To Tell or Not To Tell

There are so, SO many blogs and posts out there about the downward slide of the discourse all around the country since this administration came into power and enabled people to openly voice their racism and xenophobia. But I’m not going to write one of those.

Warning: this will be a bit of a ramble.

One of our newfound delights is an HGTV show called “Home Town.” It’s based in Laurel, Mississippi and features a young couple named Erin and Ben Napier, who remodel homes for people looking to move up or settle in Laurel. More about that later.

I have always been out at work, at least with my coworkers. In addition to my gayness not feeling like something I need to be ashamed of or try to hide, it always seemed to me that if I was out and open, that takes away the power of others to try and use it against me, if anyone was so inclined. There’ve been a couple of negative reactions over the last 30 years, but very few.


A couple of weeks ago, I had a patient, a Vietnam era veteran, who has been seeing me for back and hip pain. He was in a talkative mood on this particular day. He and his wife were going to be traveling to an upcoming wedding of a son of one of his platoon members, and he was looking forward to seeing his buddy. He started telling me about this dream he’d just started having for the first time in over fifty years—a very detailed dream of saying goodbye to his family when he got drafted and had to report, of boot camp, and then his deployment to Vietnam via Midway and Guam. The whole thing seemed to have played like a movie in his head.

While in Vietnam, he had a few hand-to-hand encounters, and did kill some of the enemy who had infiltrated a communications station he was working in. And then, a platoon member lost it and began shooting up their barracks, killing a few men who were in there. My patient, when he got to the barracks, saw where a few of the bullets had ripped into his empty mattress—the bed he might have been sleeping in if the attack had happened a few hours earlier or later. He even has one of those bullets in his office.

And suddenly, he was sobbing, unable to speak.

All I could do was be there with him, assuring him when he kept apologizing that it was perfectly all right. I offered him some toilet paper (it’s softer than the government-issued tissues around here) to dry his eyes and blow his nose. I let him know we had three mental health providers in the clinic, if he felt he wanted to speak with someone. He declined that day, but said he’d think about it.

Yesterday, he came in for his next (and last) visit with me. Turns out the wedding of his buddy’s son was to his fiancé, not his fiancée. My patient had never been to a same-sex wedding and said he found it very moving.

And I found that very moving. This 74 year-old man, instead of being angry or disgusted or repulsed by the exchange of vows between these two men who loved each other, listened to the vows they’d written and made to each other, in front of, not only their friends and family, but friends of family. Just like any other wedding.

It was so tempting to share with him that my wife and I got legally married on our 20th anniversary. I think he would have been open to that and would have accepted it without any issues, but I really needed to touch base with him about his flashbacks from our previous visit, and I didn’t want to distract from that.

I firmly believe that the only way to change hearts and minds about LGBQ people is for them to know us, for us to be out and open. But it’s different when I’m contemplating crossing that line with patients.

I have done that, many times. I met two of our dearest friends, M&M, by opening up to them when I was treating each of them. But in each situation, I always have to step back and question whether it feels okay.

Of course, I don’t always need to come out. Like the day one patient called me a fucking dyke. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the hate in his eyes.

We fear what we don’t know. I do believe that. But we also disdain what we don’t know because we don’t value it. It doesn’t mean anything to us, so… who cares? And disdain is just one short step away from hatred.

Which brings me back to Mississippi, and Erin and Ben Napier and their TV show.

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I’ve never given Mississippi a thought. It ranks 49th or 50th in nearly every statistical category: lifespan, health indicators, per capita income. It has a long history of rampant racism. I’ve never had any desire to live there or to visit. I disdain Mississippi because I don’t know it. And there may be parts of that state that live up to every preconceived notion I have of it. Especially the parts with lots of red MAGA hats. But not Laurel.

As Erin and Ben squire folks around Laurel, showing them houses to possibly remodel into their dream homes, they’ve worked with all kinds of folks: the older black woman who owns a local diner, a young lesbian couple (one of whom grew up in Laurel), the woman who headed up the town’s revitalization campaign. But they’ve also had a couple from Canada who have decided to retire there, and an older man who chose to move there from Belize, along with an actor and his wife from California who decided to help remodel some more modest homes and provide them as lease-to-own for lower income folks.

