 31 and I’ll tally up and make the donation.

10. The timing for this is quite good. I’ve got a coupon code for the print version via Lulu.com.

11. I’m offering a free Demo Tapes: Year 2 if you buy Year 1 for your Kindle. (Via the Kindle store)

12. And have just dropped the sale price at Smashwords.

13. It’s never been easier to make a positive difference in the world. Please help spread the word; let’s make a big donation to The Red Cross, shall we?

**UPDATED: Until January 31 (and maybe beyond), royalties earned from book sales will be donated to the Red Cross, to help the people of Haiti.**

Because I feel like it, I’ve dropped the price on both Demo Tapes anthologies over at Smashwords. I’m also offering 10% off the print version of both books at Lulu.com.

AND if that’s not enough, I’m offering a two-fer if you buy through the Kindle store.

Check the Contest page for more details.

Extreme

Extreme? Are you shitting me? My first thought was that Extreme would be a kick-ass name for a band. I mean, shit. Look at ShapeShifter. We’re nothing if not extreme.

Thinking’s bad for your fucking health. Which means I wised up fast.

Only the pansies would think to call their band Extreme. Losers who think being extreme means acoustic guitars and love songs and black and white videos featuring half the band and close-ups of those pretty faces so the girls’ll swoon. I mean, shit, if you’ve got to tell people you’re extreme, there’s no fucking way in Hell you are. Even in your Goddamn dreams.

Now Extreme Losers. That’s a band name for ya. A man can have fun with a name like that. Play it ironic. Play it satiric. Play it serious, and play the shows so drunk, they all fall off the stage, into puddles of their own puke. Into clouds of blow.

Of course, with those sorts of habits, they wouldn’t be someone you wanted to listen to.

But I still don’t want to listen to those pansies and their acoustic love songs, either. That’s about as extreme as Rusty is.

And don’t get me started on her.

For some less tongue-in-cheek Sunday Scribblings, you know where to go. I hope.

It’s been a busy week over here. I’ve been writing up a storm — writing up some novel-length storms, which is good news for you Trevor lovers.

But I had to give my friend Mary at BookHound some props.

She sent me a link to The Smoking Gun’s Friday Photo Fun. It’s a picture of a piece of a concert rider, asking that bacon be provided at all times for the band’s crew. We were supposed to name the band.

I got it right. And then I even told Mary this story of how I associated backstage bacon with Big Mick, Metallica’s now-retired (and very legendary) sound guy. I even met him once; he told amazingly neat stories. I wish I could listen to him for hours.

Turns out that not only was the band Metallica, my bacon association was right on. It was all about Big Mick.

Whether or not I officially won the contest — and HUGE kudos to TSG for offering BOOKS as prizes. I like them even more for that — I’m patting myself on the back and feeling good about my useless knowledge.

Come feel good with me, will ya? You know your love fuels my fiction.

Ordinarily, I let Chelle LaFleur do the ranting here at the Meet and Greet. But I don’t want to stay quiet about this one.

You see, I’m a member of a number of author’s lists, where we authors (published and aspiring) talk amongst ourselves about all sorts of stuff. I came late to this particular discussion. I’m sorry I did, or I’d be blasting them personally. Maybe I still will, but I doubt it. If you read my post over at Killer Fiction, you’ll understand why I’m making noise here, not there.

The statement was made that authors are shocked when readers come up to them at signings and say, “I loved your book so much, I shared it with all my friends!”
Some of these authors seize this opportunity to educate these excited readers. The authors have lost royalties, you see, because the book was shared. Multiple copies weren’t bought. This reader has now ripped off the author.

Hello?
For real?
For fucking real????

***
I’m going to put on my reader’s hat for a second here, since I am every bit as much a reader as I am a writer. When I tell an author I loved his/her book so much, I shared it with all my friends, it’s the highest compliment I can give. That means I didn’t buy it, read it, and donate it to the library for their semi-annual sale. It means I didn’t immediately list it at the book trading sites. It means I didn’t stick it on my shelf and forget about it.

Not even close.

It means I loved it so much, I wanted to share it with the world. And since it’s a book and since communities are formed around books, I made good on that need to share. I handed it to my friends. I spread the magic inside those covers. I saved my friends from a bad book, and gave them an amazing one, instead.

***
“I shared your book with my friends,” is a compliment. We authors should stop crying over spilled milk (or unrealized royalties) and acknowledge it as such. Yeah, it’d be much nicer to hear, “I bought copies for my fifteen friends,” but let’s face it. Buying fifteen copies of the same book means another author somewhere else (maybe even fifteen authors) lost out on their royalties. Not to mention that any reader who can buy that many copies of the same book can afford to shop exclusively at Neiman Marcus. Before the sales.

