Only Until Forever...But After That...

“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.
Even longer,' Pooh answered.”  --  A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

One morning before daylight, I pulled into the parking lot at my office and there---curled in a ball against the gate----lay a dog.

I got out of the car to open the gate and the timid critter only ventured away from that spot long enough for me to unlock and open the gate. I noticed, as soon as I passed through the entrance, he returned to his spot and curled back into his little cocoon---only now, with the gate open, he was all balled up in the middle of the driveway. Worried for his safety in that dangerous spot, I tried to shoo him away. He would forfeit his little nesting area; but, no sooner had I turned my back, he went right back.

I worried about the little canine all morning and kept checking out the window to monitor his whereabouts. Sure enough, he remained close to that spot. For at least four hours. An example of dogged determination if I ever saw one.

One of my co-workers, watching him with me, commented, "Someone has dumped him off here. He's sitting there, waiting for them to come back for him."

My heart broke.

I realized my co-worker was right. Loyal and trusting---and knowing no better---the pup knew nothing more than to wait for masters who were never coming to get him. At the spot where they left him so they wouldn't miss him when they returned.

Finally, later in the day, a pang of sadness---empty, strange and inexplicable---surged through me when I realized the abandoned dog had finally vacated his station at the gate. He had finally realized no one was going to come back for him and he had moved on. He was now thrown into the population of strays whose owners had decided there was no place for him any longer in their lives.

This week, it occurred to me just why this scenario troubled me so.

In the time I decided to pursue my writing professionally, I've made many friends---most of them on the Internet.

As a child reared in a close-knit unit, surrounded by a small but loving circles of friends and family, I only knew one kind of friendship: the forever, through-thick-and-thin, come-hell-or-high-water, we're-in-this-together kind. And, to date, most of these relationships have endured everything life has thrown at them.

But I'm naive, I wrap myself around what feels good and hold on like a tree branch in a raging rapids. Such has been the way with my Internet friendships.

I'd never allowed myself to think, even for a second, that they could actually pull loose and drift away in that rapids. One for all and all for one, right? Forever, sisters, brothers, friends. Bonds made.

I was wrong.

Fortunately, I don't suppose I can say I've had any traumatic partings from friends. I see it happen all the time in cyber space; but I've been lucky enough to just have soft 'driftings' apart. And I've also been lucky that most of the bonds formed are still there. Kind of invisible now, but still there.

But loss is loss. I've---oh, I'm embarrassed to admit this---for the longest time, was like that dog. I saw friends fading away, sort of grasped that the friendships had run their cyber courses; but still waited at that proverbial gate for them to come back and re-ignite that spark. They didn't. We've all been there---where we try to keep the ember fanned, we email, we post on Facebook to hold on to them, we just doggedly try.

Before you say it, let me assure you that I have been on the other end of it all. I've found myself floating away on a broken-off hunk of iceberg, father and farther from some friends. There were times it was ME who cut off the connection or allowed it to disintegrate. Never intentionally, it just happened.

And, yes, I'm a big girl. Get over it, right? Right. Life does indeed move on. New friendships have formed, and they are just as good, just as important, just as rewarding and fulfilling.

True, true. But my problem? Just as in my cozy youth, I somehow allowed myself to depend on the circle of friendship as a sort of fortress for confidence in my writing. I'd become used to this little unit to bolster my courage, to mentor, to cheer me on. And that, my friend, is good and well. But, when the time does come for that support to collapse, what's left? A scared, terribly insecure writer who's standing---trembling---under this fallen structure without the confidence to get out from under the rubble and make it on her own.

I see now that I've maybe relied too heavily on that support and not enough on my own strengths. I see now that the ropes holding that little support raft can come quickly unraveled on the business of the cyber rapids. And, hell, this writer needs to learn to swim!

Hey, it's not the friends who are to blame. They've done what friends do. Befriended. Supported. Cheered. Taught. But life is life, and all good things really can come to an end. And when that end rolls around, I find myself lost and looking for those outside voices---not my own internal voices---to tell me I can do this. That I can write.

I panic.