What Erin and Ben wanted to do was to introduce people to the charm to be found in a small town. But the other thing they’ve done, whether they intended to or not, was to bring all kinds of different people to Laurel. I listen to the strong southern accents, and I know my first inclination would have been to think all of those carpenters and painters and floor refinishers were uneducated, racist, homophobic, xenophobic bigots. And maybe they are off-camera. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I have been just as guilty of assuming the worst of them and everyone else filling in the vast spaces in the middle of the country. Which makes me realize that if I am willing to assume the worst of people based solely on where they live, I am part of what is tearing this country apart.

But by bringing all these disparate people together in one small town, the Napiers are helping to create tolerance. When you live among people who are different from you, you learn acceptance and tolerance, because you see those folks aren’t that different after all, not in the ways that matter.

The challenges are only mounting: the coronavirus outbreak; the tanking of the markets and their possible impact on the economy as a whole; several more months of soul-sucking political campaigns before November gets here.

No matter how disgusted I am by the behavior of people sporting MAGA hats, the hooting and hollering at the rallies, I have to believe they do not represent everyone in their community. If I lose that hope, well… I don’t want to be that person. I won’t let them make me that person.

This time will not last forever, if we only remember to have courage and be kind. (okay, I borrowed that from Cinderella – the Lily James version).


Pax Tecum 2019


Questions of Light Photography

December, Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Solstice. This time of year is so many things to so many people.

For some reason, this Advent and Christmas has been more emotional for me than usual. I’ve been missing all of the people who aren’t with us any longer – my parents and my wife’s parents, my sister-in-law, my friend Peggy, pets who’ve crossed the Rainbow Bridge. I keep tearing up at odd moments, which is most unhelpful at work or pulling into parking lots to go do my shopping with a red nose and puffy eyes.

As I’ve written in the last two December Pax Tecum blogs, the political climate doesn’t make it any easier.

The photo above is titled Ethereal. The photographer said it was of a small stream trying to get out to sea, battling against the incoming waves. One inexorable force battling another. Except, as big as the ocean is, we know the small stream will eventually win. Its waters will become part of the sea. It may be beaten back temporarily; the ocean’s power may seem too big to fight, but the stream will keep pushing forward. Because it must.

As I wrote just this morning to a friend, it seems as if the world is on fire. Australia and California literally are. But other, less literal, fires are burning everywhere. It seems too overwhelming, too powerful, too big to fight.

But we will. Because we must. We will do what we can do. One kind act at a time. One donation at a time. One protest at a time. One voice at a time raised in defiance of tyranny. When my act, my voice, my protest is joined with yours and all of the others out there, we are like that small stream. We may be pushed back. We may be overcome for a while, but if we persist, we will triumph over the forces that would divide us.

My wish for all of us in 2020 is that we see a return to genuine respect and civility and human kindness – person to person, nation to nation. I’m not naïve enough to think that it’s going to magically happen. We will have to fight and protest and vote and stand firm against the forces that are trying to drag us all down into the quagmire of tyranny and authoritarianism and hatred of others.

I keep this at my desk at work, to constantly remind me.


Wishing every one of you the peace of knowing you’re loved and that we are never alone in this struggle to do what’s right.

Pax tecum



On the Palm of My Hand



“See! I will not forget you… I have carved you on the palm of my hand.” Isaiah 49:15

It’s that time of year. Time for my fall/winter fundraiser for Pets of the Homeless. We’ve already sent a check to the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank for the holidays, and we’ll revisit them with the spring/summer fundraiser. But this time of year, it gets even tougher for the homeless to find warmth and shelter, especially if they have animal companions. Pets of the Homeless helps homeless people with emergency vet care and food donations throughout the year. Their monthly newsletter is filled with heartwarming (and heart-breaking) stories of injured animal companions, often the only living thing these people have in their lives.

