Don't Call Me Perfect

American cities are on fire. Police have arrested and injured members of the Free Press for doing their jobs. The man in the White House has called the protesters THUGS, while praising and encouraging anti-stay-at-home protesters to LIBERATE their respective states. “When the looting starts,” he tweeted, “the shooting stars.”

As I was wrapping up my latest novel, The Woman in 3B, I had planned on writing a blog post about the inspiration behind the novel’s title—it’s an homage to the book The Girls in 3-B, by Valerie Taylor, one of the more prolific authors during the Golden Age of lesbian pulp fiction in the 1950s and 1960s. I still do plan on writing that blog sometime this month, but I just can’t get my brain to currently cooperate.

Forgive me this indulgence. Writing this post is probably more for my mental health than anything else.

Winter Jacket and Don’t Call Me Hero, unequivocally my most popular books, take place in Minnesota. That’s not an accident. I grew up in northern Michigan, I went to college in Wisconsin, and I did my graduate work in Chicago. I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for about a decade or so after that. And during that time, I always considered Minnesota, especially the Twin Cities, as a midwestern utopia. They’d figured out marriage equality far earlier than the places where I lived. The state has historically been a haven for displaced populations like the Hmong or Somalis. Since 1976, the state has voted Blue in presidential elections. Natural beauty. Progressive politics. An education system that’s one of the best in the country. And last, but certainly not least, they’re Minnesota Nice.

I used to observe the goings on in that state and wonder to myself, how does Minnesota get it right all the time when the rest of the upper midwest was getting it so wrong?

And now…well…I guess nobody’s perfect.

Social media has become saturated in recent days with memes of famous Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes, between those who claim “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that” or conversely, “A riot is the language of the unheard.”

But Dr. King also said this: “Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

And this:  “When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”

Just before his assassination in 1968, Dr. King spoke to striking sanitation workers in Memphis, Tennessee where he told the assembled audience, “What does it profit a man to be able to eat at an integrated lunch counter if he doesn’t have enough money to buy a hamburger.”

The FBI doesn’t collect a dossier on a non-controversial figure.

Popular history tends to whitewash the civil rights movement, and Dr. King in particular. We see black and white photographs of middle-class black men and women in their Sunday best, holding hands and singing the old gospel song, “We Shall Overcome.” But so much gets lost in this limited view. Dr. King wasn’t the only game in town. Let’s not forget El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X), Stokely Carmichael, or even the Black Panthers. The civil rights movement was far more radical than your high school US history textbook (or any number of Facebook memes) would have you believe.

The future Congressman, and one of my personal heroes, John Lewis, was one of the keynote speakers at the March on Washington in 1963. In his original prepared remarks, he wrote this: “We will march through the South, through the heart of Dixie, the way [General William Tecumseh] Sherman did. We shall pursue our own ‘scorched earth’ policy and burn Jim Crow to the ground—nonviolently. We shall fragment the South into a thousand pieces and put them back together in the image of democracy. We will make the action of the past few months look petty. And I say to you, WAKE UP AMERICA!”

But even if we consider Dr. King’s civil rights strategy of nonviolence, lost to history is the rest of that phrase: nonviolent direct action. Civil rights protesters didn’t just peacefully march. They put themselves in harm’s way. They openly defied Jim Crow laws. They knew they would get arrested. They knew they would be beaten. They even trained for that. And it was the violent backlash they endured, doled out by police and counter-protesters, that finally woke up middle (white) America. It forced the country-at-large to question if they had more in common with the fellow citizens asking for basic civil rights (please stop killing me) or with the violent segregationists.

And don’t even get me started on the history of the Chicano Movement, or Native American Rights, or even Queer Liberation. They don’t call it the Stonewall Riot for nothing (although I prefer the language of rebellion).

History is about change over time, but it’s also about continuity. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Stay safe, my friends. And let’s collectively wake up.

Eliza

The Woman in 3B - Chapter Preview

Happy Valentine’s Day!

As a love letter to you all, I decided to release the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, The Woman in 3B. It’s still in the rough draft stages, but I hope you enjoy!

+ + +

Chapter One

The giggling gave them away.

Even over the constant roar of the 747's turbofan engines, I could hear the mischievous laughter of two people who knew they were doing something that they shouldn't have been doing. It happened on a least one flight a month where a couple thought they were being original and unpredictable and spontaneous by squeezing into an airplane bathroom that was barely large enough for one body, let alone two. 

I knocked briskly on the plastic bathroom door. The passengers were from my section of the plane, so it fell to me to get them back to their seats. 

“Excuse me." My voice interrupted their clandestine actions. "You’ll have to return to your seats. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign.”

"Just a minute!" I heard a panicked, feminine voice. “I’ll be right out!”

"Don't worry," I drawled, unamused. "I'll wait. Right here."

Slight turbulence bumped and shook the plane, but my legs automatically tensed and I naturally shifted my weight from one foot to the other, like balancing on a boat at sea.

