QLiterati! The Update

QLiterati! on Wednesday was a night of many firsts for me.

First off, it was hosted at the Q Center in Portland (Oregon). Before QLiterati! I didn't know that Portland had a Q Center. I'm feeling a little out of touch with my community. The building is located in an old industrial come hipster neighborhood, not too far from the river (Willamette).

Second, I was able to meet, live and in person, fellow Bold Strokes authors, Jacob and Diane Anderson-Minshall. I've communicated with others online and I've spoken with both Radclyffe and Jennifer (Knight) over the phone, but this was the first time for a shake hands, "nice to meet you" kind of introduction. That was a treat. Both were very charming and engaging.

Third, as I stated before, this was my first public reading. Wow! What a fun time. The setting made all the difference, I'm sure. Let me break down the evening for you.

In an unexpected turn of events, Tara was able to go with me. I didn't think it would matter to me, having a face in the audience that I know, love, and trust, but it did. Having her there to support me added to my overall confidence and enjoyment for the evening.

We arrived early and sat in the car until 6:30pm. I read through my selection twice more, making her listen for consistency, tone, stumbles, and the like. She is right and properly sick of that portion of the book now. I scribbled that section all up, marking out entire paragraphs to omit, rearranging sentences, and changing words. I scrambled for a pen, desperate to make one last change before heading inside. "You sure you should be making changes now?" I ignored her and kept scribbling.

Inside the building we were greeted by a cheerful young woman who pointed us in the right direction, but not before arming us with raffle tickets for the drawing later in the evening. "I don't know what they're giving away," she said, "but their prizes are always good. I wish I could enter." And she was right. The prizes were good.

After a brief introduction and outline of how the evening should go, Tara and I selected seats in the back row. I've always been a back row kind of girl. Next time, maybe I'll change up my perspective and sit in the front. But this time we sat back row, on the edge. I wanted to be able to move to the front, quickly, easily, and with minimum obstacles to trip over. I made it.

A lovely (and totally muscle-ee butch) singer named Joshua Klipp, along with Seattle jazz musician Quinn Fitzpatrick, started the evening out. Joshua and Quinn are both FTM and it was interesting to hear about Josh's experience. Quinn was a little on the shy side and didn't talk. He did, however, turn red when Josh mentioned how cute and talented he is. They did a set of three or four songs and it really helped to loosen up the audience.

After that there was an open mic period. Local writers are invited to take the stage and share their poetry, short stories, essays, etc. One of particular interest was from a woman who works at a local emergency room about the stress and frustration that are part of her everyday life. Very well written and passionate. She expressed concern that perhaps a non-medical audience would not be able to appreciate the tenor of the piece. To put aside any such concerns, I say the message came across loud and clear. I look forward to hearing more of her work.

Excitingly, there were more interested participants for the open mic than there was time for participation. Those who weren't able to contribute were promised time up first at next month's event.

Kathleen Bryson, author of Mush and Girl on a Stick, went first for the featured authors. Kathleen shared a bit of personal history about growing up in Alaska and how that informed the writing in her first book. The setting in Mush, although given a different name, was eerily similar to the small town where she grew up. Girl on a Stick takes place in London, where Kathleen spent 10 years working on her degree(s). It's about a young woman, studying in London, who sees Jesus on the Metro. Interesting social commentary there. I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the book.

All too soon, it was my turn. I made it to the microphone without tripping over anything, which was a huge relief. There was a bit of confusion about how to properly pronounce my first name. It's Jove, like clove. Rather than the two syllable moniker that Diane assigned me. Although I will say that her French sounding version makes me sound more interesting and exotic than I really am. Perhaps I should change it.

I'm typically comfortable with public speaking. The 45-50 people watching is a fairly small amount compared to the number in the audience for the last presentation I did. However, it's a whole 'nuther ball o' wax when it's your own writing you're reading instead of just some generic concepts and ideas.

I thanked everyone for sharing my first reading with me. It was a special night for me and all those people made that memory possible. Then I pointed out Tara in the back. She had devised a simple signaling system to let me know if I was babbling and making a general ass of myself. I showed the audience the symbol and asked if they saw her gesturing in that manner, yet I was charging forward oblivious, would they please pass the message forward until eventually I noticed. They laughed but I don't remember them agreeing. Good thing Tara didn't need to make use of the signal.

