Hello Friends and Family of mine!
I wanted to let you all know that the next novel is written and on its way. And I'm asking for help to cover costs - surprise eh?
Kickstarter, an online organisation that helps new creative projects has taken me on to publish the next novel Lucky Shot, a tale of sex, death and photography. For details about how to help back the goal, got to their website for me. Thanks!
Kickstarter >> Lucky Shot, a novel about sex, death and photography by sleam
www.kickstarter.com
sleam is raising funds for Lucky Shot, a novel about sex, death and photography on Kickstarter! Lucky Shot is the second novel that I'm publishing, this time with your help to cover editing and printing costs.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/sleam/lucky-shot-a-novel-about-sex-death-and-photography
much love,
sleam
cover art
Bookstores worth visiting!
So far so good, one book at a time! Here is a current list of all the independent stores that now have When No One's Looking:
Rediscovered Books in Boise, ID
Utah Pride Center Library in Salt Lake City, UT
Sam Weller's Bookstore in Salt Lake City, UT
The Arches in Moab, UT
Maria's Bookshop in Durango, CO
Andrea Kristina's in Farmington, NM
Moby Dickens in Taos, NM
Books Etcetera in Ruidoso, NM
Collected Works in Santa Fe, NM
Bookworks in Albuquerque, NM
and ofcourse, Java Junction in Madrid, NM!
thanks everyone for all your support.
Rediscovered Books in Boise, ID
Utah Pride Center Library in Salt Lake City, UT
Sam Weller's Bookstore in Salt Lake City, UT
The Arches in Moab, UT
Maria's Bookshop in Durango, CO
Andrea Kristina's in Farmington, NM
Moby Dickens in Taos, NM
Books Etcetera in Ruidoso, NM
Collected Works in Santa Fe, NM
Bookworks in Albuquerque, NM
and ofcourse, Java Junction in Madrid, NM!
thanks everyone for all your support.
Salt Lake City, Utah
I had a sweet lazy morning and then headed out with Harold and a map of downtown SLC. I started at the Utah Pride Center and chatted to the fella behind the espresso machine. I spent an hour or so there, with my double decaf americano and the books. Their library now has a copy of When No One's Looking with a note asking readers to spread the word for me. One book at a time!
Sam Weller's Bookstore has a copy. Ask and you shall receive it - perhaps.
264 Main Street, SLC. A great place if you don't know it. Bruce had the hiccups.
Sam Weller's Bookstore has a copy. Ask and you shall receive it - perhaps.
264 Main Street, SLC. A great place if you don't know it. Bruce had the hiccups.
Review
"When No One's Looking makes me homesick for the simple, hardscrabble, poetic life that unfolds daily in the Ortiz Mountains of New Mexico -- and for the raw, fearless emotions and journeys of its people, as brought to life in Sarah Leamy's protagonist Joey. It's a story about the outer and inner landscapes that lead to love, to hate, and ultimately to wisdom."
Carol Carpenter, playwright,
Carol Carpenter, playwright,
Review
To quote Carol Carpenter, playwright, of NEW YORK CITY, NY.
"When No One's Looking makes me homesick for the simple, hardscrabble, poetic life that unfolds daily in the Ortiz Mountains of New Mexico -- and for the raw, fearless emotions and journeys of its people, as brought to life in Sarah Leamy's protagonist Joey. It's a story about the outer and inner landscapes that lead to love, to hate, and ultimately to wisdom."
"When No One's Looking makes me homesick for the simple, hardscrabble, poetic life that unfolds daily in the Ortiz Mountains of New Mexico -- and for the raw, fearless emotions and journeys of its people, as brought to life in Sarah Leamy's protagonist Joey. It's a story about the outer and inner landscapes that lead to love, to hate, and ultimately to wisdom."
TEARS OF A CLOWN
A few years ago whilst sitting under the tree one Sunday lunch time Angela, Ellen and I talked, laughed, and played together. In the clearing beyond the cottonwoods, I taught Ellen new juggling tricks, up and over the balls went, different rhythms to their flight. Then I taught Angela to juggle. She had always wanted to learn, and that was the day. She was a quick study, full of a twenty- year olds’ enthusiasm for all things new. Her eyes lit up when she captured this, the musical movement. The beat lived in her hands. Angela juggled, grinning widely.
Moments like these bring meaning to my life.
