Life Imitates Art

Of course, when I wrote Secret Light, I used my imagination to explore the painful subject of fire. I imagined what it would be like, for example, to stand on the front lawn in my Sunday grubby clothes watching the firefighters put out the smoldering ruins of my garage, I imagined what would flash through my head in that moment. I would hold my dog tighter, knowing she was out and safe, but I'd worry about finding a leash for her. I would count my children's heads over and over. If someone was hurt, what would happen? And what would I do if it was my husband, and I was all alone to face that reality of the rubble of my house? Of being essentially homeless in the dark, having to keep my game face in place because I owe it to my tribe.

I would have flashes -- were the Christmas stockings my mother had lovingly needlepointed for me in the garage yet? Had we gotten to putting those away after Christmas or had procrastination worked in our favor for once? (The answer is yes, they were in the garage and they're gone.) Was that my pink bike cruiser and it's lovely detachable willow wicker basket melting in the corner? Is that the Cartwheels wagon I'd used to trek my children up and down the beach when they were babies, the one we used to use to carry water when the girl scouts marched in the Heritage Day parade.

Sooner or later, you begin to realize all these questions have a common thread, one that stitches all the really valuable parts of my life together. You start to think, oh, no, that's the sewing machine I used to make my children's Harry Potter Pajamas and their Christmas Elf hats. That's our camping gear, remember when I went on my first trip as a cub scout den leader and wasn't that the "blind leading the blind?"

The common thread, is that all of these things, whether they're irreplaceable objects of art or simply utilitarian items I could get at the nearest Wal-Mart, is that they only have value to me because of the irreplaceable beloved, fully alive and breathing humans whose heads I counted over and over like rain man as I watched my house burn.

Actually we were lucky, only the garage burned -- it's a total loss -- but the house was filled with toxic smoke and as a result has been provisionally red tagged, and there's some talk that it may take up to six months for us to be allowed back inside.

My husband was injured with second degree burns on his arms when he ran to take the car out of the garage so it wouldn't explode and possibly level the neighbor's house as well (as you know, we build 'em close together in California.) He's fine, returned to us that night, but it was devastating.

I was that woman, wondering what I was going to do, when neighbors of all walks of life, some I knew and some I didn't, came to help. The activities director of my children's middle school pressed hotel keys into my hand (he'd gone and actually rented two rooms on our behalf so we'd have some place to sleep.) I had no idea he lived right around the block. My neighbor two doors down kept all of us supplied with a steady stream of bottled water and packed up a paper bag with toiletries for us when we left. She gave me shoes because I was barefoot and jackets for my kids when night fell and it got cold.

People are really lovely. Friends from church showed up, both those charged with shepherding our family anyway, (home teachers and our church hierarchy -- and this, even though I've made my hard feelings known in a pretty clear way about their involvement in the prop 8 debacle. I've actually informed them that I actively work against them in the area of LGBTQ equality.

One couple who are good friends came because they saw it on Facebook. (Someone FACEBOOKED our fire while it was still burning! Imagine that -- our friends saw it and came to offer help.) Like drumbeat communications between distant tribes of indiginous peoples, Facebook is there.

But the most important thing I have to say, because we all really know we need to cherish each other -- that's almost redundant because it's the theme of everything I write -- is what I learned about fire.

Fire is HOT. Fire burns. Smoke kills. But there's something about people that makes them believe they can run and get that photo album, or that computer, or that car from the burning garage, because right now the flames aren't anywhere near what they're heading for and it doesn't look too bad.


IF you never listen to a word I've ever said, or IF you don't even read my books, don't like my work, don't like me, think I'm an enormous waste of time, but you're reading this because everyone enjoys a good trainwreck and fire is sexy, READ THIS:


Fire is HOT. Even if you see no flames licking at the object you think you need badly enough to make a run for it, the air is already superheating in the area in which your object most likely is enjoying its last, melting moments on earth. 


The fire's been smoldering there, heating that environment, spewing toxic things into the atmosphere, for a while. You might believe -- since you see no flames -- you're safe to run in, grab whatever and get out.


IT. IS. NOT. SAFE.


Even if you are never touched by a flame the heat will melt your skin off. MELT IT, I reiterate, and the skin will peel off and dangle from an open wound and it will hurt like a motherfucker. Skin that seemed fine when you left that fire with your object will blister, fall off, scab, and get infected. The air you breathe will burn your lungs. The smoke you inhale will KILL you. 


My husband's instinct to get his car out so it wouldn't explode resulted in very minor burns, thank heavens, yet they are still extremely painful, and we're not sure what damage it did to his ear, which they never even noticed in the hospital because the blistering happened later. His car was already hot enough that it took a deep, quarter-sized chunk of flesh right off the side of his right hand when he touched the door handle. He got second degree burns along his left arm. Since I had to back my car out so he could remove his, I was responsible for his life and what if I had been unable to keep my head and manage my own part of the process???