Then I gave a brief introduction to Edge of Darkness, explaining a bit about the two main characters. I read a very brief section from Ali's point of view and a longer one from Diana's. They were well received and the audience laughed in all the appropriate places. If I have time and a burst of techno-energy, I'll scan the pages I read and post them here. Or myspace. Or some where.

When I started reading, I could feel the tremble in my voice. The microphone refused to stay in position and I couldn't figure out where to put my mouth. I'm accustomed to the clip on mics that attach to your shirt or simply holding the mic and being mobile during a talk. As it was, I needed the stand because my hands were occupied with shaking and holding the book/turning the pages. After about a paragraph of wanting to swallow my tongue, I gave myself a pep-talk about them just being words and the audience just being people. I was much better after that. I battled with the microphone's position through the first part of the reading, but after moving on to Diana's section, I wrapped my right hand around the mic and held it in place. That worked pretty well until I had to do something clever, like turn the page. I'm going to think on this aspect of the reading and find a way to make myself not look like such an ass next time. I'm amazed the microphone fidgeting didn't earn me the signal from Tara.

Finally, blessedly, my turn was over and I went back to my chair and fainted. Tara smiled at me and told me I did good. Bless her.

Last up was Kal Colbalt. She's a self-described omnisexual who writes m/m erotica. I'm not entirely certain that I know what omnisexual really means, another sign that I'm out of touch with my community. But I'm sure she'll explain it to me if I ask nicely. She has a delightful, quirky style that is infused with humor. I'm excited to dig in and pick her brain.

After she finished, there was a Q&A portion where the featured authors, Kathleen, Kal, and me (or is it myself? I never know when to use that), sat in these super comfortable chairs up front and opened ourselves up to questions from the audience.

Before each reading, Diane or Jake read a brief intro and bio about the individual author. I have to say that, on paper, I sound boring as hell. Married for 13 years, 3 kids, live, work, some day I'll die. I know my life is actually pretty interesting, but it didn't translate. It may very well be time to update my bio. At any rate, the things that make me sound ridiculously domesticated and boring, are the things of most interest during the Q&A. Children, while more and more common for same sex couples, are still fairly rare in the lesbian community. What's it like to write in a house full of children. Tell us about your kids. Tell us about your experiences with your son (who is a high functioning autistic).

We were also asked how our real life experiences impact and inform our writing. I assured them, and you now, that I have never been a serial killer. They seemed relieved.

When all questions were exhausted, they held the raffle, giving away some very cool prizes: A copy of Josh's CD, a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, some fuzzy handcuffs, and other nifty things.

After that was wrapped up, there was a milling about period. Getting to know the authors kind of thing. Which I didn't get to stay for. We were already late home for the sitter and had to rush out in a flurry. Next time, I promise, I will stay and chat. I, too, have lots of questions that were never answered.

Tara and I are already planning our return. Next month I'll go and sit quietly in the audience and just soak up the environment. Overall, the whole experience had an awesome vibe and I'm super grateful for being allowed to be a part of this special event.

New Thing - The Box

My new thing today was to write a poem about a box. I've written poems before, but usually in an effort to get laid. Boxes, as a general rule, will not get me laid. Here's the poem:

i built it, so i shouldn't complain

it's comfy, well appointed

except the furniture doesn't all match

and i fight against the size

big is better, right?

except when it's not

i'm tired and it still needs care

what if it were smaller

and i could sit on the beach and sip frozen drinks

and write on my laptop

while my kids play in the surf

in a world where english isn't the first language

or the second

would that box be more comfortable

and why do i fight so hard for this one?

Mac-a-poopie

In my endeavor to fill my life with new experiences, tonight I tried a much heard about but never experienced food for my family dinner. I took a plain ol' box of Kraft mac and cheese and combined it with a half pound of ground beef. I've heard of others who have prepared this meal with success, so I figured why the hell not. 

Now I can tell you why not.

My son looked at it and said, "Mommy, what's this?"

My wife smiled sweetly and christened dinner. "It's mac-a-poopie, son."

In spite of the moniker, she ate her entire plateful. I did not.

