Welcome!
I appreciate you stopping by. If you’re here now, you’ve most likely read my writing in the past, in which case you know I’ve been a bit dormant over the last couple years. In that time, I moved to Montana, switched education and career paths, started a gender transition, had top surgery, and (along with all of you) weathered a pandemic. In some ways, it feels like my life is finally beginning here in 2021. So I thought, what better way to christen my new goals than to finally start the newsletter I’ve been wanting to create for years?
I’d love to use this platform as a way to keep in touch with everyone who enjoyed THE SEA AIN’T MINE ALONE in the lead-up to future projects. Hope you stick around!
After today, the newsletter will drop on the 10th of each month.
Announcement: Upcoming Release!
Let me re-introduce many of you to a long lost friend . . . hint:
That’s right —your favorite queer Denali National Park Rangers are getting published in 2021! Here’s what to expect from NAMES FOR THE DAWN:
The thought of ever leaving Denali makes stealth trans man Will Avery shiver. His isolated tundra home means he’s safe, in control. The trade-off that he’s never shared his bed in forty years feels worth it—until Dr. Nikhil Roy arrives to study the wolves.
Want a never-before-seen glimpse of NAMES FOR THE DAWN? My March newsletter will contain an exclusive sneak peek! Subscribe here for updates, a cover reveal, and preorders in the future.
I’m thrilled to be working with Carnation Books again for this release. I did spend close to two years in the ‘traditional querying’ process with this manuscript, and I learned the good, the bad, and the ugly of that system. Perhaps I’ll expound more in future newsletters. At the end of the day, I was lucky and really clicked with my incredible new editor at Carnation, and so I put traditional publishing off for a future project. I’ll revisit it whenever I’m emotionally ready to feel like I’m back in the college rejection letter process.
(cue mortifying memory of me telling my Dartmouth interviewer “I’ll see you on campus!” and that “Oh, I don’t need another brochure, I’ll see it in person in the fall!” and then getting my rejection email so soon after that I realized it must have already been drafted when I said that . . .)
Work in Progress: SLOW BURN
I used February as my own personal NaNoWriMo to get down a zero draft for a new book: wildland firefighters and daring rescues and true love, oh my!
I’d like to use this newsletter to peel back the curtain a bit on my writing process. To start, here’s a brief intro to one of the main characters, in all his super-rough-draft glory:
Keenan reached for his hand. Soft fingers. An open palm.
“Hurry up, Reese’s,” he called gently, smiling now, fingers intertwined like wool cords, the tightest braid. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’ll show you the way.”
Of course he would. Of course Keenan would show him the way. They stepped out into the sunshine, and there was grass on the ground. Crisp fresh blades against the bare soles of their feet. No shoes.
“Took ‘em off for you, Reese’s. Don’t need those where we’re going. I’ll show you the way.”
They traveled over the unbelievable grass—no ash or smoke. Not even a hint of crackling embers or charred trees. The cool kiss of a light breeze shivered up his skin. Birds sang. And he wasn’t even tempted to look back over his shoulder; nobody was coming after them. And when he looked down at his hand wrapped tightly in Keenan’s, his own skin was blank. Smooth and naked like he’d been wiped clean. Not a shadow of ink.
“Took those off for you, too,” Keenan said, voice filled with pride, with anticipation. “I’ll show you the w—”
A clang wrenched him from sleep.
His dream dissolved in a sudden whoosh—the sunshine and the birds and the grass—the warm press of Keenan’s hand around his own—all of it turned to grey concrete and a flickering fluorescent light. He curled onto his side, trying to enjoy his last few moments of peace; saw that his hand had slipped between the bunk and the wall, which explained that part of the dream, at least. Cody’s soul seemed to crawl back into his body with an exhausted, resigned thud. He rubbed the poor sleep from his eyes, brain coming awake.
It was a new twenty-four hours. He reached out and carefully tore off the square of paper from his calendar, the crinkled page barely held together by bits of tape, to reveal the day’s word:
Penitent: feeling or showing sorrow and regret for having royally fucked up.
Well, that was rich. But all the same, a small smile came over his face. The calendar didn’t even function as a calendar anymore; he’d crossed out the months and days years ago. And Keenan, after sharing a cell for a week, watching this daily routine, had been so horrified to learn that Cody had been re-learning the same 365 words over and over again for five years that he stole the calendar, taped it all back together, and hand-wrote a whole new set of words for him. Custom definitions.
Cody rolled onto his back. Tried to think of the word in a new sentence, but it just wouldn’t come. The clang sounded, again and again. Metal baton on bars that had been his alarm clock for over a decade.
A decade, his mind repeated, with a horrified shiver. He immediately pushed the thought away. One day at a time. No need to say any numbers.
He cracked every bone in his spine before standing, listening to the bark of the guard making his way down the hall. He stood and gave a quick once-over to the room, as if the last time he’d gotten any sort of room demerit wasn’t long before Keenan had ever arrived.
His bunkmate was still asleep, limp hand hanging over the side of the top bunk. The man had arrived last week looking like a shit-scared leaf about to rip in the wind. Seemed like all he knew how to do was shiver in the corner or sleep through every clatter and yell and alarm. Cody still didn’t even know his name.
He flicked the back of the limp hand as the guard’s voice grew louder. “Hey up. Up.”