He got the car out, but it was a very near thing, our children were on the lawn screaming "Daddy" in a way that I will hear in my head until the day that I die. For a few heart-stopping moments, I believed we were all going to watch him die.

If you hear nothing else I've ever said, please hear this: nothing is worth your life, even if you believe something might explode, alert your neighbors so they too can evacuate, and let the firefighters do their work.

I love you all. I'm so grateful for my family's continued health and so blessed by the kindness of my neighbors.

~ZAM~

And The Winner Is...

Congratulations to the winner of my newsletter contest:

almondeyes1973

I'll be sending you an email to ask what format you would like your copy of Secret Light to be, and to get your address for that something I acquired in New Orleans.

Thank you again to everyone who participated in the event, to those of you who subscribed to my newsletter, and to those of you who have been buying and reading my books.

Warmest wishes for the happiest of holidays!

Secret Light Mea Culpa

I want to take this opportunity to wish everyone a very  happy holiday season. Hanukkah has begun and Christmas is only days away. Kwanzaa begins on the 26th! Unbelievable! I won't even bother to say how fast the year went for me, I'm sure it went as fast or faster for everyone.

My Hanukkah themed holiday novella, Secret Light released yesterday, on the twentieth.

It's the story of Rafe Coleman, who has lost faith and isolated himself in a cocoon of fine things and success but longs for companionship and Ben Morgan, who sees how lonely he is and wants to do something about it.

I'm so happy with that story, but I need to issue a sincere apology. If you purchased it before around 3:00 A.M. on the 21st it contained what I considered to be a pretty glaring error. I think my heart stopped when I realize that I'd inadvertently typed the name Nick Chance (referring to Dashiell Hammett's famously hard-drinking detective) instead of Nick Charles.

I know Hammett and my über author girlcrush Lillian Hellman (and maybe even William Powell) are rolling around in their graves right now. I can't tell you how much I love the Nick and Nora Charles characters, and I can't believe I did that. Moreover, I can't believe someone didn't squash me like a bug for doing it before now, or that the whole of civilization as we know it didn't collapse. I have an awful feeling that sometimes people just trust me to know what I'm talking about. Which is probably not a good thing. Or like me, they just see what they believe should be there, and not what's actually on the page.

The most important lesson we can take away from this is I need new glasses at the very least, or a much younger brain.

BUT... All is not lost. Due to the magic of eBooks, anyone can have the corrected copy by downloading the file from Loose Id again, with my sincerest apologies.

Mea Culpa for my inexcusable lapse. Download it again, or buy it for the first time...HERE

Secret Light

My latest novella, Secret Light, will be out on December 20, 2011.

Buy Link

Rafe Colman's likes his life. He has a nice home, a good job, and a wonderful dog. But he's exhausted by living a lie. When his home is vandalized because of his perceived German ancestry, he can't even share the irony with friends. 

Officer Ben Morgan falls for Rafe's dog first, but it isn't long before he's giving her owner the eye. He thinks they have more in common than the search for Rafe's vandals, and he's willing to take a chance and find out.

If life in 1955 is tough on a cop in the closet, it's even tougher on a refugee who's desperate to hide his roots and fit in. Rafe knows from tragic experience how vicious prejudice can be. Every second with Ben is stolen, every kiss fraught with danger.

When Ben's partner threatens to ruin everything, Rafe and Ben have to fight to protect what they have, in Secret Light...

~*~

Excerpt: “Officer Morgan. This is a surprise.” Rafe stepped back to let him in and Mooki went berserk, circling their ankles and nearly tripping them up.

“Good evening, Mr. Colman. I thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.” Morgan fidgeted with his keys. He had competent-looking hands with square fingers. For a moment, Rafe got lost looking at the fine hairs on the backs of his knuckles.

“Please come in.” Rafe backed out of the way. Morgan had seemed larger in his uniform -- but even without it, his was an intimidating presence. “What can I do for you?”

“This isn’t an official call or anything. I wanted to let you know the detectives have a possible lead on this. Probably nothing will come of it, but we’re keeping our fingers crossed.”

“I see. No matter. Damage done.” Rafe motioned his visitor toward the kitchen, where he planned to retrieve another beer. His bottle opener was still on the counter, and he picked it up, holding it thoughtfully before speaking. Should he offer something? Was that proper? 


“Would you care for some refreshment? I was about to have another beer.”

“Thank you. That would be just great.” Morgan lifted a hand to his tie but asked permission before he loosened it. “May I? I’ve just come from taking my mother to mass.”

“Make yourself comfortable. You took your mother to church? What a gentleman. You must make her very proud.”

“She’s an old-fashioned girl.” He shrugged off the compliment. Ben stuffed his tie into his pocket and took a beer -- served in a glass with the perfect amount of foam. “She doesn’t like to go without family. After my father died…”

“You go every Saturday night?” Ben nodded. Rafe couldn’t help but smile. “You are a very good son, Officer Morgan.”