A fellow author told me once that I seemed to need that outside support, that I did not seem to have the confidence to just...write...without someone egging me on, assuring me. And he was right, I see that now. In some ways, my cyber socializing has crippled more than it has bolstered. And it has been my fault for depending (hate to overuse that word, but it is so fitting) so much on outside validation instead of on my own.

I freeze when plotting, when assigning traits to characters. Instead of listening to the characters as I should, instead of trusting my own judgement with plotting, I must confer with author friends to confirm my ideas are on the right track. Without that feedback, I can't seem to move on my own.

Deep down inside myself, I think I'm a good writer, I have potential talent. But the sooner I learn that for myself and learn to build it---brick by brick---on my own, I'll be better off.

I need to be like the dog at the gate. I need to realize, Okay, I'm on my own. I need to fend for myself. The puppy, by nature, will be able to forge his own new path. His support factor has left him and is not coming back. He has no choice but to go it alone.

I'm not built to be in complete solitude, I need friends. But I CANNOT depend completely on them for my own confidence.

So maybe, just maybe, I can keep a proper perspective on just how much to lean on friendships for support, but not as a replacement for self-confidence. Maybe just enough for them to gently nudge me and say---as I try to navigate on my own raft---as Milne also said in Winnie-the-Pooh, Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

 

 

Inspiration. Imitation. Creativity..?

I've had something on my mind, and I kept thinking I wanted to blog about it. But when I DID sit down and try to write my feelings, I found it was more of a question in my head than something I could actually expound on with the pretense of knowing what the hell I was talking about.

Then I stumbled on this quote from Dan Vylete, An original writer is one who imitates nobody, but one whom nobody can imitate.

And my question is this. Where do you draw the line between inspiration and imitation?

So you see a story you like. You feel you could write it yourself, maybe throw in some variables and maybe even make it better. So you take the story's exact dynamics and just weave them into your own version. I.E., setting, date, details—just take out the original characters and throw in your own. Piece o' cake.

When this happens, is it flattery to the original author? Does one even think about the original author?

Wait, I know what you’re thinking. No, I'm not talking about 50 Shades of Grey. I’m not even talking about plagiarism.

I’m talking about something that is not dishonest. Not illegal.

Something quite common. Sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

I’ve even heard tales of publishers who scout other publisher’s work to get ideas, then commission their own staffs to mimic. This is probably legitimate. No harm, I figure. Not innovative, though, and certainly no gold stars for originality, either.

I suppose, if I were the original author—if my work was unique in any way, if it was something I loved, literally lived and breathed it—I'd be ecstatic that it was taken seriously enough for someone to want to recreate some form of it. Depending, I guess, on just how many parallels there were to my work.

Once, with one of my very first stories, a young man who read and critiqued for me was so taken with my story and the characters, he warned me he might just do his own version of it, to see what he came up with. He joked that he would be my first 'fanfic'.

Of course, as brilliant and talented as he was, I felt good old fashioned fear because I knew he could do it much better than I could. He was an experienced writer, I was not. That beautiful vision which had been mine for so long would—if he borrowed it—become his. No one would ever know where his idea had originated, who the true birth parent had been. But, nonetheless, how could I not have been flattered by the fact someone thought my creation was good enough to even consider using. Good enough to inspire another to build his own foundation on. (Not the writing, mind you, but the concept, the characters).

However, if my work had been published first, he would have been taking the chance that his own production would smell of copy cat. It might even have knocked his reputation for originality down a couple of notches, depending on just how similar his own creation was to mine. He might have been perceived to sing the song from the musical, Anything you can do, I can do better. Would he have cared? Probably not.

I, for one, see so many wonderful stories—concepts, characters, settings—I stay in a constant state of Why didn’t I think of that? I’m inspired by them. I’m inspired by the sheer quality of many stories, by the emotions they evoke in me, by the worlds I’m drawn into by the mastery and talent of the authors. Most of all, by the originality of the characters. So, from experience, I can assure you how easy and tempting it is to borrow what one sees.