I heard the sounds of shuffling and frantic whispering before the bathroom door eventually opened.  A man exited, his dress shirt untucked in the front, followed by a woman in a similar state of fashion disrepair. They both ducked their heads and averted their gaze as they passed rather than acknowledge me. 

My eyes followed their walk of shame down the left aisle of the wide-body plane and back to their assigned seats. It made me feel like a disapproving school teacher, or worse—a mom. But it was my job to babysit these people until we returned safely to the ground.

Once I was satisfied that the couple were securely fastened into their seats again, I returned to my place in the narrow galley at the front of the plane. My friends and fellow flight attendants, Kent and Gemma, were just cleaning up after our final beverage service.  

“Do they really think no one will notice?” I huffed.

Kent, a small, angular man with fine blond hair and icy blue eyes frowned and wrinkled his nose. “I think that’s the point—for everyone to know.”

My other friend, Gemma, leaned against the beverage cart and sighed. “I don’t know," she said, twisting her thick braid. "I think it’s kind of romantic—not being able to keep your hands off each other; even on a two-hour flight.”

“Yeah, real romantic,” I scoffed. “Two hundred people listening to you have sex in a phone booth.”

I couldn’t be too upset with the couple, however. In fact, I was probably a little jealous.

I could understand the appeal. Takeoff was a little like foreplay—if you did it right—and once the plane reached a cruising altitude we were all seeking some kind of release. The engines hummed and turbines twirled. You coast, you glide, you bump along the tarmac. The wing flaps flex their reach. You pick up speed, teasing, not quite meaning it. Each little false acceleration builds the anticipation. 

The plane pauses on the landing strip. It snorts and spews like a muscle-corded bull about to charge a matador. A low rumbling, the plane rolls forward, tentative at first, as if afraid of its own power. The engines grow louder. You spurt forward. Another false start. You've been grounded for too long. 

The frustration grows. The engines scream to be free like a braying dog, pulling against the leash that tethers it in place, keeping it from what it most desires. The light touch on the brakes reminds you of the engines' explosive potential.

You sit. The plane shudders. The sounds of the engines grow louder again until they seem to swallow up all other noises. The voices in the plane are vanquished. It's so loud, you forget all other sounds. The force of takeoff pins you to your seat. The pressure crushes down on your body as the airplane climbs and climbs. It feels unending. Eternal. Your body folds in on itself.

And then it's over. You level out. The unbearable weight lessens. The noisy world returns. 

“Don’t mind her." Kent's voice interrupted my thoughts. "She’s still pining over Luscious Lara.”

“Am not!” I hotly protested.

My friends had accused me of being in a bad mood ever since breaking up with another flight attendant: Lara Pierson. I couldn’t really call it a breakup though since it hadn’t exactly been a relationship. Rather than seriously dating, it had been a thrilling month of stolen moments in-flight and fiery overnight stays on three-day flights, but it had ended nearly as suddenly as it had started. 

I hadn’t fallen in love with Lara, but she’d certainly been exciting. With my rigid flight schedule, I doubted I would ever repeat those same kinds of experiences unless it be with someone else on the crew. But my airline employed very few female pilots and even less queer female flight attendants. The ratio tended to favor straight women and gay men, even in the flight deck.

“I don’t even like women, and I would have hit that,” Kent proclaimed.

“We had fun," I said stiffly. "But now we’re on different schedules, so it’s over.”

“What does working the same line have to do with it? You know people do date people they don’t work with, right?” Gemma posed.

“When’s the last time you went on a non-work date, either of you?” I flipped the question on them.

“I don’t date,” Kent denied.

“I know; you only hook up with married, bi-curious pilots,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And what’s your excuse, Gemma?”

“I’m working on myself,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m focusing on my career and dating myself.”

Kent snorted. “Every time you say that I’m convinced your luggage is just sex toys and lube.”

“Be nice,” I admonished.

“Thank you, Alice,” Gemma said, sticking out her tongue at Kent.

“Besides, we all know that can’t be true,” I continued. “All that KY Jelly would have to be in 3-ounce bottles in a clear quart-sized bag to get through airport security.”

"Hey!" Gemma’s mouth dropped open in shock before snapping back and finally settling into a sour, displeased look. “I really hate you guys.”

The interphone in the front galley chimed and Kent was the first to reach it. The phones were located throughout the plane, allowing the crew to speak to each other in the various cabins, as well as to reach the flight deck and pilots when the door was shut. Because Kent was the purser—the senior flight attendant who was technically in charge of the other crew—he made all of the flight announcements and attended to passengers in the first class section.

"The captain's ready to begin landing,” Kent said upon hanging up the interphone. "Alice, you're on Crotch Watch in the Village," he told me, "and Gemma, check on the UM in 25C."

Gemma beamed. She loved working flights with an UM—an unaccompanied minor. She did a great job with the crumb crunchers, giving them honorary pilot wings and pumping them full of sugary treats before their final destination. 

"Oh, and check your lips and tips, ladies," Kent reminded us.

