Gettin’ Dirty

(Re-post from my guest blog at Women and Words. The Hootenanny is still going on. Check it out to win books!)

 

Writing a book is terrifying. No, that’s a lie. Having written a book is terrifying (really, it’s a mass of contradictions). When you are writing it, it’s fun. You get to tell these elaborate lies and no one gets mad at you. But when the book is done, you’re supposed to do all these horrifying things.

First, you have to let other people read it. I mean, you want other people to read it. But also, you want it to stay in that perfect, just finished state where there are no typos and the plot makes complete sense. So you start telling your beta readers and your editor and your publisher that it’s done. But then they ask to read it. At that point you’ve been writing for a month straight because you realized oh shit, it’s November 1st and my book is due December 1st (maybe that’s just me). By the time November 30th rolls around you are so damn tired of writing and so exhausted (who has time to sleep in that last month?) and so happy that it’s finally done, that you can’t wait to send it off. And as soon as you do, you want it back. Because you just know your publisher is going to write back and say:

Yo, Ash

The first two were good, but I dunno what the hell this is. Grow up.

Love, Rad

PS You suck at life.

That’s totally how my publisher talks.

And after your publisher doesn’t say that, you think you’re in the clear. But then your editor starts editing. I know. Shocking right? You get that email on your iPhone with the little star that means it’s a VIP. And you only have two VIPs and one is your girlfriend and she is sitting next to you so she probably didn’t send you a special little email. So you open the email and there is the manuscript with your editor’s notes file. And you just know the notes file is going to say:

Ashley,

What up, gurl? I deleted everything except for the chapter markers. Those were keepers.

Love, Cindy

PS Your deadline is in a week.

Also how my editor talks.

And when your editor says really nice things instead of really mean things, you start to think it will all be okay. But then she gets the most insane idea. She wants to send it to the printer. And you’re like, silly editor. But she keeps sending these page proofs. You read the page proofs and suddenly everything that you loved about the book when you were writing and editing it, is complete crap. You want to change character names. And the locations. Also the dialogue (what were you thinking?). But you approve the proofs anyway (‘cause if you don’t, she’s still going to print it, but she will be really mad at you).

Then that fateful day arrives. The release. Your mom ordered ten copies. She sends you a photo of her new stack of books. And your BFF wants to meet for coffee so you can sign theirs. And you want to crawl in a hole and wait for about a year because someone, somewhere just ordered your book for the first time.

This chick, your reader, will open the box and nestled inside is Dirty Sex (no, you perv. It’s the name of my book). She will look at the cover because the cover is sexy as hell. Flip the book over. Scan the bio, maybe. Read the blurb. If she is weird like me, she will fan the pages and smell the book. And then she will open it and start reading.

I’ll just be hiding out here in my hole, okay?

I am currently in author hell. Because for some idiotic reason, I decided to write a trilogy. Which means for the last month I have been on the edge of my seat waiting for my December release, Dirty Sex. And editing my February release, Dirty Money. And writing my August release, Dirty Power. Yay. All the worst and best parts of being an author rolled into thirty days.

I’m excited. I’m terrified. I’m relieved. I’m really fucking sleepy. Did I mention that I’m excited? (Why is my heart beating so fast? Could it be my recent intake of twelve cups of coffee a day?) Also, I’m excited.

If you read the Dirty Trilogy, I really hope you like it. Because I carved out a chunk of my heart and squished it into the pages. If you don’t like the books, that’s okay too. Because I have Scooby-Doo Band-Aids.

Next Big Thing—Blog Hop

If you didn’t know, Carsen Taite tagged me in this whole Next Big Thing—Blog Hop. Also, how could you not know? Her vlog is like super awesome. Check it out here. Her new release Beyond Innocence is totally awesome too. Get it here. Also, I’m kind of awesome. And so is my new book out from Bold Strokes this month. Order it here.

I know the suspense is killing you. You’re like, what’s the book called, Ashley? Don’t worry. That’s the first question.

What is the working title of your book?