As much as I cherish the world I’m inspired to write—the world which exists in my stories, Purly Gates for instance—I’m thrilled when I see others who have gone before me in this sub-genre, and just as thrilled to see those I’ve inspired to follow me. Why? Because I love the world within them, and long to see it appreciated with hopes of it expanding and becoming more recognized.

That brings me back to the original question.

Put the shoe on the other writer’s foot. How far would you go to recreate another author’s story? How much of its likeness could you borrow before crossing the line from inspiration to imitation? If you are motivated to recreate some or all of what you’ve read, what is your motivation? A pure, simple, genuine love for the idea? Does it stir something in you, does it make you want to dive into that world yourself and experience it in your own words? If so, wonderful. Go for it, give it all you have. Please, though, at least try to give it your own fingerprint. To reproduce it too exactly is simply…well, a remake, a reproduction.

Or do you recognize the potential in something that was successful and see it as an avenue for yourself? Is it simply a case of a competitive spirit? Hey, that’s fine, too, I suppose. In my own experience, it merely produces a flat image of my goal, and my insincerity—driven merely by competitiveness—is apparent.

No matter what the motivation, no matter where the idea sprang from, one thing is true. There is a secret to carrying it off, to making it your very own, to making it unique with no traces of anyone else’s voice. And the secret is this: The best stories, the best characters—the ones that reach out and touch readers, that readers relate to and cherish—are the ones written from the heart. The stories written out of passion for the subject, for the characters.

Maybe that thing you and I see in other author’s work---that thing that inspires us---is their passion. That we cannot copy. Just as we have our own fingerprints, our own individual DNA, we can't recreate someone else's passion and make it our own. For a writer, their passion and love IS their personal literary DNA.

I found this quote by Martin Heidegger, and it sort of imparted (for me, anyway) an idea of what writing when inspired by another's work should amount to, The great thinker is one who can hear what is greatest in the work of other "greats" and who can transform it in an original manner. So, bottom line: be a great thinker. Gather inspiration from others, but...well, you get the picture. And the key word is think. For ourselves. And feel the story for ourselves. Getting an idea from another? We might can grow a story from another's seedling. The passion to cultivate it into our own unique tale? That has to be ours.

Because as Ella Wheeler Wilcox said, A poor original is better than a good imitation.

Just Daddy...

My problem with writing about my Daddy? I just can’t think what to say. Well, not the traditional tributes, the American Greetings salutes to fatherhood.

We buried my father on February 2, 2009. When the lid to the casket closed, a panic swooped over me. I would never, ever see him again this side of Heaven. Never. And with the closing of that lid, everything I could have, would have, should have asked him about himself was sealed forever.  No more chances to “get to know him better.” I had my chance and all I could do was hope I had learned enough. 

But before a thought speeds to your mind, thinking how callous I am, let me explain. 

I grew up in an era when so many dads were---well---just dads. They married our mothers and became fathers.  Simple. Having kids was just part of being married for so many men in this era. Part of the job---just went with the territory. 

Oh, sure. There were the exceptions. And sometimes, as a little girl, I seethed with jealousy toward my friends whose fathers were the exceptions. The dads who called their daughters “Princess”. I honestly convinced myself that my dad would have been a better dad if he would have only called me “Princess.” But he didn’t. Oh, well, I survived the beastly abuse of not being the little princess of my daddy’s eye. I somehow managed to shoot to adulthood as a fully functional, well adjusted woman in spite of this atrocity. 

The beauty of it all? I now realize he couldn’t have been a better father. Even considering the fact that he never had a pet name for me, that he didn’t take me fishing, that he didn’t play games with me---he still couldn’t have been a better father.

He supported his family on $2.15 an hour with his Post Office job (before it was union and before it was called Postal Union) and pushed a broom at a junior high school (in the days before they were called ‘middle school’) after work to make extra money. 

Times were hard, money was short. Suppers consisted often of pinto beans and cornbread or, on Sundays we ate scrambled eggs (never knew the Sunday egg connection---have made a mental note to find out from my mother). But we ate. We didn’t want. We were happy. We were a family and our house was a warm sanctuary. 