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I am fortunate enough to have a good job and good benefits. My writing, as much as I love doing it, does not pay the bills. The upside of this truth is that I have the freedom to donate more than I realistically could if I depended on writing for my livelihood. To date, your generosity has allowed me to donate $1500 to Pets of the Homeless over the years (and we’ve donated more than that to the food bank, as we’ve been doing it longer). Some years, my donation has been matched by the generosity of friends.

Again this year, I’ll be donating 100% of my December royalties to Pets of the Homeless.

Any books you purchase (or gift!) between now and the end of the year will go toward this fundraiser.

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As always, if you already own all of my books, thank you so much! I’ve received messages from several readers over the years that they’ve made their own donations to Pets of the Homeless or to their own local food banks. Your generosity is SO awesome!

Thank you all for being in my life (even if we’ve never actually met). Thank you for reading and sharing this writing journey with me. And thank you for supporting me in helping those who don’t have as much as we do.



I Remember

I’ve been looking forward to the release of Frozen 2 for the last few years – hoping, like many others, that Elsa might get a girlfriend. We did get to see it this weekend.  I don’t think it’s spoilerish to say the girlfriend didn’t happen (exactly), but we did get to see Elsa face her continued feelings of being different, and we get to see her embracing her differences and accepting them. It really is beautiful to watch. The unbreakable sisterly love she and Anna share is equally moving.

Of course, I know I’m viewing Elsa’s story through my own lens. I wrote a few years ago about how my many lenses include lesbian-colored ones. I wrote, too, about how Let It Go was SUCH a coming-out song, an incredibly powerful one. I didn’t think Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez could equal that in this new movie, but they have. Show Yourself  is amazing.

“Every inch of me is trembling, and not from the cold. Something is familiar, like a dream I can reach but not quite hold.”


I remember so very clearly what it was like – to know I was different, that I didn’t want what most people want.  To know what I longed for, but not knowing if I would ever be able to share it with anyone. Just Friday, I was talking to a co-worker, recalling how my first relationship broke up after eleven years because she still couldn’t acknowledge me or our relationship. I couldn’t be bound by her fear any longer (took me a while, obviously). But I also remember how it felt to free myself from her fear. Good or bad, I had to be my truest self.

INVISIBLE, AS MUSIC eBook with border

Part of writing is remembering and trying to make those feelings come alive in the characters’ thoughts and actions. In my newest book, Invisible, as Music, it involved a LOT of remembering. Remembering what the 80s were like – the good (women’s music and spaces) and the bad (almost everything else); remembering what it was like to be terrified of admitting how I felt to another woman, holding my breath as I waited to see if she felt the same. Even when writing something contemporary or set in a future that hasn’t happened yet, the ability to make readers feel what the characters feel comes from mining the depths of emotional memory.

“But I’m here for a reason. Could it be the reason I was born?”

As Olaf reminds us, even water has memory.


Invisible No Longer

I am thrilled to share the news that my latest novel is heading to the formatter! And here is the gorgeous cover.

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This is my fifteenth novel. That seems almost impossible. What a journey this has been. I love this story. It’s set in 1983/84, an era that was so formative for me.

Here’s the blurb:

Henrietta Cochran has spent nearly forty years dealing with the effects of the polio she contracted in 1945. Her braces and crutches restrict her, define her, but they also give her independence. Almost. She hates that she has become increasingly reliant on a series of live-in companions to help her. For some reason, the companions never seem to want to stay very long. So Henrietta retreats further and further into her art, where her physical limitations don’t matter.

Into her life sails Meryn Fleming: out, outspoken, and fiercely political. She’s young, enthusiastically diving into her first job as a history professor at the local college. When she falls, almost literally, into Henrietta’s path, she seems like a godsend.

Little does Henrietta know that this young woman is about to upend her carefully structured existence. Ryn challenges everything, barging right through the walls Henrietta has built to keep others at a distance.