Dirty Sex. It’s the first installment in my Dirty Trilogy. The others are Dirty Money (out in February) and Dirty Power (in August). But don’t worry about them yet. You’ll hear plenty in the not so distant future.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

This is a weird story. Just a heads up.

I’m a barista. Which means sometimes I start work at 4:30 am. I am so not my best at that hour. My co-workers and I had a running joke that we should empty the safe and run. Which was hilarious because the amount in a coffee shop safe would get you about twenty miles. This story morphed into what if we knocked off a bank and ran. Or what if we emptied the safe and went to Vegas. Or what if we went to Mexico.

We all ended up with nicknames for this fictional heist. The only one I remember is Esmeralda. She never made it into the Dirties.

I started writing pieces of the story with dry erase marker on the back of the pastry case. Those pieces never made it into the Dirties either.

Somehow that became the basis for a story about three best friends who find (okay, steal) a lot of money and go on the run.

What genre does your book fall under?

Dirty Sex is published as a Victory Edition—Contemporary Literature. Which means the book is dramatic and speaks to a contemporary audience. Yes, there’s some romance thrown in too. Oh, and also sex. But I bet you wouldn’t have guessed that.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Dude, that’s way too hard. First, let’s be honest. Hollywood isn’t queer enough yet. That’s a whole different rant, so I’ll leave it at that. My characters are super fucking gay. And movies, TV, media makes the queerest people into something palatable for a heteronormative audience. Ok, sorry the rant came out anyway.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Vivian Cooper and twins Reese and Ryan DiGiovanni stole a lot of money and the guy they took it from wants it back. Like now.

What is the longer synopsis of your book?

Vivian Cooper and Reese DiGiovanni have hated each other since the second grade. Too bad Reese’s twin brother, Ryan, is Cooper’s best friend.

Cooper and Ryan will do anything for each other even when it’s illegal, suicidal, or just plain stupid. Which is why, when Cooper and the twins stumble upon millions of dollars in gold bars, they take it and head for Las Vegas. Soon they find themselves running from some very angry and very organized criminals. Which turns out to be not nearly as sexy as it looks in the movies.

Even if they manage to survive the pissed off guys who are chasing them, Cooper and Reese might kill each other for the hell of it. Or hook up. It could really go either way.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I’m with Bold Strokes Books. Which means I have the most awesomest publisher ever. For real.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Dirty Sex took about four months to write. So not my norm. I usually take a year or three. But I was in my last semester of city college and I needed units and I didn’t want to take classes. I just wanted to sit in a coffee shop and write. So I convinced one of my professors to do an independent study with me. Two chapters a week gets a book written really fast.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

Hmmm. Boredom? The satisfaction of finishing my previous novel? I don’t know really. I’d been thinking about Cooper’s story for a year before I started. So maybe Cooper inspired me. She’s really cool like that.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Sex in the title isn’t enough? Okay, I’ll give you the opening lines of the novel. They pretty much tell you everything that is to come.

Girls. Booze. Girls. Fighting. Girls. In that order. Because girls are the beginning, middle, and end. They are everything that is terrible and sexy and perfect with the world…

Tag. You’re it.

And now the fun part where I pick a victim. This shouldn’t surprise anyone. She’s smart. She’s an awesome writer. She’s fun. Oh, and she’s super pretty. Melissa Brayden, tag. You’re it.

(I know. I know. You want Brayden’s new book, Heart Block. Get it here! And now you’re like, but where do I read the super awesome blog that Brayden is going to write next Wednesday? Here, of course.)

closer to 30

I’m closer to 30 than 20. Thanks for pointing that out, Brayden. I’m not freaking out. Which is weird. Usually, I have a fucking cow. I mean, my brand is youth. As an author and in the rest of my life. I’m the baby. I’ve got the baby face. The build of a twelve year old. And in a few years, I won’t. Oh, shit. What if it’s already gone? What if I don’t look like a teenager anymore? Hmmm. I probably don’t.

Oh, well.