I thought I knew my daddy as well as I needed to. He wasn’t my best friend. He was my father. The man who raised me.  In the world I lived in (this is the world before time-outs replaced spankings), your daddy was just your daddy, and that was all he was supposed to be. What more did you need to know?

Well, I had a startling revelation that he might be a little more than that when I got married. The morning I was scheduled to leave my girlhood home to move to Alabama as a married woman, I got up early to say ‘good-bye’ to my daddy before he left for work. He hugged me so tight that I couldn’t break his hold. When he finally let go, he’d been crying. Tears were in his eyes. How dare he? This man who was supposed to be as indifferent as I was? Crying? Yes.

From then on I realized he was more than just my father, but was a man with feelings and a personality I hadn’t gotten to know. He was a man who had a whole life before I came along, a man I never knew. 

Thank God for revealing this to me while he was still alive.  For letting me learn about my father---the man who served his country in World War II in the Eleventh Airborne and earned a Purple Heart. The man who did double duty and served in the Navy on The U.S.S. Wasp. The man who sort of looked like a combination of William Holden and Paul Newman when he was young. The good looking man who married my mother and conceived me and my siblings.

The man who had a fascinating life, but who to me was just Daddy. 

Hardboiled and Loaded with Sin...

I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin. ---  Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely

You know the dame. You grew up with her. If you were like me, she was pretty much your best friend when you were a kid. 

Barbie. 

No last name, just Barbie. 

I started thinking about our ol' pal, though. And I had to wonder. Did our moms really know who we were hanging out with? Didn't our dear mothers do the math? The doll was produced to be, as she was introduced to the public in 1959, a role model for young girls.

Oh, really? Sugar, think again. Look, really look at the broad. 

Sure, she was a Dudley-do-gooder as a nurse...

Quite an accomplishment, considering she was a teenager.

She even did a stint as an airline stewardess, and quite a sexy one, too. Still, incredible for a teenager.

Through the years, there were very few avenues our lady did not pursue---up to and including an astronaut and a lawyer.

But, then, when you look really close at her illustrious history, you see those hints that the pretty little chickadee wasn't quite the teen role model after all.

Oh, come on! See-through lingerie for slumber parties? And just look at that catty non-smile smile. Is the gal a lady of the night or what?

Okay, okay. So she did have a million wedding dresses and even sprang for her long-suffering gigolo boyfriend Ken a wedding tux. But they never married, did they?

Ouch! Well, on second thought, I can't actually blame the Barbster for not marrying this weirdsmobile.

But the clincher, the proof, that our Lady of Perpetual Goodness really might not have been such an innocent?

Did you know who Barbie was designed after? The doll who came BEFORE Mattel's Princess of Good?

Ruth Handler, who designed Barbie, modeled the doll after a smoldering, sort of exotic---well, damn---I’ll just say it --- prostitute character from a German comic strip, Bild Lilli. 
 

Bild Lilli Cartoon and Doll

The Germans designed their doll after a sultry semi-porno character, and she bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Barbie --- or rather, Barbie bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Lilli. (Bild Lilli, alas, came first). 

Bild Lilli---remarkable resemblance.

Ah. But, whereas the German Lilli is rather a---how can I say it delicately---strumpet, her American twin, Barbie, is the wholesome girl next door---if you ignore her ‘teenage’ 36-26-36 measurements and her sleek, Cleopatra-type exotic eyeliner. 

Handler named the American bombshell doll---who walked into American history wearing nothing but a sexy black-and-white one-piece swimsuit---after her daughter, Barbara.

Well, honey, I certainly have nothing against a spicy gal. All my heroines in the movies and books are fire crackers, tough dames with smolder and sex appeal.

So ol' Barbie is pretty much my kind of lady.

But---hush, hush, keep in on the Q.T.---and don't tell our mothers just who we were REALLY palling around with.






 

Angel in the Outfield...

How wonderful it must be to speak the language of the angels, with no words for hate and a million words for love!  ~Quoted in The Angels' Little Instruction Book by Eileen Elias Freeman, 1994

I thought hard about my contribution to the Blog Hop Against Homophobia. There are so many issues to be addressed. So many important, critical issues.