To Ryn, Henrietta is an enigma: prickly and easily insulted at the slightest suggestion that she can’t do things for herself; a brilliant artist capable of producing the most beautiful paintings; and sometimes, when Henrietta doesn’t realize she’s letting her guard down, a tender and sensitive woman.

With Meryn’s youthful optimism pitted against Henrietta’s jaded acceptance of the world as it is, life will never be the same for either of them.

I’m expecting this to be an early/mid-November release, just in time for Thanksgiving!

For those of you who enjoy reading excerpts, here’s a bit of the first chapter:


Henrietta poured a little water into a bowl and stirred it into the gesso she’d already spooned in. Picking up a well-used brush, she applied the mixture to a new canvas. Sunlight diffused indirectly through the floor-to-ceiling windows forming the north wall of her studio, where the trees beyond—not quite ready to turn—beckoned and begged to be captured. Again. Though she’d seen these same trees—birches with their starkly white trunks, majestic oaks more than a hundred years old, spreading maples whose leaves would become brilliant crimson and orange in a few weeks—go through this same cycle every year for nearly forty years, it never failed to stir her.

She tried to ignore the thumps coming from the front of the house and the repeated openings and closings of the front door. She tried, too, to ignore the nervous feeling in her stomach. It was going to be a bad night. Probably a bad month or two before things calmed down again. But the calm never lasted long. And then she’d go through this same cycle, just like those trees.

While the prepped canvas dried, she picked up a sketchpad and pencil and laid out a composition to be transferred to the canvas later. She sketched in a view of the pond below as it would appear when the leaves began to fall, with the meandering flagstone path from the house, down the hill, to the pond itself.

She paused. It had been a while since she’d been down there. Maybe later today…

She stiffened at a timid knock on the studio door behind her. A thin voice said, “Miss Cochran? I’m all packed.”

Setting her pad down, Henrietta swiveled on her stool.

“I’m sorry to leave you—”

“No need to apologize, Amanda,” Henrietta cut in.

“It’s just my grandma needs someone, you see.” Amanda’s pale, watery eyes flitted about the studio, her hands twisting the strap of her purse as she looked anywhere but at Henrietta.

It was a reaction Henrietta was accustomed to. “I understand.”

“I’ve made you a turkey sandwich.” Amanda waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen.

“Thank you.”

A long silence stretched out between them until Amanda shuffled back a step. “I’ll just be going then.” She waited a moment, but when Henrietta said nothing further, she said, “Good-bye.”

Henrietta swiveled back to the windows, listening to the fading sound of footsteps tapping over the kitchen’s linoleum floor, then silence on the living room carpet, then more taps on the foyer flagstones. When the front door thudded shut for the last time, she sat staring out at the trees, but no longer seeing them.

After a while, she picked her pad up. Her pencil rolled off and fell to the floor. She plucked another from the can on her table and continued sketching. Ignoring the rumbling of her stomach, she continued working as the light gradually shifted. She set the pad on a tabletop easel and opened a tin of watercolors. Over the next few hours, the sketch blossomed. Pushing back to scrutinize it, she made mental notes about what to change when she turned it into an oil painting.

Her hands tremored with the hours of work and lack of food. Pushing stiffly to her feet, she reached for her crutches and made her way to the kitchen, where Amanda’s sandwich sat on a plate on the table along with a glass of tea, the ice long since melted.

On the kitchen counter was a key. Amanda’s key. The key that had been issued to and returned by more companions than she could now remember.

She briefly considered making something fresh, a hamburger maybe, but instead lumbered to the table. Settling herself at her accustomed place with its view of the country club golf course across the road, she ate her stale sandwich and drank her watery tea. This late in the day, there were only a couple of solitary golfers wandering around out there.

As she ate, she ran through an inventory of sources to check with tomorrow. Amanda hadn’t been stimulating company—the woman hadn’t any more than a high school education and considered Harlequin romances to be literature—but she’d been pleasant and reliable.