The real issue here is that I might have to grow up…sometime. I really, really don’t wanna be an adult. Or a dolt, as we pronounce it in my house. I really don’t want to stop wearing jeans with more holes than cloth. I really don’t want to take out the four piercings in my face. And I really wanna rock lime green nail polish.

Hell, right now I’m writing this blog in the middle of making a birthday list for my mother-in-law. She insists on birthday lists. Christmas too. So far I’ve got footie PJs and the new Pink album on there. I really, really wanna wear footie PJs until I’m…no, there is no until. I just wanna wear my footie PJs.

It’s not so much the getting old (I’ve been told it’s inevitable, but I’m not sure I believe it) or the getting a real job (I think I would die first) or the buying a house or having kids (I’m laughing so hard right now), it’s a question of how I am supposed to do all that. Or avoid doing that. I know plenty of fascinating adults who aren’t grown ups. So I’m pretty sure I can dodge that bullet. It’s the growing up and being queer. My kind of queer.

I can only ever be me. It’s taken a lot for me to get to this place. The one where I’m comfortable with who and what I am. I’m not just a lesbian. I’m not always a girl. I’m just me. That gray (or green or pink or blue or yellow or orange) space between. Boxer briefs. Nail polish. Jeans and T-shirts. Cropped hair. All of those physical markers that tell people I’m different. That my insides might taste a little different than theirs.

I was mistaken for a boy again yesterday. It was at work. The way the guy called me “bud” I just knew. I looked over at the girl I was working with. She’s a dyke also. And she just nodded at me. Yes, he thinks you’re a boy. Yes, I caught that inflection. Yes, it made me othered too.

How am I supposed to be a grown up when I don’t look or act or talk like one? When all anyone ever sees is a little boy. Or a girl wearing someone else’s clothes (they’re my fucking clothes). And, in this place, this world, this time, this society, this space, I never, ever will be anything other than what they see.

 

How sad for them. ‘Cause I’m awesome.

obligatory “a rose by any other…” blog

Naming a character is probably one of the hardest things to do. But it’s also one of the funest. Funest. Hmm. Probably not a word. Doesn’t matter. I used it so now it’s a word. See what I did there? That’s what I get to do with names.

I think about my books, my characters for (sometimes) years before I ever write them. There are scenes in my mind that I can see with perfect clarity that I probably won’t write until sometime in the summer of 2013.

The problem is that some characters just have names already in my head. I don’t know where some of them came from. You’ll meet Cooper soon. I always knew she was Cooper, but I have no idea where the name came from. I know this doesn’t seem like a problem. My issue is that only one character in my book will come with a name and they only have half a name. So I sit down to write thinking, “I got this.” But I never, ever have it.

Reese and Ryan took for-fuckin-ever to get named. And Coop didn’t have a first name for a long, long time. Likewise, Reese and Ryan seriously lacked a surname. After I had written both Dirty Sex and Dirty Money, Carsen Taite pointed out that the name I had chosen was far too similar to another, very different character. So I changed it.

Thus, DiGiovanni.

Which was a departure for me. DiGiovanni was the first time I gave a character (or two, as it were.) a name with meaning. If you figure out that meaning, then you win. The prize is a high five. Go.

So how do I reach that moment? That place where I’m like, “Holy fuck, it’s Weston!” Well, there’s no method. Or there are many. Some come from a random occurrence. Others a chance article or blog or movie or…

I keep a running list on my phone. And another list on my computer. No, make that two lists. I just found another one. I hate lists. And I like them.

John Waters uses old high school yearbooks and baby name books. I’ve found baby name books to be useless, but high school yearbooks are amazing. Especially for last names.

With my secondary characters I pick a really common name that sort of fits them. Then, I go to the social security website. You can search for a name to see when it was popular. I do that, then do another search for whatever year it was most popular. And scroll until I find a name I like.