***
In all honesty, if an author popped my bubble of goodwill toward his/her books by lecturing me about lost royalties, I’d never buy that author’s books again. Any of them. And I’d make damn sure all my friends — the same ones I’d raved to about how great the book is — know what a jerk the author is. And why I’d never again contribute to those precious royalties.

As a reader, it can be intimidating to meet this person who created the characters you’ve grown to love. Some readers put us authors on the same plane as the biggest of the media stars out there. C’mon. Don’t tell me no one’s ever turned you into Simon Cowell and pitched their book to you.

Yet you’re gracious when they do. So why can’t you take the idea of your book being shared among friends as the same sort of compliment?

***
In fact, speaking as a writer, it seems to me that the only possible response to being told your book was shared is, “Oh, be sure to tell your friends to pick up [insert title from your backlist] the next time they come in the store here. I’ll even ask the manager if she minds if I sign what’s in stock and that way, they can have my autograph, too.”

***
Think about it, fellow authors. As a reader, which response would YOU rather hear?

Before we get to the Roadie Poet, let me point you to one Alex Skolnick. He’s the guitar player for Testament, a band near-and-dear to my heart (among other gigs he does/did). He’s waxing poetic about roadies, himself.

Now, on to the Poet , himself:

Been hearing the production manager talk.
“New leaf coming,” he keeps saying.
He’s nervous.
Pressure must be on.

We’re all clueless.
Like it that way.
Let Stew worry about his shit.
We’ll deal with ours.

We’re grunts,
nothing more.
Like it that way.

Can’t help but notice
the band
avoids one spot on the stage.

We now gaff it out
so they don’t forget
and walk across.

We don’t know why.
Don’t care, either.
We got our jobs.
It’s all we want.
Like it this way.

Until the day
Stew comes around.
“New leaf is here!”

And we’re all sucked in
as we help
replace
part of
the stage.

We do
Not
Like it this way.

Ahh, another Sunday Scribblings. Sometimes, I fear I can’t write a thing without it anymore.

So, awhile back, I listed my Best Women-Penned of 2009. This week’s Booking Through Thursday asked what our best books of 2009 were, and since I wasn’t able to make the vague ideas for this week’s Thursday Thirteen gel, here’s a list of 13 of the best books I read in 2009.

**Note. Some links will take you to reviews, others to buy links via Powells.com. Any books you buy with my Powell’s affiliate will earn me money … which will go to buying books to share with you guys. I’m not keeping any profits I make through the Powell’s affiliate, only from the royalties I earn on The Demo Tapes (buy link for THAT below).

1. I started off the year with my first Greg Iles book, 24 Hours. I need to find more of Mr. Isles’ books. This was a great thriller.

2. Then I stepped back in time — with my very next read! — and discovered Michael Simon. I started with his first book, Dirty Sally. Loved the noir going on. My book club? Not so much. I’ll keep reading the series without them.

3. I read a bunch of rock and roll fiction. Rock Bottom by Michael Shilling, The Rock Star’s Homecoming by Linda Gould, Bahama Burnout by Don Bruns, Dark Side of the Morgue by Raymond Benson. Some were great, some weren’t. Later in the year, I got to A&R by Bill Flanagan and Do The Devil’s Work by Rick Florino, as well as Erica Kennedy’s Bling and Cecil Castellucci’s Beige and Dylan Schaffer’s Misdemeanor Man. (Reviews of these last three will appear at Rocks ‘n Reads sooner or later.)

4. Sometimes, I feel like I was one of the last people to be introduced to Lloyd Jones. His Mr. Pip is still making the rounds of my book club, and it’s a book I repeatedly refer to.

5. I really like fantasy and George RR Martin is truly one of the masters of the genre. I read A Clash of Kings this year — it took forever, as it was the book on my nightstand — and found that even though the cast is huge and I’d read the first book in the series years ago, I was brought up to speed seamlessly.

6. I got around to reading a lot of popular books: Audrey Niffeneger’s The Time-Traveler’s Wife, Christopher Paolini’s Eragon, Ann Brashare’s The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. One I loved, three I liked, one didn’t impress.

7. I’ve spent LOTS of time raving about Hank Phillippi Ryan. Why haven’t you joined me yet?

8. Another rock book and another rave: Tommyland, written by the majorly colorful (on many levels) Tommy Lee. I think you guys know I dig these books written by rockers. (See my raves about Tommy’s bandmate Nikki Sixx and his Heroin Diaries.)

9. The brilliantly written Shadow Man introduced me to Cody McFadyen. I’ve heard a lot about McFadyen from a number of you guys. I finally picked this book up and … wow. Okay, I had a FEW quibbles, but overall, this is a great debut. I can’t wait to read the second in the series; it’s sitting here, waiting for me.