New Thing

A few weeks ago I discovered the blog of Marc Acito. His claim to fame is that he does one new thing each day. It doesn't have to be big, just something new to alter his perspective. That got me thinking. I used to do a LOT of things just to be able to say I'd done it. Recently I've fallen out of the habit. How is it that the thing we crave--love, family, stability--also is the exact things that rob us of our flair, our flavor for life? 

Time to jump start my ass out of the rut I've landed in, methinks. Thanks to the inspiration of Marc Acito, I'm going to try a social experiment of my own. I will chronicle my experiences here for the time being.

QLiterati

Just a reminder folks. I'll be doing my very first public reading of Edge of Darkness this Wednesday, August 13, at the Q Center in Portland, OR. That's located here: Q Center 69 SE Taylor (at SE Water Ave), Portland.

Come out and say 'hi.' You can count my 'ummms' with my wife.

Three Words: Ship, Candle, Leaves

The perma-press crease of her uniform pants stood out in sharp relief. Mine, by comparison, hung limp and impotent. Fishing line, she told me, was the secret. Ironed into the fold, it kept the fabric from relaxing, no matter how many times through the wash. Her father, ex-marine and current social recluse, taught her that. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

One night I found her curled up on her front porch, knees tucked up to her chin, eyes shut tight, hands over her ears. Sounds of battle poured from the house.

Her feet scuffed the ground, scattering leaves as she made her way to my car. Her pants were perfect, oblivious to the chaos in the air.

"Everything okay?"

"He's been drinking." She shrugged like that explained everything. Maybe it did.

Her life, to the rest of us, shone bright, but never quite came into focus. Like the wavering light of a candle.

"I'm sorry." I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn't think she'd let me. I gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle tight.

The scenery slipped by. The giant Mrs. Peasner and her tiny dog on a string. Mitze. The automall with row after row of brightly polished reasons why my beat up '82 Huyndai wasn't good enough. The harbor with one lone ship, white sails billowed in the wind. I drove past our turn and took the interstate, determined to keep going until her heart unclenched. 

Three Words: Butter, Stop, Pillow

Most days Maryanne McArthur spends the afternoon in her kitchen, wine glass in her hand, platter of cookies on the counter. I watch her from my kitchen, through the window and over the fence, our two houses backed up against one another in some cruel trick of housing development design. Our kitchens face one another. Our bedrooms face one another. Our bathrooms face one another. Everything she does, I can see. And vice versa, I suppose, but I don't dwell on that.

She caught me once. Rather than outrage--after all, what kind of person spies on her neighbor--she stared at me, lips parted, for several minutes. Then she raised her glass and winked.

Winked.

She didn't say shriek and close the blinds. She didn't rush out and shake her fist, yelling for me to stop. 

I peered out between the blinds, not ready to fully commit to my afternoon hobby of peeping tom activity. Her kitchen was dark. On the top rail of the fence separating our houses, a glass of wine sparkled ruby bright.

I've never been cool enough to drink wine, the tannins sticking in my throat on the way down. Or at least I theorized that it was the tannins. It may very well have been the fruity bouquet. Or the underlying buttery flavor from 100-year-old casks. But I'd drink her wine, even bad wine from a box.

The red imprint of lips pressed against the glass marred one side. A perfect red kiss. A note fluttered to the ground as I matched my bottom lip to the mark and sipped. "Join me" it said in flowing cursive.

 The sliding glass door lay open in invitation, but I hesitated. "Hello?"

No response. 

I took a step. Just one small step.  With the taste of her lips and wine on my breath, how could I not?

She sat on the couch, jacket off, the satin-smooth shell pulled tight around her chest, and a mountain of pillows in a jumbled pile at her feet. 

Three Words: Look, Red, Clutch

"Are you nervous?" Kristen eyed the red Corolla suspiciously, the rapid-fire pop pop pop of her gum echoed through the near empty parking lot. 

"No." Liesel wasn't nervous, she was pissed the hell off. She'd won the raffle fair and square and the rules said nothing about sharing Scooter.

Fifty-seven tickets. It took thirty-six hours of babysitting the devil Bradly twins to earn the money for those tickets. All so she could listen to Kristen chew and babble. Maybe this is what her mama was talking about when she said "be careful what you wish for. You just might get it." 