I think I’m always a little bitter when characters in lesfic have a cooler name than I do. My first and middle name made the top ten in 1986. Thanks mom and dad. My revenge is to give characters unfortunate names at times. Cooper’s first name is Vivian. I did it to be mean. Suck on that Coop. You may be a badass, but your first name is super girlie.

a day in Cayucos

The title would imply that I’m going to write daily blogs. I’m not. But I’ll give you today. It was like a lot of other days in Cayucos. Maybe you will see some of Wes and Alden. Maybe not.

I woke up at five thirty in the morning. Not by choice. That was when my girlfriend set the alarm. We looked at each other. She mumbled something about daylight. Like, was the sun up? It wasn’t. We fell back asleep. Woke up half an hour later. It was light. So we dragged our asses out of bed and walked down to the beach.

Ostensibly we were looking for shells. There were tons, but we didn’t pick them up. There was also a dead jellyfish. Didn’t pick that up either. Actually, when she pointed the carcass out to me I turned and walked the opposite direction. It seemed logical at the time.

When we got back to the condo everyone else was still asleep. We were frozen. And wet from the knees down. My mother-in-law hadn’t made coffee yet (probably because of the whole still being asleep thing). Unacceptable. I put my footie PJs back on and fell asleep on the couch. I’m told I slept through the first pot of coffee. But I think they’re lying. When I woke up breakfast was made. So really, my timing was genius.

I managed to get in my morning vitamins (two cups of coffee and a few cigarettes) before taking my footie PJs off again for another walk on the beach. This time with my nieces. They were also looking for shells. Obviously that meant the little one galloped on her hobby horse up and down the beach. And the older one lectured me on a range of subjects from sushi to toenails. We got to the set of large rocks that straddle the surf (not to be confused with the really big rock that’s another fifty yards down). The girls “petted” the sea anemones. And by that I mean the little one jabbed them with her finger. She’s the brave one. The older one, cautious to a fault, held my hand in a death grip as if the anemones and the ocean might team up to take her down.

Back at the condo I put my footie PJs back on and fell asleep again. To be fair I’d only gotten four hours of sleep the past two nights. I was woken up by a nine year old jumping on top of me, kissing my cheek, and telling me it was time to get up. I took a shower, had some more vitamins. Headed to Duckie’s for clam chowder. My diet in Cayucos generally consists of clam chowder, french fries, onion rings, and ice cream cones. We sat on the sea wall and ate lunch and mocked the people playing on the beach.

After that the six year old almost schooled me at checkers. Don’t worry. I beat her. Then I had more coffee and cigarettes on the balcony. We had dinner, then went on a pier walk. It was dark and cold. I got a lecture on dogs and shoes and wearing hooded sweatshirts this time. It was too cloudy to see the Milky Way. But we tried anyway.

Now it’s ten. The kids are asleep. We will probably make fun of my in-laws. If my mother-in-law falls asleep on the couch (very likely) I’m going to put a temporary mustache tattoo on her. Around midnight my girl and I will go walk on the pier again. It’s Sunday night so it will probably be slow. But maybe someone will catch a shark. That would be cool.

Around one we will climb in bed. Five hours later the alarm will go off.

pretty girls and facebook

I’m a disgrace to my generation. And I’m cool with that. Hell, I’m kinda proud of it. I don’t use Twitter. I’m not sure what Instagram is. Ruth Sternglantz had to explain Skype to me (Ruth: You can use it for just voice too. Me: Doesn’t that make it a phone call?). And until 8 months ago I was Facebook free. So why did I join? Well I was in Ptown and all these fans (yes, plural. Like all two of my fans) kept asking about Facebook. And I’m like no I don’t do Facebook. Such an elitist hipster. But of course I’m a sucker for a pretty girl. Give me a Super Pretty girl and I don’t know which way is up. Seriously. Every bad decision in my life had to do with attractive girls. Drugs. Alcohol. Driving a Corolla with eight passengers. Vandalism. Failing Econ class. Blame the pretty girls. Okay, maybe they weren’t entirely at fault. And maybe pretty girls sometimes are a positive influence…

I met Melissa Brayden in Ptown. I was a little wary. You know how some people look great in theory. Pretty picture. Good writer. Seemingly oh so witty. But then you meet them and it’s just sad. So when I was getting ready to meet Melissa (god that sounds weird. I call her Super Pretty in my head) I was like ehhhh. But then, damn. The woman really is that good-looking and sweet and smart and fun. So when she told me I was getting on Facebook I knew I was fucked.