When she was done, Henrietta shuffled first her plate, then her glass to the counter where she could push them nearer the sink to wash them and place them in the drainer. She paused as she left the kitchen, undecided between going to the living room to watch television or going to the bedroom to read.

The ache from her body made the decision for her. She made certain the front door was locked and deadbolted and then made her way down the short hall to her room.

Following a ritual honed over decades, she closed the door, drew the curtains, turned down the bed, and then went to the bathroom. When she was done with her nightly routine in there, she returned to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, carefully placing her crutches within easy reach.

She bent over to untie her shoes and unbuckle the lowest straps on her leg braces. Laboriously, she unbuttoned her blouse and skirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons and zipper. She wriggled out of her clothes and folded them neatly on the chair beside the bed. With the clothing out of the way, she tugged on the leather straps binding her back brace. As soon as it was off, her spine partially collapsed under the weight of her slight trunk.

She undid the higher straps on her leg braces, grasping the metal uprights on either side to free her feet and legs from the restraints. Her thick hose were always difficult to don and doff, but they were an essential barrier between her skin and the braces. She groaned a little as she rubbed the indentations in her muscles left by the straps.

Reaching for the nightgown on the chair, she slipped it over her head. Grasping first one leg, then the other, she swung them onto the bed and pulled the bedclothes up to her chin. She picked up her book, Danielle Steel’s newest, and read until her eyes were too heavy to continue. Certain she’d be able to sleep now, she reached over and switched the bedside lamp off.

Darkness and silence settled on the house, but she was instantly wide-awake. Every whirr of the air conditioning unit, every creak and groan of the house, every outside noise that filtered through the windows startled her. She rolled over to turn on the radio on the bedside table, twiddling the dial until she found a station playing soothing classical music, but the noise only served to heighten her anxiety as she imagined other, more sinister sounds being masked by the radio. She turned it off again and lay there, listening.

She fought the familiar rise of panic, forcing herself to concentrate on her breaths, visualizing her lungs pulling air in and expelling it under her own power. In, out. In, out. She heard Una laughing, her beautiful face smiling down at her.

It took ages, but the panic faded. Knowing sleep would not be hers that night, she switched the lamp back on and picked up Danielle Steel again.


* * *


Loaded down with an olive-green army duffle over one shoulder and a guitar case in her other hand, Ryn stood on the sidewalk, looking up at a three-story Victorian. She shrugged the duffel straps higher on her shoulder and climbed the porch steps. Before she could knock, the front door opened, and she was nearly run over by a young woman. Ryn had a quick impression of big hair, bigger earrings and short shorts before the woman muttered a quick “Sorry” and teetered down the wooden stairs as quickly as she could in heels.

Shaking her head, Ryn stepped through the open door and reached back to push the door shut behind her. From upstairs, she could hear music coming from a stereo—no, make that two or three stereos.

A door at the far end of the hall swung open and an older woman bustled through from the kitchen beyond, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Yes?” asked the woman. “May I help you?”

“I’m Meryn Fleming. Are you Mrs. Middleston?” Ryn held out a hand.

Mrs. Middleston took it in a dainty fingers-only grip, looking Ryn up and down through her wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re the new professor at the college?”

Ryn beamed. “I am.”

Mrs. Middleston looked doubtful. “Yes, well, your room is up on the third floor.”

She led the way up the wide staircase, flanked by an ornate, carved bannister. As Ryn followed her up and around a second-floor landing, then up to the third floor, she thought she heard mutterings of “since when are they hiring twelve-year-old boys”. Apparently Mrs. Middleston, despite what her plumpness and silver-blue hair would suggest, was in better shape than she appeared if she had enough breath to mutter, because Ryn was huffing by the time they got to the third-floor landing with its eyebrow window giving a bird’s eye view of the street below and the village beyond. Two rooms opened off this landing, and Mrs. Middleston gestured into the room on the right.

Sunshine spilled onto plain, white matelassé bedspreads on the two twin beds, one piled high with stuffed animals and rumpled clothing.