Only a few months later I found myself staying in Asheville, North Carolina. Within the Old Europe Café, Dizzy Gillespie’s jazz echoed around me. It was early afternoon but I wished it were nighttime, for then I could go back to sleep in all good conscience. It’s not that I was tired. I was just heart-achingly sad. The fight had gone out of me. The raspberry topped chocolate cake balanced the bitterness. The bitterness of the espresso.
The bitterness at hearing Angela killed herself. Angela killed herself.
She threw herself in front of a semi-truck. Angela killed herself. Moments like these that bring everything into question. The fight left me. I sat there depleted. Deserted by my own understandings and faith, I ate the chocolate cake in front of me. I sipped the now-cool latte. My eyes burned. I spoke not a word. I sat lost.
All that I could think was that I am sick and tired of hearing how another friend has killed herself. When will this end? I’m sick and tired of having friends take their own lives. I’m beyond dealing with this in a quiet and proper manner. Angela. Chris. Alicia. Phil. I’m sick of this.
Today I read that Brandon, a teenager in Pennsylvania died by throwing himself in front of a tractor-trailer. A suicide note at his home told of incessant bullying. He is not the first queer kid to take his life. But his death caught me deep inside. I walked the Ortiz Mountains, sick, heart-sick to hear of his death. Another one? Really? It’s hard, being gay, bullied, and having no one to talk to about the struggles. I know. Personally. I was that kid. You almost lost me many a time. Invalidated by mainstream society, the artists, writers, queers and freaks (myself included) struggle unheard. We hold our heads as high as we can, finding paths to feed needs unheeded by the majority rule. We search and search. Why are we all so lost? Lost in this world of ours, unable to find a place to claim as our own, devoured by emotions, swayed by the inner loops of words misguided, persuaded to taking the final step? The ending of our own lives. We are all so vulnerable.
And I am enraged.
Enraged by this society that worships competition. Taught to fight each other for that job, that lover, that house and mortgage. Status. Money. Competition not connection. We don’t listen to each other nearly enough. We judge. We fight. Anyone that steps beyond the recognized paradigm is attacked.
Some years ago, I stayed in Britain for a few weeks. When I sat in the pub in Hay-on-wye I started talking to the old bloke next to me. Where you from lass? Where’s your husband? Kids? Family? He grabbed at me. I shook him off and then I answered his questions truthfully. There was a pause. Then he stormed at me; you live in America, eh? Too good for us are you? Why aren’t you married eh? Think that men aren’t good enough either, eh? Fucking dyke. Fucking arrogant shit, go back then, go back to that country; we don’t want your sort here anyway. He smashed his pint down on the table between us. The pub went silent. I was told to leave.
Years later I am still an outsider. Not just a phase was it? The good daughter turned rebel child. Now a woman and still a rebel. So, I stand outside, looking in, looking out. Further and further away from the dream of the mainstream. But why on earth am I seen as a threat? Why are kids bullied to the point where death seems a better choice?
Now I’m pissed. From this point in my life, I am pissed. The society we live in doesn’t teach us how to connect. We talk, but we don’t say what is real. We hold it back. Or when we do speak, it is rarely understood. The miscommunications pull us further apart. Yeah it hurts to love, and be loved. However, there is nothing more real. To me. Nothing more real than this. To know another. Intimately.
Some years ago, I found myself living in Santa Fe, and I had settled with my first girlfriend. One Friday afternoon I couldn’t take it any longer. The fights inside and outside my head. The incessant questions, what’s the point when it all hurts so much? Why bother? Why bother living any more? I packed the truck and drove up to El Vado Lake. I needed to be alone, and I needed to decide what to do next. Could I keep living life as I had been? Nothing owned, nothing owed, moving on whenever the love from another smashed through the masks I hid behind? I hid the panic attacks, but her eyes took me in and accepted my fears, held me tenderly. Still I ran. I ran.
At El Vado Lake, I couldn’t see beyond my own breaking heart. Life had to be more than this. Right? I wanted to live a life of meaning. But. I didn’t know what that meant. I gave myself a choice. Live or die. Simple as that.
I left a note explaining my decision. Then I stripped, folded my clothes, and waded out into the lake. I decided this was it. To swim all the way across was more than I could handle physically, so that’s what I started to do. I swam out, heading across the lake. I swam. My arms were getting weaker and weaker. I couldn’t decide! So I turned and swam parallel to the shore, my muscles quivering as I talked to myself. I swam on and on. Oh, fuck it! I want to live!