I'm not a gifted orator, certainly not qualified to voice with the adequacy necessary to express my feelings on the issue of hatred. Bigotry. Intolerance.

So I'm just going to share how the hatred and gender bias hits me where I live. I'm going to introduce you to a real-life angel, a beautiful friend. A guy named Rick.

Rick is gay.

Everytime I hear hateful remarks about gay people, my first reaction is always a very defensive, hackles-raised ire. Because if you're hating homosexuals, you are hating my friend Rick. And I just won't tolerate that.

Rick is a friend of my daughter's and my late son-in-law, Mike. He'd been close friends with Mike's mom before she passed away (when Mike was a teen).

He's always been a wonderful man. I even have a huge crush on him, and he knows it. But when Mike became ill with Stage IV lung cancer, Rick kicked into high gear and literally became a fierce guardian of Mike and my daughter.

Rick came to clean the house when Lyndie was too tired with trips to M.D. Anderson. Rick prepared meals for Lyndie and Mike. Rick tended the dogs when Mike and Lyndie took much needed get-a-ways to the lake. Rick remembered how much Mike loved his childhood aluminum Christmas tree and bought he and Lyndie a beautiful seven-foot replica, complete with ornaments and lights. Rick taxied Mike to and from M.D. Anderson for chemo and radiation when Lyndie was not able to do so. Rick always made sure to bring flowers to Lyndie's work to cheer her up during the illness, to let her know she wasn't forgotten. When Mike was unable to work, Rick visited him at home and kept him company. Rick was always there, at the drop of a hat, anytime Mike or Lyndie needed him.

Mike (left) and Rick

See where I'm going with this? Do you see the angel I see in Rick? Unselfish, loving, gentle, tireless. Angel.

When Mike passed away, it was Rick who completely decorated the memorial chapel. Beautiful flowers, candles, photos. Rick constantly visited Lyndie in those horrible early days, he still does. The beautiful flowers continue to arrive for her. He's still there. He was and still is a friend to my children in every sense of the word, and beyond.

So you see why I might get a little bit angry when I hear homophobic remarks? Why I take very personal offense? Because if you say these horrible, hate-filled things, you say them about this angel on earth. You say them about my Rick.

And, like I said. I won't tolerate it.

Rick and Lyndie



All God's angels come to us disguised.  ~James Russell Lowell



PURLY GATES IS HERE!

Just a quick update to let you know my new short novella, Purly Gates, is now available at Amazon!

Click on image to purchase.

I'm excited. It's been a slow road to finishing a story, any story. So this is a milestone of sorts. It did set a fire under me, though, because I truly did enjoy writing those last words, closing the pages to a work in progress. Methinks I need to do it again. It could be a nice habit!

I'm also scared. Here's another baby, thrown out of the nest and into the world. He's no longer mine, he's on his own.

Ah, well. It was a wonderful experience, regardless. You know I always liken writing books to childbirth, and so it is. The huge joy, excitement...pain...fear of the unknown...the giving birth and then the letting go and being helpless to defend them when others don't like them. And being happy when some do like them.

But, like childbirth, I'd do it again and again.

You're on your own, Purly old boy. Good luck.



COMING SOON...Purly Gates...

Cover Art by Emmy Ellis

When my first novella, Candy G (under C. Zampa pen name) was released, I sincerely thought I'd have a boat load of stories to follow it. It was not to be. Instead---partly due to life and its obstacles and partly due to the simple fact I am a hopelessly slow writer---I have just now written the words The End in a story for the second time. Nevertheless, I'm ecstatic. I feel as high on having completed this one short novella as I would be having a hundred stories under my belt. 

My first story under the Vastine Bondurant pen name turned out to be a m/m historical. When I envisioned the title, I envisioned a male/female couple but these guys took over the story and...well...here they are. 

Since this is a shorter work, I'm taking the opportunity to self-publish it (with help of a professional editor and formatter), and it will be released soon.

So today, let me introduce you to my newest characters, Purly and Lucky in Pearly Gates. 