10. Although I already raved about it in the women-penned list I linked to above, Song of the Seals by Christy Yorke deserves a second mention. The atmosphere alone made this an incredible read and as we’re passing it around my book club, we’re all talking about how it steered away from cliche.

11. After hearing one of my son’s classmates’ moms tell me she didn’t like the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series (written by Jeff Kinney), I picked up the first and read it. I like the mom, but it was a reminder of why I don’t fit in with many (most?) of the moms in this area. I can’t even pretend to share her concerns.

12. Series: Gini Hartzmark, Charlaine Harris (Sookie), Janet Evanovich (Stephanie Plum), Steven Brust, Kathy Reichs, Colleen Gleason (another West of Mars favorite), Rachel Caine, MaryJanice Davidson, Marcia Muller, Linda Fairstein, Alexander McCall Smith.

13. And, of course, there are my own books. If you haven’t joined the Trevolution yet, why not? Drop me a line; I can hook you up with autographed copies.

I know. I don’t often do Mailbox Monday posts. Or an In My Mailbox post. That’s because I’ve significantly slowed down what arrives in my mailbox. I’m trying to move things OUT, not in.

However, just this morning, my trusty PO Box was stuffed to the gills. Okay, maybe one or two more could have been squished in, but four’s a pretty darn good haul!

I got…

Never Mind the Pollacks, written by Neal Pollack. It’s a Rock and Roll Novel, and will be reviewed shortly at Rocks ‘n Reads. ‘Cause, you know, I write rock and roll fiction. I gotta know the genre inside and out. This was a PaperbackSwap.com find.

Another PaperbackSwap.com find was Steven Brust’s Taltos, the next adventure for my bud Vladimir. I totally love this series. I don’t get why more people aren’t reading it. Maybe it’s Vlad’s voice. Dry, acerbic — and yet smart. That doesn’t mean Vlad doesn’t do dumb things, though — and that’s the fun of this series.

A RABCK (that’s a Random Act of BookCrossing Kindness) also showed up. Bangkok Tattoo, written by John Burdett, has been on my wishlist since July of 2005. Only 1930 books left on my wishlist to find…

I saved the best for last. It’s autographed. It’s a great story.

You see, I was keeping an eye on my Twitter stream one day before Christmas and my bud, author TJ Bennett was tweeting about buying Christmas presents. So… I pulled a Trevor. “Oh, but why are you stressing?” I asked (or something to this effect). “All you need to get ME for Christmas is your latest book.”

So guess what showed up today? TJ Bennett‘s The Promise.

Damn. Trevor’s good.

***
Disclaimer shit: the buy links take you to Powells.com. If you should be motivated to use them, I’ll save up my take of the sale and use it to buy something I’ll turn around and give to you. If you’d like to help me financially, you’re better off to buy my books. Links are up on the left-hand side here, so click on through and get busy!

If you missed the lead-in to this, clickie here. You won’t be sorry. Then come back and read on; it’ll make more sense.

Mitchell was the only one not into it.

Daniel was all about his new sticks. Signature models, in fact, although Mitchell didn’t really get how a piece of wood could be something special. Oh, he’d played drums often enough to know that sticks felt different and could be different weights.

But a signature style? It seemed extreme, even if the whole reason was marketing shit. Dans and the band got money to put his name on the sticks. People bought the sticks, wanting to sound like Daniel. Everyone won.

Slightly less stupid was Eric’s new amp. Actually, it was a lot less stupid. The guy had needed something new for awhile now. The whole band was tired of his whining and his clueless attempts at making changes. Even Chuck, his tech, had started refusing to help. “Call the rep,” Chuck would grunt and walk away as Eric stood there, mouth flapping, probably secretly wishing he was Mitchell and had the balls to fire the guy for not helping.

Mitchell didn’t know who had called the rep. Eric sure hadn’t. Chuck wouldn’t without being told by Eric to do it. It wasn’t his business, so Mitchell hadn’t done it, either to be nice or in a desperate move to shut the guy up already.

The best gift, though, had to be Mitchell’s new guitar. If Eric’s amp was suspcious, the guitar was even more so. The only person who’d known he wanted it was Trevor. The only person.

Mitchell didn’t believe in Santa. Not anymore. Not after Amy and Beth had ruined it for him when he’d been nine.

That meant there was no way Santa had been behind all this. No fucking way in Hell.

Of course the alternative was even more mystifying. There was no way Trevor would have done this. The guy refused to be organized, refused to think beyond the here and now, refused to plan. Pulling this together, here in Portland where they’d gotten stuck by a freak snow, and making it appear…

Trevor was watching them play with their new musical presents. “Pretty good of the Old Fat Man to find us here, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded like he was satisfied.