I chose life.
Back on dry land at the lake all those years ago, I lay there, exhausted yet exhilarated. I chose life! I chose life! I was astounded. I had always thought given the choice I’d quit this life of mine. I chose life! But now what? I lay there for a while till I got my breath back, then sat up, and made a cuppa tea. (I am English after all). Then I wrote. And I wrote. That’s it!
I will live. I will write. I had found my reason to live.
Why are we not encouraged to find our own answers and passions? Does society, as we know it, deliberately keep us separate? Fostering the need to fill the inner restlessness by afternoons spent in the mall? After working all week to pay the debts from the weekend before? When at school or home, growing up, learning about grammar and arithmetic, why aren’t we taught how to cope with life? The reality and the challenges? The heartbreaks, the poverty, and the fears? And, yes, the intimacy? Why are we all so protected? Why do we hide so thoroughly behind closed eyes? Behind words of self-deceit or despair? Our defenses solidifying over the years?
I chose life. Angela chose death.
Again, I have to rage at the world. We don’t know how to have these intense feelings swell up in and out of us, and we don’t know what the hell to do with them. So. We hide. We keep our distance.
Why? Why do we hide? Fear. We are all so fucking afraid. I know I am. I know it’s not just me. I know we all can feel this disconnected. And I wish to hell we didn’t. Why does this mainstream culture feed off our silences and sense of alienation? Keeping the masses in place, filling us with regrets and alcohol?
That winter I spent in North Carolina shook me harder than I like to admit. I curled up on the floor of the cabin, lost in my inner world. I’d sit in front of the woodstove and break down, yelling at the unseen, raging against a world full of fears. Wine filled my mouth and I’d forget to swallow. Swallow this life. Swallow my rage. Swallow my needs. I was tired of this pain. (I still am.) Angela killed herself. Who’s next? Too many queer kids have killed themselves this year. It’s beyond silence. We need to do something for them. I don’t want to read that another died because of bullying, loneliness or fear.
Please. All you artists, anarchists, queers and freaks, find your passions. Find your communities. Take care of each other.
Please. All everyone take care of each other, whatever your age and whatever your family looks like.
If you know another queer kid that’s struggling, tell them it gets better. Tell them to find me, talk to me. I don’t have the answers but I have time for them. I’m still here. I don’t know how I made it. Life is incredibly hard, but it does get better. Please. Talk to each other. It’s our only hope.
Moments like these bring meaning to my life.
Only a few months later I found myself staying in Asheville, North Carolina. Within the Old Europe Café, Dizzy Gillespie’s jazz echoed around me. It was early afternoon but I wished it were nighttime, for then I could go back to sleep in all good conscience. It’s not that I was tired. I was just heart-achingly sad. The fight had gone out of me. The raspberry topped chocolate cake balanced the bitterness. The bitterness of the espresso.
The bitterness at hearing Angela killed herself. Angela killed herself.
She threw herself in front of a semi-truck. Angela killed herself. Moments like these that bring everything into question. The fight left me. I sat there depleted. Deserted by my own understandings and faith, I ate the chocolate cake in front of me. I sipped the now-cool latte. My eyes burned. I spoke not a word. I sat lost.
All that I could think was that I am sick and tired of hearing how another friend has killed herself. When will this end? I’m sick and tired of having friends take their own lives. I’m beyond dealing with this in a quiet and proper manner. Angela. Chris. Alicia. Phil. I’m sick of this.
Today I read that Brandon, a teenager in Pennsylvania died by throwing himself in front of a tractor-trailer. A suicide note at his home told of incessant bullying. He is not the first queer kid to take his life. But his death caught me deep inside. I walked the Ortiz Mountains, sick, heart-sick to hear of his death. Another one? Really? It’s hard, being gay, bullied, and having no one to talk to about the struggles. I know. Personally. I was that kid. You almost lost me many a time. Invalidated by mainstream society, the artists, writers, queers and freaks (myself included) struggle unheard. We hold our heads as high as we can, finding paths to feed needs unheeded by the majority rule. We search and search. Why are we all so lost? Lost in this world of ours, unable to find a place to claim as our own, devoured by emotions, swayed by the inner loops of words misguided, persuaded to taking the final step? The ending of our own lives. We are all so vulnerable.
