Best/Worst of 2014

I was happy to see that my latest novel, Message of Love, was listed on the Boys in Our Books blog's Best of 2014. 

The companion novel Every Time I Think of You, was also listed, since the reviewer gave both books a write-up, even though that was published in late 2011.

This keeps me going, along with my internal sense of tenacity, considering a few odd and unpleasant things that happened. 

Another author outright stole my book title, and the mini-flame war on GoodReads proved that while (according to my book stats on that site), while 95% of readers liked or totally loved my recent books, a few vicious harpies went on the warpath when I dared to reply to an inane profanity-spewing post that wasn't even a review.

Capricious and catty alternated with glowing gushes of praise. You can enjoy a dozen delicious cupcakes, but if just one has a rat turd in it, you tend to remember that one more than others. Some wasted hours spent on GoodReads proved that my attackers do this day in and out to multiple other authors, and there's no pleasing a professional crank.

A Gay Old Time

What's it like to be in a longterm relationship? Well, don't ask me. I have no idea. So, why am I writing a novel that (hopefully) portrays the possibility of a life-long love affair? Because it's interesting. 

Take the story of John Banvard and his partner Gerard Nadeau. The two gay seniors in Chula Vista, California held a wedding ceremony at their retirement home. The UK's Daily Mail refurbished a San Diego TV station's coverage of these adorable older men who decided to finally get hitched after spending decades together.

But their belated union wasn't without its controversies. Some of the older residents were ticked off, and even tried to get the rabidly idiotic Phelps clan to show up and protest. That failed.

So, too, do the sniping antigay comments on the website. These two men served our country in different wars, and yet the same sort of people who bleat "Support Our Troops" are often those who denigrate equality for these men after their service.

Chapter 10 (excerpt) Every Time I Think of You

The television showed celebrations in Australia, Asia and Europe, and the crowds eagerly anticipated the countdown in Times Square. I lay on the sofa, distracted by my more abstract thoughts about the concept of time and its association with this ritual, even the concept of Gregorian calendar years based on Jesus’ birthday, which, according to some, hadn’t even occurred in December. I found it absurd for Jewish and Asian cultures to celebrate a day, which didn’t even exist on their calendars, with fireworks and paper horns.

I hadn’t noticed that the sound of one of those horns wasn’t being tooted on TV, but on the other side of our porch door window. A soft tap on the glass made me turn with surprise to see him.

Everett stood under the porch light, the horn curling and uncurling from his lips, a bottle of champagne in one hand.

I stumbled off the sofa in my rush to let him in. Once again, his chilled skin met mine as I plucked the paper horn from his lips and kissed him.

“Happy New Ear,” he joked.

“Oh, it’s gonna be happy, alright,” I said as I let him in, dragged him to my bedroom, where I peeled off his parka with a bit of the fervor from our first time together. 

Jim's Books