Here's a peek at the boys.

Blurb

Eventually soul mates meet, for they have the same hiding place.   ----  Robert Brault

A lonely stretch of beach becomes a hiding place for two men who are determined not to be ships just passing in the night.

Purlman “Purly” Gates—dark, brooding, mysterious, hiding from his past and the hefty price on his head—is hopelessly attracted to the young man who strolls the beach every morning. At the risk of his own exposure and its deadly consequences, Purly succumbs to his desire and sets out to lure the beautiful enigma into his lair.

Lucky Cleary wants the swarthy stranger who watches him from the shadows of the cottage deck. His morning promenades finally pay off when the man steps out onto the beach and into Lucky’s life in a move to bring their paths together.

But Lucky has a secret as well—a past mistake following close behind him, promising certain death if it catches up with him. And when he discovers Purly’s identity, not only does Lucky want the man more than ever but he sees the loner as a shelter, an escape to safety.

Is the meeting of these two souls a beautiful destiny or merely a cruel twist of fate in which their desire is nothing more than the kiss of death for them both?

Excerpt

It had been one week. Seven days to be exact. Lucky had not returned for his morning walks. 

Daily Purly gazed along the shore, halfway hoping to see the man with the honey-colored curls. It was wrong to wish it, he knew that. But he hadn’t anticipated the ache at seeing that Lucky’s path in the sand, the only sign the beautiful enigma ever even existed, had faded with the tide. 

It was for the best. Yes, as surprisingly painful as it had been to watch Lucky leave that day with his shoulders slumped—to see him cast a sad smile at his dogs then follow them onto the beach and out of Purly’s life—there was no way Purly could deny it had to be. 

It was for the best, but…

Damn! How the hell had Lucky managed to possess him—lock, stock and barrel—in the span of one week? A pinhead of time in the big scheme of things. A complete stranger at that! And only thirty minutes of that week, if even that much, had been spent face to face.

Loneliness. Of course. That was all it had been. An eternity without having touched another, slept with them, tasted their lips. Longing pent up inside him, miserable and swelling, torturing him for release.

Yes. The shy man with the eyes of crystal green had just happened to cross Purly’s ravenous path and stood right before the jaws of this hungry beast. It could have been anyone, any man, and the effect would have been the same.

It sounded logical, but…

Purly placed a recording on the spindle, wound the crank on the phonograph and rested the needle carefully where the Moonlight Sonata was to begin.

The music—rich and beautifully gloomy—filled the area and shards of moonlight pierced through the dilapidated blinds to paint silvery stripes on the floor and walls. The perfect setting for a man determined to brood.

Plucking his ever-present cigarette from the ashtray, Purly headed for the deck and stepped out into the balmy night air. The ocean’s roar, rolling then subsiding, blended with the melancholy sonata. 

Beyond the shore a wide ribbon of moonlight split the endless black horizon. To the west, lightning illuminated a cluster of clouds and seconds later the rumble of thunder echoed in the sky.  

 And then he spotted them. There on the beach, silhouetted against that wide smattering of sparkles on the waves, stood three figures—Lucky and his two dogs. 

Before Purly could pull the lever of reasoning and caution, waves of warm, exquisite, excruciating heat rushed through his body. And, abandoning the damn internal warning sirens altogether, he tossed his cigarette, bolted down the rickety steps and out onto the cool sand toward Lucky.

What he’d say when he reached Lucky’s side, he didn’t know nor did he care. He only knew he did have to reach his side.

Standing within several feet of him, Purly said nothing, just gazed at Lucky’s back—at the wind dusting through his curls and rippling the loose-fitting white shirt and trousers about his limbs. 

The dogs galloped from the tide to pounce on Purly as though running into a long-lost friend and, thrusting their wet paws on his chest, sent him sprawling onto the sand. Only then did he realize he’d stepped outside in his thin undershirt and shorts.

Lucky turned to face the commotion. With his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he studied the scene through those dark lashes and rested a serene smile on Purly. He shrugged, tilted his head and sighed. “Purly.”