The man groaned and slid from the bunk straight down to the floor, narrowly avoiding landing on Cody’s foot in the tiny space. A cascade of books, t-shirts, and candy wrappers all fell to the floor with him. Cody only had time to curse under his breath and start to shove it all under the bunk with his foot when a familiar face appeared in their own window, eyeing Cody’s wrinkled jumpsuit pants and ten-day old tank top with a sneer. It wasn’t Cody’s fault the washing machines had been broken for well over a month. He suspected he was one of the cleanest guys here, all things considered.
“Inmate,” the officer barked. “Untidy living space. Lose a week of rec.”
Cody swallowed a growl of annoyance. Out of the corner of his eye, his roommate cowered by the foot of the bed, eyes at the floor.
“Yes, sir,” Cody said, his voice carefully wooden and blank—a tone he had mastered after about six months inside.
The guard grunted. Made to move on, eyes down at the clipboard in his hands, then he suddenly stopped. Backtracked a step, flipping a page.
“Which one of you is Reese?” he asked, sounding annoyed that he had to spend an extra ten seconds at their cell.
Cody’s heart plunged into his stomach. There was no good reason for his name to be on any list this early in the morning. His mind instantly traveled back to an identical scenario a year ago, when he was ten days out from release, counting the seconds and the hours—he’d even penciled the dates back in on his calendar pages—and a different guard had walked up to the window, looked down at a clipboard, and told him in a casual voice that there had been a mistake before. He wasn’t supposed to be released that August, but next August. Clerical error when typing the year into the system. Don’t be late to breakfast. Have a nice day.
Or the moment three years ago when an officer came without warning and unlocked the door, told Keenan to grab his things, he’d been granted early release, hurry up, don’t have all day, don’t keep his family waiting—
Cody cleared his throat, hiding his sweating palms behind his back. “Me.” He added, when met with a blank, disappointed stare. “I’m Reese. Sir.”
The officer nodded at someone behind him, and the sound of keys in the lock jangled.
“Fire,” he said, before Cody had time to think up any fantastic ideas about being told to gather his things, early release, walk out the front door.
But that word alone was enough. A spark erupted through him, crackling in his fingertips. He didn’t dare show any excitement. Barely breathed. Had to make sure. “Fire crew? This early?”
It had been six long months since he’d let himself even say those words, and it should have been a couple months longer. He wasn’t set to be relocated to the Conservation Camp for the summer until late May. And it was still a week out from April. He’d barely started upping his daily push-up count again to prepare. Hadn’t even allowed himself to look forward to the smell of the pines, the smoke, his boots in the dirt.
The guard raised a brow. Held up a hand to stop the other officer from fully opening the door. “Oh, well if it’s too early for you, I’ll pass along to Benson that you’d rather not—”
“No.”
The man still paused, clearly waiting for a ‘sir.’ Cody swallowed down a surprising rush of pure loathing, an emotion he thought he’d outgrown years ago. The younger him would have stood there in a face-off and never said it, even if it meant standing there all day without any meals.
But he wanted to go. Fuck, he wanted to go. He wanted to be up in the mountains and swing his axe into the earth again and again, feel the sweat of hard work pour down his back, ride the old red engine out the front gates under the open sky. Freedom.
“Sir,” Cody added, a few seconds too late. “I want to go.”
Stay tuned for much more, including the intro to Lead Smokejumper Brett Song!
This month, here’s what I’m . . .
Watching:
An empathetic look at a houseless veteran suffering from PTSD and his daughter, critically examining how social services can sometimes harm as much as they help. As a crisis counselor and hopeful future therapist, this hit home for me. The good kind of angst, although I felt the ending was unnecessarily drastic — surely there could’ve been a compromise? But it made me miss the West Coast.
Reading:
To be honest, 95% of what I read is mystery and true crime. I inhale Agatha Christie, PD James, Ann Rule, Patricia Cornwell, etc. But if I’m not reading that genre, I’m reading queer romance, and given that this is a queer romance newsletter, I’ll try to keep in line. Last month I read the newest Tal Bauer THE MURDER BETWEEN US. I loved Bauer’s WHISPER for its plot and themes, and adored ASCENDENT for its pairing, Sasha and Sergey (you unfortunately need to read a long trilogy first to be introduced to that pairing as side characters, but you could probably still fit the pieces together well enough). MURDER was a bit case-heavy, and Noah’s emotional whiplash came off to me as a bit immature for a grown adult leading the FBI. However it still had all the fun, hijinks, and longing I expect from Bauer, and was a quick read.
For a fan fiction rec, the Holmes/Watson fic WINTER IN LONDON by Waid is my all-time favorite. Huge content warning for sexual assault. But it has a happy ending, and re-reading it is my special catharsis. Gorgeously done.
Listening to:
This new podcast by KAST media is midway through a series on internet cult leader Sherry Shriner. It has all the flashy true crime elements like reptilians and psy-ops, but I was also relieved at the nuance and empathy given to the people who followed Shriner, some to their deaths. If this podcast ends up being problematic (is anyone else following the Test Kitchen Reply All racism fallout?) I hereby rescind every good thing I just said.
Learning:
I’ll admit I watched Bridgerton in the days immediately following surgery so I was a bit incoherent on pain meds, and it wasn’t my favorite thing, personally. But I was enjoying the general squee over it, as well as the eventual critiques. Khadija Mbowe has a well done video titled Race-baiting, queer-baiting, colorism, featurism, and performative diversity in which they discuss these issues in regards to Bridgerton. They also link to some great anti-racism articles, videos, and discussions surrounding the show in the description.
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Have a question or comment? Email me at author.c.l.beaumont@gmail.com
Thrilled for you and your new projects and your trash can boobs!