Joining Facebook when you’re twenty-five is weird. It seems like all people born after 1980 should have some inherent knowledge. We don’t. Or at least I don’t. Melissa’s a champ though. She didn’t just leave me hanging. She answered all my stupid questions. Taught me the cool tricks. And she was my first friend. Warm fuzzies.

I could tell you now why we call her Super Pretty. I’m sure some of you would love to know. But I’m not gonna.

Justine Saracen

Justine Saracen surprised me. Not an easy task. She didn’t surprise me by taking all the abuse I threw at her in Palm Springs (and there was a lot) because somehow I knew it wouldn’t phase her. She surprised me by upping my own game when I least expected it.

Like the panel we both were on. The one where I convinced Kim Baldwin to let me rewrite all the bios. Justine was my first victim.

“Justine Saracen is an older author.” I began all the bios that way, but Justine didn’t know that. She was definitely shocked. Maybe a little upset. Understandable.

“She’s totes academic, which is nice.” Such an understatement. The woman has degrees that I can’t even pronounce. And she speaks languages that I can’t spell. When she reads she flows between various accents without a hitch. Her voice is smooth, calm, steady. Strangely assertive. In a good way.

“She also looks bomb naked.” I don’t think anyone really appreciated my ironic use of “bomb.” Probably because we were at the Palm Springs Library, which (Trinity Tam informed me) is where the intellectual readings are. The name of the panel was Beyond the Rainbow: LGBTQ Literature and Today’s Audience. Very lofty. And I had just announced via Kim Baldwin that Justine Saracen looked bomb naked.

I will forever hold in my heart the look on Justine’s face when she heard that. Surprised, confused. Sort of like she wanted to hit me (not that Justine would ever lower herself to violence), but also like I was the most curious thing she’d ever seen (because who would be insane enough to say such a thing). Strangely complimented. And slightly disturbed that I had just made everyone picture her naked.

Of course, Justine just had to go up to the podium and announce, “Look I’m wearing my tiger shirt.” She was reading from her new release Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright (It’s amazing. You need to read this book, like now).

So I just had to shout, “Take it off.”

And even then she kept her cool. The woman isn’t ice. No, she has a lot more going on than that. A warmth just below the surface that she keeps under serious control. She is simply very, very patient. She also has a well-hidden humorous side. Don’t let her fool you.

I spent the rest of the weekend telling her to take it off. Which made it really hard for her to go swimming. ‘Cause I spent the whole time poolside watching her. Wow. That makes me sound super creepy.

But every time I shouted inappropriate things at her she would just hold her head a little higher. Fight the grin that wanted to come out. Twitch her towel in an overly decorous manner so it would cover her bare legs.

It didn’t fool me. She was diggin’ her role in the joke we were playing. I was the obnoxious, boundary-less child. She, the dignified academic, immune to my taunts.

So how did she surprise me?

When it came time for me to drive home I went around to hug everyone and I demanded Justine get out of the pool and hug me, knowing full well she wouldn’t. Instead she demanded that I get down on the cement and hug her in the pool. Minor shock. The woman wanted to hug me after all of that? But I wasn’t going to say no. So I leaned down and hugged her.

She even kissed my cheek. Very European. I kinda liked it.

As she pulled away she said, “You smell young.” There it was. What an odd thing to say.

I said, ever so eloquently, “Huh?”

“Yes, you smell young.” Her chin went up a little. “Believe me, I have half a century on you, and you smell half a century younger.”

Something about the way she said it was vaguely taunting. In the vein of silly kid, I’m so much more worldly than you (and she is). And at the same time, complimentary. Like she really thought I smelled good. She was raising the bar. I might have stripped and sexualized her when she least expected it, but she could do it better and more sincerely.

So here’s to you, Justine Saracen. You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to next year.