Kerry Allen

My Texan friends are coming for all you bean eaters.

You probably put SAUCE on your barbecue, too.

Philistines.

(For the record, I’m a midwestern girl who proudly serves up spicy beef-and-bean soup and calls it chili and does not consider any kind of meat barbecue until it is swimming in barbecue sauce. Also of note, I will only eat my own homemade barbecue sauce because I’ve never found anyone else who can couple throat-searing and candy-sweet to my satisfaction.)

Riveting, I know, but I am otherwise consumed with politics and the additional part-time job I have been forced to undertake as a direct result of said politics, making me a very grumpy bear.

Chapter 2 Wednesday, whether I like it or not.

I’m practicing the “let readers make their own value judgments” thing I was preaching a while ago.

And failing.

Obviously.

“The butchers delivered fresh meat.”

Amanda Tessler kept her face pressed to the microscope, her scribbled notes barely keeping up with the rapidly degenerating liver tissue on the slide beneath the lens. “In the middle of something here. I’m sure I’ll meet him later.”

“I wouldn’t count on later.” Spencer bumped the table with his hip, jarring the cluster of cells she’d been studying out of the magnification field. Employed solely by virtue of nepotism, he was a stranger to work, incapable of understanding anyone else’s desire to engage in such an activity, and had made it his mission in life to convert her to the shiftless side. “They had him out in the desert for a week. He’s in bad shape.”

Amanda gave up on recording accurate data on that sample and directed her gaze toward the wall, blinking until her eyes readjusted to real-world view. After a week of SPH hospitality, the new subject was lucky to have a shape at all. She’d better get a look at him while there was something left to identify. “All right, I’m coming.”

See the rest of “Beyond the Darkening: Chapter 1″

Paperback Writer (best known to me as Lynn Viehl, author of the amazing Darkyn series) is having a writers’ virtual pep rally today.

In my present state of frustration over my lack of control of how my time must be spent, it didn’t have the desired effect, but it should be inspirational to everyone else.

ETA: That is to say, Chapter One of the Novella Formerly Known as Blind Fangboy will be coming soon (sometime later this week) to a blog (this one) near you (probably no more than two feet away, unless you have eyes like a hawk, in which case I am filled with envy because I’m much closer to Blind Fangboy in that respect). This post is solely to get you writhing in anticipation. *snerk*

Amanda Tessler infiltrated the Society for the Preservation of Humanity to gather information to aid the “monsters” the organization seeks to cleanse from the earth. Her orders are to maintain her cover at any cost, but when the vampire she once loved is delivered to the facility, starved, blinded, and slated for further suffering in her lab, clinical detachment fails her.

An act of misguided loyalty lands Nathan Hilliard in the hands of an enemy bent on the extermination of his species and, perhaps more hazardous to his health, at the mercy of the woman he publicly humiliated six years ago. She has every reason to leave him there to rot, so setting him free must be a game to her, a subtler form of torture for him.

Despite his suspicions, his heart tells him the worst mistake he will ever make isn’t trusting her again, but letting her walk out of his life a second time…

Click here to read Chapter One.

If the web formatting is too much abuse on your eyes, it’ll be available in a prettiful book-like .PDF setup when revised in its entirety.

… or smoked or drank or had insurance or ate out so I could cut back on my high-rolling lifestyle to pay for the new 40% hike in my utility bill. I used almost exactly the same number of kW hours for the last two months, and this bill is $100 more than the last. Where they imagine people are supposed to come up with this money, I just don’t know. I can’t afford supplies for my counterfeit press now, so I guess it’ll come from dropping my cell phone ($5 a month) and Netflix ($10 a month). Oh, wait, that’s only $15… Okay, guess we can wash dishes by hand, eat only foodstuffs that don’t require heating, and turn off the air conditioner to stew in our own sweat. Hell, if we eat nothing but peanut butter sandwiches, not only will we save a fortune on groceries, we won’t even need the refrigerator. Maybe I can sell my plasma, too. And get an extra nights-and-weekends job.

Take a wild guess where the time is going to come from. Hint: I only sleep 4 or 5 hours a night as it is, so that’s not it. Screw my future. As long as the electric company is flush, that’s all that matters.

I thought somebody made a whoops when I opened the bill. Then I read the “no, seriously, we really are ass-raping you and there’s nothing you can do about it” statement and burst into tears.

I’m at Romancing the Blog again today, talking about selling one’s virginity to the highest bidder and revealing how judgmental I am toward romance novel heroines.

And, um… if I’m supposed to be doing something for you, it’s on my agenda for this weekend. I’ve been so behind on everything, I couldn’t get around to it previously. You’ll have my feeble contribution by Sunday night. (Ha! This cleverly covers about four people! I am SO efficient!)

Something about me compels complete strangers to approach me and confide things I wish they’d save for their priest or therapist.

While awaiting my daughter’s release from her daily prison, a woman I have never seen before in my life walked up to me. The first thing out of her mouth was “Are you married?”

Last time someone introduced themselves by asking that question, it was preparatory to a wife-swapping proposition, so I already dreaded the rest of this conversation. Clearly, however, this was one of those pseudo-questions to create the illusion of interest to justify the hours of me-me-me to follow, as I barely got out the “N—” before she launched into an account of her own romantic situation.

For some unfathomable reason, she too is single.

She proceeded to share with me her checklist of qualities the only man good enough for her will possess. “First, of course, he simply MUST love my kids. And my pomeranian. He has to be handsome and tall. Kind, and with a great sense of humor. Never married and no kids of his own because I don’t need his baggage cluttering up my life. Oh, and rich. Like, a doctor or lawyer or a business mogul.”

I responded, “I happen to know that guy.” (He’s a young surgeon, so he’s not rich yet, but give him five or ten years.) “Unfortunately for you,” I added, “he’s not looking for a self-absorbed, social-climbing leech.”

I think she may have been offended. Go figure.

I read something fairly recently that articulated my long-held feeling that a person has to be whole, fully formed, complete, and worthwhile in their own right before they can do justice to The Big Relationship. (Hence my repeated declarations that I’m unfit for human companionship. I freely admit I need a whole lot of work.)

In a nutshell, this article stated people spend years compiling a list of requirements for their perfect mate and give no thought to what they themselves have to offer to another person. They wait years for the man or woman of their dreams, only to discover they don’t measure up to this paragon of virtue’s standards of suitability, so The Big Relationship isn’t going to happen after all. Then they get all bitter and nasty because they were cheated out of the happiness they so richly deserve.

If you want the perfect guy, you’d better be the perfect gal. Start by looking at that list of requirements for the perfect mate and strive to develop them IN YOURSELF. Mr. Perfect isn’t sitting around pining for a busted fragment of a woman to make him whole. He’s a popular guy. He can pick and choose.

If you think you deserve him more than any other woman, you better be the woman HE deserves.

Until then, PLEASE do not expect my sympathy because he hasn’t called. I have none.