And I am enraged.
Enraged by this society that worships competition. Taught to fight each other for that job, that lover, that house and mortgage. Status. Money. Competition not connection. We don’t listen to each other nearly enough. We judge. We fight. Anyone that steps beyond the recognized paradigm is attacked.
Some years ago, I stayed in Britain for a few weeks. When I sat in the pub in Hay-on-wye I started talking to the old bloke next to me. Where you from lass? Where’s your husband? Kids? Family? He grabbed at me. I shook him off and then I answered his questions truthfully. There was a pause. Then he stormed at me; you live in America, eh? Too good for us are you? Why aren’t you married eh? Think that men aren’t good enough either, eh? Fucking dyke. Fucking arrogant shit, go back then, go back to that country; we don’t want your sort here anyway. He smashed his pint down on the table between us. The pub went silent. I was told to leave.
Years later I am still an outsider. Not just a phase was it? The good daughter turned rebel child. Now a woman and still a rebel. So, I stand outside, looking in, looking out. Further and further away from the dream of the mainstream. But why on earth am I seen as a threat? Why are kids bullied to the point where death seems a better choice?
Now I’m pissed. From this point in my life, I am pissed. The society we live in doesn’t teach us how to connect. We talk, but we don’t say what is real. We hold it back. Or when we do speak, it is rarely understood. The miscommunications pull us further apart. Yeah it hurts to love, and be loved. However, there is nothing more real. To me. Nothing more real than this. To know another. Intimately.
Some years ago, I found myself living in Santa Fe, and I had settled with my first girlfriend. One Friday afternoon I couldn’t take it any longer. The fights inside and outside my head. The incessant questions, what’s the point when it all hurts so much? Why bother? Why bother living any more? I packed the truck and drove up to El Vado Lake. I needed to be alone, and I needed to decide what to do next. Could I keep living life as I had been? Nothing owned, nothing owed, moving on whenever the love from another smashed through the masks I hid behind? I hid the panic attacks, but her eyes took me in and accepted my fears, held me tenderly. Still I ran. I ran.
At El Vado Lake, I couldn’t see beyond my own breaking heart. Life had to be more than this. Right? I wanted to live a life of meaning. But. I didn’t know what that meant. I gave myself a choice. Live or die. Simple as that.
I left a note explaining my decision. Then I stripped, folded my clothes, and waded out into the lake. I decided this was it. To swim all the way across was more than I could handle physically, so that’s what I started to do. I swam out, heading across the lake. I swam. My arms were getting weaker and weaker. I couldn’t decide! So I turned and swam parallel to the shore, my muscles quivering as I talked to myself. I swam on and on. Oh, fuck it! I want to live!
I chose life.
Back on dry land at the lake all those years ago, I lay there, exhausted yet exhilarated. I chose life! I chose life! I was astounded. I had always thought given the choice I’d quit this life of mine. I chose life! But now what? I lay there for a while till I got my breath back, then sat up, and made a cuppa tea. (I am English after all). Then I wrote. And I wrote. That’s it!
I will live. I will write. I had found my reason to live.
Why are we not encouraged to find our own answers and passions? Does society, as we know it, deliberately keep us separate? Fostering the need to fill the inner restlessness by afternoons spent in the mall? After working all week to pay the debts from the weekend before? When at school or home, growing up, learning about grammar and arithmetic, why aren’t we taught how to cope with life? The reality and the challenges? The heartbreaks, the poverty, and the fears? And, yes, the intimacy? Why are we all so protected? Why do we hide so thoroughly behind closed eyes? Behind words of self-deceit or despair? Our defenses solidifying over the years?
I chose life. Angela chose death.
Again, I have to rage at the world. We don’t know how to have these intense feelings swell up in and out of us, and we don’t know what the hell to do with them. So. We hide. We keep our distance.
Why? Why do we hide? Fear. We are all so fucking afraid. I know I am. I know it’s not just me. I know we all can feel this disconnected. And I wish to hell we didn’t. Why does this mainstream culture feed off our silences and sense of alienation? Keeping the masses in place, filling us with regrets and alcohol?