A door clanked shut behind them and Liesel whipped around. She pasted a fake smile on her face, the one she used after church to greet Pastor Bob and his wife. 

Scooter.

The frozen smile eased and she choked down a unwarranted burst of laughter. Lord help her, she went all doe eyed. Dammit. She made fun of the girls at school who acted like giggling barbies. 

Scooter grinned--that Bo Duke charming smile that made her panties melt--and said, "You girls ready?"

Girls? Seriously? She'd be eighteen in 372 days. She'd show him girl.

Since she'd won the raffle and Kristen was a damned usurper, Liesel got to drive first. She eased up to the stop sign separating the school lot from highway 106. Scooter's foot hovered over the instructor's break pedal.

"Easy." He waved his hands in a gentle downward motion, the universal sign for slow down. "Look both ways before going."

Liesel shifted to first, cursing the standard transmission as the clutch slipped and the gears grinded together.

"Shit." She forced the gear stick into position with a clunk.

"It's okay." Scooter patted her arm reassuringly.

Liesel's brain exploded on contact. Perhaps driving lessons with Scooter were a bad idea.

Three Words: wine, attack, chair

Rachel tiptoed through the room, gathering bits of her pride as she went. Nylons: behind the couch, one toe clinging to the rounded back. Clingy black skirt that Lucy promised would get her fucked: crumpled on the bookshelf obscuring Faust's seven levels of hell. Strappy sandals with heels too tall to walk on: one under the chair, the other being chewed on by the long eared hound growling from the corner. Let him keep it. Panties: Clutched in Jasmin's hand, her long, sculpted fingers wrapped around the tiny bit of lace and stringy fabric like it was her safety blanket after a bad dream. Let her keep them? Hell, no. Their all-too-long affair ended appropriately six months ago. No way was Rachel leaving her a souvenir of their ill-advised reunion. 

They would, of course, blame the wine, Rachel reasoned as she tugged her thong from Jasmin's grasp. It was never a good idea for her to drink wine. Especially not that classic Rosso. Especially not the better share of three bottles. Especially not with Jasmin.

Jasmin's fingers wrapped around her wrist just as she extracted the last bit of fabric. "Hmmm. Where you going?" The sleep-tousled inquiry rumbled up from her chest, full of afterglow and tannins.

Great, now they were both awake and sober. It was never as much fun with Jasmin the morning after.

"Home. It's morning." 

Jasmin peeled one eye open and smiled. "Stay. I'll fix breakfast."

"That's not a good idea." Rachel tried to break free of Jasmin's hold.

"I have sausage. The kind from Mercer's that you like so much." Jasmin released Rachel and stretched like a cat. No sign in her movements that she'd spent the night on the floor passed out next to empty wine bottles and her ex-girlfriend. She sat up and leaned against the couch, her legs stretched out before her, one straight, the other bent at the knee. The light throw they'd used as a makeshift blanket slid down her torso and crumpled around her waist. Perfect, gravity defying tits on display, she recaptured Rachel's, this time twining their fingers together, and tugged gently. "Come on. It'll be nice. Like old times." 

Rachel, still naked with last night's panties slipping from her fingers,  felt her skin prickle under Jasmin's hot scrutiny. "Old times, huh?" 

That was not a promising invitation. Old times invariably followed the same path: Too hot sex--the kind that romance writers spent years trying to capture in a book, with multiple, simultaneous, screaming, mind-searing orgasm after orgasm. Followed by guilt. Sex with Jasmin, while life altering, always came with a price. She was the kind of woman who had to deconstruct her transgressions--typically with her priest--and make amends for them, one Hail Mary at a time. That Rachel was not Catholic was of little consequence. Jasmin's guilt was large enough to envelop entire cities and easily she settled it around Rachel like an old, unwanted cloak. The hand-holding promise to be strong, to help Jasmin fight the demons that pushed her to be bad, ultimately drove Rachel away. Unlike Jasmin, she didn't see her lesbianism as a sin. The attack on her morality, to elevate her standard, and change her wicked ways became too much burden for Rachel to carry. Even if the sex was Olympic gold medal good.