“I insist on all the girls making their beds every day,” Mrs. Middleston was saying as Ryn looked around. “Sheets and towels are laundered every Saturday. See that yours are downstairs by nine that morning, and the clean ones will be ready by three.”

The one dresser’s top was littered with bottles of perfume, jars and tubes of makeup, and more bottles of nail polish, along with about six hairbrushes.

“I understood I was to have a room to myself,” Ryn said.

“Oh, well, when you called, I didn’t have another girl, but since then, I do,” Mrs. Middleston said, fussing with a wrinkle in the empty bed’s cover and straightening the neatly folded towel and washcloth sitting at the foot of the bed. “You’ll like Vanessa. She’s a very nice girl. Three of those drawers are yours.”

Mrs. Middleston looked Ryn up and down again, sighing in a disapproving way at the cut-off Levi’s, black Converse high-tops, and T-shirt emblazoned with a peace sign. “Yes, well, curfew is ten o’clock during the week, eleven on weekends. And I warn you, I’m very prompt with locking the door. You will have a shelf in a cupboard in the kitchen and may use the refrigerator for milk or lunchmeats. No food in the rooms. That is an absolute. I don’t want mice. And no alcohol on the premises.”

She moved toward the hall. “I’ll leave you to unpack. You’ve already paid your first month’s rent, so your next payment isn’t due until the first of the month.”

Ryn set her guitar down and let the duffle fall from her shoulder onto the bed. There was a pause in the clatter of Mrs. Middleston’s shoes on the stair treads.

“Oh, and no men!” she called from the stairwell.

Ryn snorted. “Fat chance of that.” But she mumbled it under her breath, certain that Mrs. Middleston’s hearing was as sharp as her appraising gaze.

She had hoped for a desk, but maybe it was better that there wasn’t one. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to be doing much more than sleeping here. She checked the dresser but, contrary to what Mrs. Middleston had said, there were no empty drawers. Ryn unceremoniously tugged open the three drawers on the left, closest to her bed, and scooped the contents onto Vanessa’s bed. She refilled them with her clothes from the duffel. She had to wrestle a few hangers free from the back of the stuffed closet to hang her teaching clothes—khakis and white shirts.

The floorboards vibrated with the bass thumps coming from a room below her on the second floor. She hoped Mrs. Middleston’s curfew extended to limits on playing loud music. With her unpacking done, she went downstairs to the ground floor where she found Mrs. Middleston in the kitchen.

“Can you tell me how to get to the campus from here?”

Mrs. Middleston looked up from her scrubbing of her already spotless stovetop. “You’re teaching there and you don’t know where it is?”

“My interview was over the telephone.”

“Well, it’s hard to miss. You could probably walk all of Bluemont inside half an hour. We’re on the south side of the village. St. Aloysius is on the north. You can go either way on this street. If you turn north, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

Ryn jogged down the porch steps and went to her car—a 1972 AMC Hornet. She reached into the back of the little station wagon to retrieve a backpack stuffed with textbooks and notebooks. When she closed the hatch, she pressed down the curling corner of a Re-Elect Carter bumper sticker adhered to the glass alongside many others.

Giving the fender a pat, she said, “You stay here, Nelly.”

She shrugged the backpack straps into position as she walked down the tree-lined street. When she rounded the corner, a stone church steeple poked into an impossibly blue sky. As Mrs. Middleston had said, she hadn’t walked more than fifteen minutes before she found herself in the village’s small town center—complete with a tree-lined square and statue to some past war hero. Cars parked diagonally on the streets surrounding the square, and people wandered up and down the sidewalks, entering and leaving the little shops lining the streets.

Ryn took in the quaintness of the scene. It was right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. So different from Pittsburgh.

Another few minutes brought her to the campus of St. Aloysius College. It was just as picturesque as the village—four main buildings of gray stone arranged around a grassy quad, a few mature oaks scattered around to provide some shade on this warmish late August day while one tall fir tree stood like a sentinel in the center of the space.