That winter I spent in North Carolina shook me harder than I like to admit. I curled up on the floor of the cabin, lost in my inner world. I’d sit in front of the woodstove and break down, yelling at the unseen, raging against a world full of fears. Wine filled my mouth and I’d forget to swallow. Swallow this life. Swallow my rage. Swallow my needs. I was tired of this pain. (I still am.) Angela killed herself. Who’s next? Too many queer kids have killed themselves this year. It’s beyond silence. We need to do something for them. I don’t want to read that another died because of bullying, loneliness or fear.
Please. All you artists, anarchists, queers and freaks, find your passions. Find your communities. Take care of each other.
Please. All everyone take care of each other, whatever your age and whatever your family looks like.
If you know another queer kid that’s struggling, tell them it gets better. Tell them to find me, talk to me. I don’t have the answers but I have time for them. I’m still here. I don’t know how I made it. Life is incredibly hard, but it does get better. Please. Talk to each other. It’s our only hope.
marketing more
As to what I've been doing, here's a list for you!
If you can, look this article up, I contacted a newspaper in my hometown in the UK and this just came out. As tina just said, I'm an internationally recognised author now!
http://www.bromsgroveadvertiser.co.uk/news/8407794.Former_Bromsgrove_resident_publishes_her_first_novel/
I made business cards with the book name, the publisher's web address and my website and ISBN on it to give out to people who show interest in finding it.
I've contacted local stores in Santa Fe. One independent store is interested in consignement. Borders needs the distributer to contact them directly.
I have given a copy to the local arts paper to review (who in the past have written full page articles about other creative endeavours of mine)
i created an electronic press kit, that includes the official PRelease, a one page Q and A, the first chapter, photos, links and more of a story for journalists to see why this is an unusual book worth promoting.
i updated my website with the novel, publisher contact info, ordering info etc
google alerts tells me when someone looks up my name
amazon is selling great
three stores in my local village are selling the book
i mention it in conversation and have sold about thirty out of my truck in less than a week
I am booking two nights of events, focused on my book but suplemented by live music
thats what i can think of right now~ more to come.
sleam
If you can, look this article up, I contacted a newspaper in my hometown in the UK and this just came out. As tina just said, I'm an internationally recognised author now!
http://www.bromsgroveadvertiser.co.uk/news/8407794.Former_Bromsgrove_resident_publishes_her_first_novel/
I made business cards with the book name, the publisher's web address and my website and ISBN on it to give out to people who show interest in finding it.
I've contacted local stores in Santa Fe. One independent store is interested in consignement. Borders needs the distributer to contact them directly.
I have given a copy to the local arts paper to review (who in the past have written full page articles about other creative endeavours of mine)
i created an electronic press kit, that includes the official PRelease, a one page Q and A, the first chapter, photos, links and more of a story for journalists to see why this is an unusual book worth promoting.
i updated my website with the novel, publisher contact info, ordering info etc
google alerts tells me when someone looks up my name
amazon is selling great
three stores in my local village are selling the book
i mention it in conversation and have sold about thirty out of my truck in less than a week
I am booking two nights of events, focused on my book but suplemented by live music
thats what i can think of right now~ more to come.
sleam
Marketing the new book
It seems that there are the fast track internet machines to distribute fiction and there is grass roots. I tend toward the latter. Yesterday was the first day back in New Mexico since my novel came out. I went to the coffee shop and there I was, in print. Ten books lined up next to Sky F. who jumped up and gave me a hug. "You kept this quiet Sleam! Why didn't you tell me?" nancy grins from behind the counter and pours me a coffee. Two books sold. I give her a copy to read so she can talk about the book to the tourists and locals alike. At the shop later, Janice takes seven. "I like that number" and starts to look one over, thrilled for me. At Lori Musil's gallery in Cerrillos, she sells one immediately to a friend and then takes two on spec. That afternoon i hear from a few retail places I'd emailed from the UK, and I send out more. I sell another in Santa Fe. And then I come home.
Busy. Good first day with this.
Next, its emails, press releases to the local papers, contact a few writers I like and ask for reviews, and then to the pub. I'll take a few copies with me just in case.
Busy. Good first day with this.
Next, its emails, press releases to the local papers, contact a few writers I like and ask for reviews, and then to the pub. I'll take a few copies with me just in case.
Press Release info
Contact: Ellen Green, Press Manager - 'PressManager@aegpublishinggroup.com'
Phone: 888-808-6190 – Corporate Office
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
WHEN NO ONE'S LOOKING
This passionate, funny, yet bittersweet novel uncovers a secret love affair that has lasted five decades. It happened When No One’s Looking.