Mitchell eyed him. There was no fucking way Trevor was satisfied. Not with a lump of coal as a present. Something smelled.

“I knew Christmas was the season of miracles,” Eric sighed, brushing at imaginary dirt on the top of his new amp.

“Yep,” Trevor said, picking up his coal and tossing it in the air.

“You got coal,” Mitchell said.

“I’ve never known anyone who got coal before,” Eric said, giving his amp one last lingering pat and coming over to look at Trevor’s gift. “I didn’t think that really happened. Everyone’s got some goodness in them.”

“This has nothing to do with being good or bad,” Trevor said.

Mitchell caught the sly smile and braced himself.

“Then what’s it for?” Daniel asked. He cocked his head, his eyebrows drawn in toward his nose. “And what sort of present is it, anyway? We all got the cool stuff and you got…”

“It’s a good present,” Trevor said. “It’s what I wanted.”

“It’s coal,” Mitchell said.

“Yep,” Trevor said and grinned. He held it up so they could all see it. “Gotta keep the fire lit.”

With a grandiose gesture none of them could misinterpret, Trevor pushed the lump of coal down the front of his pants.

What can I say? I was in a mood last night

’twas the night before Christmas
And all through the land
Not a creature was stirring
Especially
The band.

The socks, they did stink
From being worn all week.
But no one minded;
They were too plied with drink.

Too plastered to care,
Dare, or share
The miracle of Christmas
That was thickening the air.

Good thing, perhaps
For in this place where they crashed,
The chimney had been smashed.

Santa could not come here.
(Santa was relieved)
If he did, he’d tremble in fear

At the snores
And the proof of the girls
The boys called scores.
Because when it comes to our band,
When it rains girls, it pours.

Yet on the band dreamed
Of guitars, drums, and fans;
Their world-conquering plans
And other goals that seemed
Some days
To be made out of sand.

But Santa, the mighty
The clever, the brave,
Found a way down the chimney,
Through the smashed passages so tiny.
Christmas, he did save.

A guitar for Mitchell,
An amp for Eric,
Drumsticks for Daniel
And for Trevor…

A lump of coal.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

ETA: Want to know what the coal’s about? Read on.

“I dare you,” Trevor said, abandoning the sing-song he’d just been using. That song had never failed him before, but then, this was nothing compared to the sort of thing he usually dared Mitchell to do.

Trevor didn’t think Mitchell was aware he lifted one hand to his left ear and played with the earrings there. Yep, Trevor had dared Mitchell into letting him pierce the big idiot’s ear. And smoke pot in the bathroom at school. Fuck, he’d dared Mitchell into starting to smoke in the first fucking place.

And then there was the band he’d dared Mitchell to start, the girls he’d dared Mitchell into fucking…

Really. The big idiot couldn’t do shit without being dared. Ever.

It wasn’t like this one was such a big deal. One day. No guitar.

Crashing that private party at Moon Shadows had been a bigger deal than this was. Shit, they should have been arrested for that one. Underage, walking into a private party full of naked dancers and picking up one beer per hand… It had been a fuck of an entrance. Maybe that’s what had saved them ’cause Mitchell’s precious Voss family connections wouldn’t have.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Dare me all you want. I’m not taking a day off from the guitar. Gus told me not to.”

“Oh. Gus. Like he’s your god or something.”

“He knows what he’s talking about.”

“He’s some washed up shitty musician who managed to play sessions back in the sixties, when anyone with a fucking work ethic would get hired.”

“He’s been around the greats, Trev. He knows. If he says I shouldn’t take a day off unless I can’t help it, I’m not going to.”

“I’ll give you…” Trevor had to stop and think. He usually didn’t have to bribe people; they did shit for him just because he was Trevor and no one could deny the mighty Trevor Wolff.

“No,” Mitchell said again.

“Is that your favorite word or something?” Trevor asked, wrinkling up his nose and cocking his head. It was a risky move; he’d done it in school once and gotten patted on the head by the teacher he pulled it on.

Mitchell didn’t pat dogs on the head, let alone people.

“Yes,” Mitchell said.

Trevor shook his head and turned away. This sucked. Mitchell never said no. Ever. The guy wasn’t capable of it.

Until you brought the guitar into it. Trevor wanted to kick the thing, but knew that Mitchell would drop kick him if he did. And then the big idiot and his guitar would never be parted, like some of that stupid, sappy shit they’d tried to make him read in school.

The big idiot followed him outside for a smoke, but every time Trevor opened his mouth to try from another angle, the guy said, “No” before Trevor could get sound out. It was all too obvious that Trevor had lost this round.

But he’d find a way to win the war. He fucking would.

Yep, another Sunday Scribbling. You’ve met Gus before, too. Sort of. His legend is beginning to grow.