“Please, call me Ben. I see you were able to begin the cleanup process.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks to fine police investigation, they completed the insurance report on Thursday and gave me permission to have things hauled away. I am apparently covered for arson.”

“I’m glad.”

“I believe your partner thought I did it myself.”

Ben stopped in the act of bringing his glass to his lips. “You think?”

“My brand-new car was elsewhere when my garage burned. I don’t blame him, but he isn’t a very subtle man.”

“No. He’s not. I’m sorry about that.”

“I did point out that if I wanted sympathy, I’d hardly put heil Hitler on the door.”

“Well, now…” Ben smiled. “You could be a spy of some sort.”

“You may laugh, but there was a time I passionately wanted to spy for the US against Germany. I had the language; I was familiar with the countries involved.”

“But you said your heart…?”

“Yes. I didn’t even know I had a problem, actually, until they told me. I rarely suffer from it. Occasional shortness of breath and palpitations, which I’d always attributed to overexertion or nerves. I was far too young to serve as a spy, but I imagined myself in the role. Then the war ended.”

“You might have made a good spy.”

“I would have been a great spy. I’m an excellent liar.” Before Rafe had a chance to regret saying that to a police officer, he changed the subject. “Follow me if you’d like more comfortable seating.”

Ben followed, and Mooki tagged along with them into the living room, her tapping toenails silenced as soon as they left the wood floor and crossed over the Oriental rug.

Was it his imagination, or was Rafe nervous? Ben supposed it was the normal reaction of having a policeman in one’s home. It was his experience that even his relatives acted out of character; they watched what they said around him.

The fastidious Rafe -- who poured beer into pilsner glasses and provided cocktail napkins for his guests -- sat in a wing chair, inviting Ben to take up a comfortable position on the couch. Ben placed his beer on a coaster on the coffee table between them.

“This is a nice place.” Ben glanced around. “Two bedrooms?”

“Three.” Rafe shrugged. He took a pipe from the table next to him and held it up. “Do you mind?”

Ben shook his head. “I like it, actually.”

Ben watched Rafe’s hands with interest. The act was precise and practiced. Rafe packed his pipe, then removed a 

wooden match from a box bearing the name of a local, swanky restaurant, which he struck and allowed to flare for a second. He pursed his lips and drew a number of puffs to ignite the tobacco, after which Rafe blew out a thin stream of smoke with a deeply satisfied sigh.

“I work from home sometimes, and it’s ideal to have an office here.”

“It will be ideal for a family someday.” Ben watched him carefully when he said it, but it drew not a flicker of response. “I take it there’s no imminent Mrs. Rafe Colman?”

“I’m afraid not,” came the easy reply. “For all my immense personal charm, I have no luck keeping a young lady happy for long. Perhaps it’s because I can’t keep my eyes in my head.”

“That could make a girl unhappy.”

“There are just so many lovely girls. Don’t you find?” Smoke billowed into the air. Ben felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, as though Rafe was able to see right through him. As if Rafe was filling the air with smoke to create a barrier between them. 

“Girls are always ready to throw themselves at a man. What can one do?”

“Poor man,” Ben said, a little too sharply.

Rafe blinked. “I’m sorry. I don’t ever seem to say the right thing with you, do I?”

“Maybe it’s me.” Ben looked into his glass. Should he go?

“I make a very fine living saying the right thing to everyone. For the most part, it’s like a running tap. It seems to shut off when you’re around.”

Ben sipped his beer to hide his pleasure at this. He liked keeping people off balance; it was in his nature to poke at things to see what the result might be. He’d been told his curiosity was discomfiting, but it didn’t stop him. He thought he was more a stickler for honesty than most. “That or I’m some idiotic, prickly bastard who shouldn’t be around people much.”

“No. That’s not it.” Rafe’s face registered something like regret. “I think you may be like one of those polygraph machines. You should be a detective, not a policeman.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m working on that.”

“Does that mean you will wear horrible, shiny suits and gum shoes?”

“Certainly. I’ve been reading detective stories all my life, and I’d be disappointed not to.”

In the silence that fell between them, Ben found himself thinking about Dashiell Hammett and how Rafe reminded him of Nick Charles -- elegant and effortlessly appealing -- whereas he had more in common with Sam Spade. Sam Spade had seen things. He knew things -- about life, about people -- that made him an outsider and, at the same time, the ultimate chameleon. A neutral man in a black-and-white world. He wondered if Rafe would agree with the comparison.

Colman drew him. He was urgently attracted to the dapper Austrian. He’d come there that evening to poke at Colman, to drop the tiniest hint that they might have something more in common than a crime scene. To convey in some perfectly harmless way that he’d admired Colman’s composure, and more, that he felt connected to him somehow, that he might have liked -- might imagine -- Colman felt that too.

Nothing short of survival held him back.

http://www.loose-id.com/Secret-Light.aspx