A beautifully written saga that spans six countries and over 40 years, the story centers on an obsessive pair of lovers who cannot stay away from each other. Looking back over the years, Joey reminisces on what could have been. Joey is now dying, and is comforted by a dear friend named Paula. The other woman of importance in Joey’s life is Kat, and the two have had a messy relationship dating back to 1967. Paula plans a gathering in Northern New Mexico to celebrate Joey’s life, but should Kat be invited?
This erotic memoir ponders if there’s always a last chance at love.
About the Author: Sarah Leamy is a writer, traveler, and vaudeville performer based in New Mexico. She has already written her next book, Random Tales.
WHEN NO ONE’S LOOKING (ISBN: 978-1-60976-243-8) will be available on for $13.50 and can be ordered through the publisher’s website:
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/WhenNoOnesLooking.html
Or at www.amazon.com
or http://search.barnesandnoble.com
Wholesalers please email BookOrder@AEG-Online-Store.com
Strategic Book Group
P.O. Box 333 Durham, CT 06422
http://www.Strategicbookpublishing.com - http://www.EloquentBooks.com - http://www.StrategicBookMarketing.com
http://www.Strategicbookgroup.com
Phone: 888-808-6190 – Corporate Office
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
WHEN NO ONE'S LOOKING
This passionate, funny, yet bittersweet novel uncovers a secret love affair that has lasted five decades. It happened When No One’s Looking.
A beautifully written saga that spans six countries and over 40 years, the story centers on an obsessive pair of lovers who cannot stay away from each other. Looking back over the years, Joey reminisces on what could have been. Joey is now dying, and is comforted by a dear friend named Paula. The other woman of importance in Joey’s life is Kat, and the two have had a messy relationship dating back to 1967. Paula plans a gathering in Northern New Mexico to celebrate Joey’s life, but should Kat be invited?
This erotic memoir ponders if there’s always a last chance at love.
About the Author: Sarah Leamy is a writer, traveler, and vaudeville performer based in New Mexico. She has already written her next book, Random Tales.
WHEN NO ONE’S LOOKING (ISBN: 978-1-60976-243-8) will be available on
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/WhenNoOnesLooking.html
Or at www.amazon.com
or http://search.barnesandnoble.com
Wholesalers please email BookOrder@AEG-Online-Store.com
Strategic Book Group
P.O. Box 333 Durham, CT 06422
http://www.Strategicbookpublishing.com - http://www.EloquentBooks.com - http://www.StrategicBookMarketing.com
http://www.Strategicbookgroup.com
Kinda Ironic
I find it kind of funny how the values we have differ. What do our friends mean to us? What do we ask of them? And what do we offer?
For me, a friend is someone I enjoy being around, for what they say, how they live their lives and the stories they tell, I like it all. I want to relax when I see them, knowing how we are with each other, and that we allow each other to be idiots sometimes and still be good friends afterwards. Its trust, honesty and a sense of safety that makes someone a close friend, and yes, i ask more from them, and hopefully I give more in response and return.
It's been coming up in conversation recently, how and what we look for in each other.
And I've found that for some of my friends, it is easier to cut me out rather than talk to me. You see, in my small community, I"m in the wrong for speaking the truth. And the woman who is consistently dishonest, is the popular girl and in the right. Something wrong with this picture, isn't there?
Anyway, I'm curious as to how you view your friends, what you hope for, what you try to give them. hmm.. food for thought eh?
For me, a friend is someone I enjoy being around, for what they say, how they live their lives and the stories they tell, I like it all. I want to relax when I see them, knowing how we are with each other, and that we allow each other to be idiots sometimes and still be good friends afterwards. Its trust, honesty and a sense of safety that makes someone a close friend, and yes, i ask more from them, and hopefully I give more in response and return.
It's been coming up in conversation recently, how and what we look for in each other.
And I've found that for some of my friends, it is easier to cut me out rather than talk to me. You see, in my small community, I"m in the wrong for speaking the truth. And the woman who is consistently dishonest, is the popular girl and in the right. Something wrong with this picture, isn't there?
Anyway, I'm curious as to how you view your friends, what you hope for, what you try to give them. hmm.. food for thought eh?
Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships
I have read this numerous times. I've passed it on. I've encouraged friends to read this. I've sent it anonymously to friends of mine who consistently cheat on their girlfriends and lovers, gay or straight -it doesn't seem to matter. Once a cheater, that's the phrase, right? Well. I have hope. I hope that those who read this book learn other ways of being. Honesty isn't just about not saying an untruth. It's giving the whole story, the bigger picture. This book shows how some many of us do this. There is no one way to be non-manogamous. There are so many paths to follow. Her words showed me how to find my own direction, what I can and can't compromise upon. I'd recommend this book, any of her books for you if you want to learn about open sexuality, no longer stuck with old patterns of hiding your lovers and attractions. It doesn't have to be a big deal! Honest!
When No One's Looking: New Fiction Writers
When No One's Looking: New Fiction Writers: "I'm always cautious of stating this is my first time. The Virgin Syndrome. Not my style. I prefer to act as if I know what I'm doing. But I ..."
New Fiction Writers
I'm always cautious of stating this is my first time. The Virgin Syndrome. Not my style. I prefer to act as if I know what I'm doing. But I don't. I've started blogging as a way to publicise my new book. My first book, to be honest. And now I'm lost. Lost in the world of blogging. How do I find you? What do I tell you? How do I find other peoples stories and posts?
When No One's Looking comes out this fall. The galleys are done. The press release is written. The cover art is in production. Now what? How do I get this out there? Hmm. I'd love to travel and go on a book tour this fall and winter, me and Harold, my dog. That's the plan.
That's the story.
And I'm sticking to it.
When No One's Looking comes out this fall. The galleys are done. The press release is written. The cover art is in production. Now what? How do I get this out there? Hmm. I'd love to travel and go on a book tour this fall and winter, me and Harold, my dog. That's the plan.
That's the story.
And I'm sticking to it.
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Again?”
Kat nodded.
“You really are telling me this, again? That there is nothing going on between us? No affair? No love?”
I looked into her eyes, as cold and dark as my dog’s water was this winter’s morning. She watched me. Her arms were folded across her chest as if to protect herself from me. Me. Who has been her sweet secret lover, for how many years now? Five? Ten? More?
Kat forgets.
Like now, when I’m no longer convenient, she forgets how much we have been in each other’s lives. How much we mean to each other. She forgets that it’s her, always her, who comes back to me, stirs it all up and then leaves once again, usually within a few weeks. She came to me in New Mexico. In Guatemala. In Spain. In Russia. She comes back to me. Always. I don’t look for her.
I waited. Kat said nothing. She simply stood there in her leggings and t-shirt. Barefoot, she looked me straight in the eye. Both of us are five foot ten—one of the few ways we are evenly matched.
But then she looked away.
“So, there is nothing going on, right? Why then do you have to shut me out? If there is nothing to hide from Mark, why act as if we’re not even friends? Why hide me on the sidelines of your life?”
How I lived with myself, being in the same social circle as this happy couple, I don’t know. I didn’t look too deeply. I simply wanted her. However I could. Whenever I could.
“Kat. Wake up. Talk to me.”
I saw movement in there. She shook loose of her own tight grip. This strikingly dark-haired feline woman shook herself free. Her arms stretched out toward me and then collapsed at her sides.
“Joey. There is nothing going on between us. I told you that last week. I’ve been nothing but extremely consistent with you about this. There is nothing going on. Now you need to leave. Mark’s coming back any minute and I don’t want to explain why you’re here. He doesn’t want you here.” She looked at me. “And neither do I.”
I watched. I waited. For more. For more honesty. Well, for some honesty. Anything but that dismissal. Sometimes it worked, if I stood and waited. Sometimes she’d remember to reassure me of her deep love, remind me of the passion that sparks and ignites between us when no one’s looking. I waited. But no. Not this time. She said nothing else.
I bit my tongue to hold back the bitter words. I tasted the rich blood between my teeth. I wanted to spit it into her mouth, to have her know the depths of how she hurts me with this oh-so-consistent rejection of hers. I didn’t. I waited. She folded her arms across her chest again.
That was it, then?
I said nothing more. I turned away, walked to the gate and let myself out, whistling for Jimmy, my Husky mongrel. He bounded up to me. I nodded toward the truck and he sprang into the bed and waited for us to drive off. He watched Kat. I knew it. He adored her, more than a casual friend of mine would usually elicit from this shy dog, but with her—Jimmy was in love.
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