Struggling to his feet in spite of the eager dogs, Purly searched Lucky’s face, registering every smooth inch of it, before looking into his eyes.

A lie formed in Purly’s mind, an excuse for being out on the beach at this time of night in his undershorts. But Lucky’s gaze, although so languid and cool, somehow managed to shoot fire straight to Purly’s soul, melting the budding falsity.

Instead of the bogus story he’d planned, the truth issued from his lips. “I’m sorry, Lucky, about the other day.”

Lucky bent to ruffle the white fur at each dog’s neck. Since their meeting, all the boyish nervousness seemed to have vanished from his eyes, his bearing. 

He said nothing, just continued to lavish his attention on the canines.

The silence prompted Purly to step nearer, determined—hoping to God the chance hadn’t passed forever—to draw some sort of response from the man. “I’ve missed seeing you in the mornings.” 

Still no reaction from Lucky.

Stubbornness in his resolve now, Purly boldly closed the space between them and stooped to rest his hand on Lucky’s. To demand his attention. The touch of the man’s skin sent heat rushing from Purly’s fingertips straight through his body. “I’ve missed you.”

The sentiment spewing from him was so foreign to his ears—the unfamiliar concept of missing, longing out loud—he might as well have been speaking in tongues.

Finally Lucky straightened, gently withdrew his hand from beneath Purly’s and brushed the sand from his own palms. His voice, wafting on the ocean’s breeze, seemed to have drawn the thought from Purly’s very mind, “Do you want me?”

And Purly knew he’d utter the tiny word—the lone syllable possessing the power to shatter the huge boulder on his shoulders with the force of a hundred earthquakes. The answer that would plunge him into a dark, horrifying unknown and yet set him beautifully free.

“Yes.”

 

Coffee, Books and...Lipstick...

It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all   ---- Laura Ingalls Wilder

I'm Vastine Bondurant. Welcome to my place!

I put off launching my blog for a long time, waiting for the perfect subject. Something that would make me sound provocative, really interesting.

Truth is, I'm not extraordinary. I'm just a girly girl who's ready and excited to start writing---creating---one of her favorite worlds: guys and girls.

I'm a published author in the m/m genre, which I adore, but somehow the time just wasn't quite right to begin writing mainstream and m/f romance. Until now.

The characters in my head are like me. They ARE me. Basic, nothing fancy, but hopefully SO simple and human you'll relate to them, you'll recognize bits of yourself when you meet them.

My fictional boys aren't perfect. If you met them in real life, you'd knock them upside their heads. But you'd love them in spite of yourself. My gals aren't perfect either because they all carry little doses of me in them. Most of them are much bolder than me, and that's the fun part---painting dames who, even though they're imperfect, are what I'm not adventurous enough to be.

I crossed this painting by my favorite modern artist, Jack Vettriano, titled Back Where You Belong a while back and I knew...I just knew...I needed to write the feelings it inspired in me. Man, woman, love, anger, lust, sex, masculine, feminine, tears, stoicism. Romance.

Back Where You Belong by Jack Vettriano

And who IS Vastine Bondurant?

A simpleton, a romantic. A woman who can survive anything as long as she has the basics: coffee in the pantry, a working coffee pot, books and...most importantly...lipstick.

Yes, I am the Talullah Bankhead from the film Lifeboat. The woman who---even when her ship is sinking and she's stranded in the middle of the ocean on a lifeboat with a bevy comprised mostly of men (oh, the hardhips)---stops to put on her lipstick. The woman who even THOUGHT to rescue her lipstick from a sinking vessel. A woman who knows her priorities. Yes, that's Vastine.

Did you think I was joking about the lipstick on the lifeboat full of men? Would I joke about lipstick or men?

I'm a woman hopelessy lost in this decade, who would be hunky dory to be back in those other eras---the 20's, 30's, 40's. Times that were probably not all we've romanticized them to be, but are so vivid and exciting in my imagination.

I look forward to getting to know you. I'll always welcome your input on romance, on writing, on life.

Hope to see you again soon.

Coming soon! Posts from Vastine Bondurant!