Jasmin hugged Rachel's thighs, her fingers digging into the meaty part of her ass. She nuzzled the trimmed thatch of hair and snaked out her tongue, barely catching Rachel's clit with the invading swipe. "Stay."

Three Words: Free, limp, reason

Liesel stared at the rolls on the back of Mrs. Davenport's neck. Thick, like a 100-year-old oak, and starting to sag in all the wrong places, Mrs. Davenport was not a woman to trifle with. And she stood between Liesel and the free raffle table at the Mason County Fair--largest in three states.  

This year's prizes included a hand crafted rocker donated by Mr. Davenport, a years worth of strawberry preserves donated by the ladies of the Union Street Baptist Church, and a three month session of driving lessons, donated by Scooter McVey. Liesel hopped and shifted to the right and caught a glimpse of Scooter in the gap between Mrs. Davenport's body and the limp folds flapping on the back of her arm as she filled out yet another ticket.

"I declare, I hope someone deserving wins that chair," she said importantly as she dropped the small blue ticket into the gallon sized mason jar. 

Scooter smiled indulgently. "Surely, Mrs. D., you know that whoever the good Lord sees fit to have it will be the winner." 

"Oh, yes, child. I'm not one to argue with the reasons of the All Mighty." The words all and mighty came out close together as is tradition amongst the righteous in the south. Almighty.

Scooter's perfect white Chicklet teeth sparkled. Liesel wanted to trace them with her tongue and hoped her mama was wrong about God being able to read her thoughts. No way would He see fit to win her those driving lessons if He knew about the thoughts she was having about Scooter McVey and the drastic state of her underwear as a result. 

Three Words: Cat, Diet Coke, Rose

Crystal jutted out her hip, balancing the baby low in her arms. The baby giggled. Or did she gurgle? Crystal, in spite of having three children under the age of five, never felt qualified to determine the finer details, like the difference between giggling and gurgling. She chugged her Diet Coke as she watched the fading trail of dust disappear down the drive. Another broken promise of forever gone in a hail of gravel and gas fumes.

"Good riddance."

"Mom, I'm hungry." The nasal whine of her oldest, Jaime, the dancer, rose from thigh level, pulling Crystal back to the needs of her children. Jaime squirmed from foot to foot, her chubby fingers fisted in the hem of Crystal's shirt.

"Jaime, stop fidgeting," Crystal sighed. Why, at almost five years old, did the child still need her mama to tell her when to go to the toilet? "Go in and go potty. I'll fix dinner in a minute."

Another moment spent staring down the drive, Arthur's words echoing in her head--You're no fun no more, Crystal--as she drained the last of the soda from her can. Tossing it in the barrel at the bottom of the steps, she turned her back on his memory and went inside. The cat, a rangy field mouser with a broken tail and scar obscuring one eye, slunk in between Crystal's feet, barely making it before the door swung shut with a clank.

She heard the last chimes of her phone as it switched over to the machine. "Honey, it's Rose. Pick up."

Crystal muted the volume and went to the kitchen. She didn't need to explain to Rose, her best friend since third grade, that another man had left her. She could hear Rose, clear as if she were standing with her. "Sweetie, you know I'll help you out. Pack up them kids and move to Sioux City. You can stay with me for as long as you want--forever. There ain't nothing left in Rufus. I don't know why you stay."

Maybe, thought Crystal as she wiped Chris's snotty nose for the fiftieth time that day, just maybe I'll take her up on it this time.

Roll the Dice

My friend went to a writers conference this week. One of the presenters spoke about a very simple idea to help get the creative juices flowing. He writes for fifteen minutes every day. As a catalyst for this project, he has a numbered list of words. He then rolls three ten sided dice. He matches the three numbers with three words from his list and then writes about them for fifteen minutes. Maybe a story is born. Maybe it's crap. 

A worthwhile experiment, yes? To that end, I'm going to give it a try. Beginning tomorrow and ending god only knows when -- a month? Longer? I'll post my fifteen minutes of ramble each day. I don't have ten sided dice. I don't have a list of words. And I don't have the patience for such a complicated system of creation. What I do have is fifteen minutes, a keyboard, and an endless supply of words in my very own brain.

Ready, set, write!