She scanned the signs on the buildings and found hers, Rayburn Hall. According to the little signs fastened to the wall at the base of the stairs, the history department was on the second floor.

Sweat beaded on her forehead by the time she found the department secretary’s office.

“Hi,” she panted, dropping her backpack onto a wooden chair inside the door. “I’m Meryn Fleming, the new history professor.”

The owlish woman behind the desk blinked at her a few times through enormous eyeglasses that magnified her eyes. “Good Lord.”

Ryn nodded solemnly. “Yes, she is.” She glanced down at the sign on the woman’s desk. “Beverly. Could you point me to my office?”

Beverly got to her feet, and Ryn realized she must have had her desk chair cranked to its highest position, because she was hardly taller standing than she had been sitting. She reminded Ryn even more of a bird as she led the way with short, staccato steps. Down the corridor, around the corner to… what looked like a converted broom closet. A desk and chair and one bookshelf had been crammed inside, but there was a window overlooking the hills beyond the campus. The bookshelf already contained what she recognized as the textbooks she’d be teaching from.

“You should have had Professor Aldren’s old desk, but he shared an office with Professor Geary, and Dr. Talbert thought you’d prefer being by yourself.”

Beverly peered up into Ryn’s face, searching as if trying to make up her mind about something. She crooked her finger, and Ryn leaned down obligingly. “I shouldn’t say this,” Beverly whispered. “I mean, I just met you, but you’re the only other woman in the department, and a young one at that. Stay away from Professor Geary. He has a reputation as…” She blushed. “Well, he likes the girls. The younger, the better.”

Her flared nostrils and pursed lips indicated just what Beverly thought of Professor Geary.

Ryn grinned. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nodded toward her cubby. “And thank Dr. Talbert for me. I appreciate both of you thinking of me that way.”

“Oh, well.” Beverly blushed and smiled. “You’re most welcome. I’ll leave you to set your office up as you like. I’m sure you’ll want to get started on the classes you’ll be teaching. I’ve placed the current syllabi on your desk. If you need anything, just ask. Professor.”

Beverly’s heels clicked away down the corridor, and Ryn dropped into her office chair, twirling around. She ran her hands through her short hair with a happy sigh. She was here. Her first teaching job. At a Catholic school in the middle-of-nowhere New York. But it was a start.

“Thank you, Goddess.”


copyright © Caren J. Werlinger 2019

Fianna the Gold Blog Tour

My friends at Dirt Road Books are getting ready to publish a brand-new book about one of my favorite creatures – dragons!!! This is today’s stop on Louisa’s blog tour!


Meet Louisa Kelley!

Introduce yourself.

This is Louisa Kelley, fantasy romance author, happily coming to you from Portland, Oregon.

Which book do you wish you’d written?

Harry Potter. Oh, how I wish.

If you could wedgie one historical figure, which one would it be? Why?

So many deserve it I can’t settle on just one. Instead, here’s one giant wedgie to all the deluded, criminally corrupt, power-mad men who have led, and continue to lead, the charge to destroy entire innocent communities and cultures across the planet. They all deserve permanent wedgies.

Would you rather never be able to express yourself or always have to tell the truth?

Tell the truth. Always. Way more fun that way.

What are you freakishly bad at?

Drawing straight lines without a ruler. And even with a ruler, chances of failing are still 50%. My lines always tip up or down, no matter how careful I am.

Describe your life using one word.



Louisa Kelley is the author of a series of well-regarded erotic paranormal books and urban fantasy stories, including the trilogy, Daughters of Draca. Her writing features fantastical stories of sensual romance, intrigue and magic, often with modern day characters based in Portland. ‘Fianna The Gold,’ book one in her newest fantasy series, has just been released by Dirt Road Books.

She resides in Portland, Oregon where, in a strangely perfect combination of rainy winters and urban skyline, her writing inspiration abounds. She’s also slightly obsessed with dragons.

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There’s also a Rafflecopter giveaway HERE. Check it out to enter for a chance to win!

If you’d like to check out the other stops on Louisa’s blog tour, here they are.