I'd heard the reference to our fingernails and lipstick before. It was a gentle reminder that despite the 12-hour days, limited sleep, and hasty meals grabbed during short layovers, we flight attendants should aim to be flawless at all times.

I walked up and down the center aisle while Kent made our final arrival announcement over the speaker system. Crotch Watch, also referred to as a groin scan, are the rounds that flight attendants make prior to liftoff and descent that ensures that all passengers’ seatbelts are on and properly fastened. I worked the Village on most flights, a reference to the Economy section of the plane.

Passengers dangled various garbage items in the center aisle for me to pick up, even though I’d already been through the cabin multiple times with a proper garbage bag. It was one of the many things that annoyed me about customers. Why couldn’t they remember to put their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment with the wheels out? Was it really so hard to hold on to their jacket until everyone had boarded? And couldn’t they be bothered to remove their headphones and earbuds when they ordered a drink?

I passed the couple who had tried to join the Mile High Club. They had their heads bent towards each other; the whispering and giggling hadn’t stopped from earlier. I stopped in the aisle and spun around to face them.

“I hope you enjoyed your flight,” I grinned innocently.

They looked up sharply at my words; both appeared a little like deer caught in headlights. I knew I was embarrassing them, but I couldn’t help teasing them, just a little.

The man was able to find his voice first: “Oh, uh, yes,” he sputtered. “Yes, it was very good, thank you.”

“A tip for the future?” I offered. “Wait until the drink trolley goes by before you try that little stunt again. The flight attendants will be too busy to notice you’re both gone.”

+ + +

The bingo card was in my mailbox in the flight attendant lounge. 

“Purser alert,” I heard Kent's quiet warning. Kent was technically a purser himself, but he also wasn’t a narc.

I discretely slipped the bingo card into my purse without looking at it. The competition was an open secret, but the higher ups at the airline probably wouldn't have been happy to acknowledge its existence. I’d have to look over my seat assignment and monthly challenges later.

Every month a new bingo card was anonymously delivered to the mailbox of every flight attendant across the company who paid their twenty-dollar entrance fee. Twenty-five different challenges, at various levels of difficulty, had to be accomplished and confirmed with a month's time. Some of the challenges could be fulfilled at the airport, but most occurred in-flight. At the end of the month—like the lottery—if no one had filled their card entirely, the pot of money continued to grow. 

I didn't recognize the woman about whom Kent had alerted me. I'd been with the same airline for nearly seven years, but it wasn't unusual not to know the other flight attendants with whom I worked. You could work really intimately with your assigned crew for a three-day trip and then you might never see them again. She was an older woman with silver hair—a senior mama—a term used by flight attendants, but not unkindly. Her kind were a rarity in my line of work. There were no longer age restrictions for flight crew, but you still needed to be strong enough to help passengers stow their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments. She didn't greet either Kent, Gemma, or myself, but went about her business of checking her mailbox before leaving the lounge.

I waited to be sure the older woman had exited the lounge for good before I retrieved the bingo card from my purse.

My eyes fell first to the number and letter printed at the top of the card. "Damn it," I mumbled.

Gemma and Kent crowded around me and the cardboard bingo card. "What's wrong? Did you get a shitty card this month?" Kent asked.

I curled my lip. "I'm not going be able to complete the seat-specific squares. They gave me 3B."

I thought the most difficult squares were those that were seat specific. Those were the challenges that could only be accomplished through the passenger sitting in that specific seat. 3B was in the first class section of the plane. I wasn't a rookie at my airline, but I also didn't have enough time in to be the senior flight attendant—the purser—on my flights. I typically worked the economy section on a three-person flight crew. 

Kent sighed loudly. "Fine,” he huffed. “I'll let you work first class on our flights this month. But don't make a habit out of this,” he warned with a shake of his finger. “Seniority should count for something."

"You're such a martyr," I teased. "But thank you."

“I don't know why you waste your time on that game. It's a total racket," Kent opined. "You might as well spend your entrance fee on scratch-off lotto tickets. It’s less work, too.”

“It’s harmless," I stubbornly defended. "And it keeps me entertained. I’d probably hang myself during beverage service without it.”

“I think it’s kind of mean,” Gemma spoke up. “Spilling a drink on someone on purpose?”

“It’s not like it’s hot coffee, Gemma,” I continued to defend myself and the game. “It’s just a little innocent fun.”

I didn’t particularly like the idea of the bingo card either, but the financial incentives were enough to make me momentarily forget the questionable ethics of it all. The winnings would be enough to pay off my one year of ill-advised college attendance. The only thing I'd really learned in my year of extra schooling was that not everyone was cut out for college. I wished my high school guidance counselor would have told me that; it would have saved me about twenty thousand dollars.

“I still don’t like it,” she frowned. 

Gemma had a singular talent for making me feel guilty, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong. She was a rule follower, unbending and disapproving. I couldn’t understand why she’d become a flight attendant; she acted more like a Sunday school teacher.

"What are they having you do this month?" Gemma asked. She didn’t drop her defensive posture, but the judgmental look on her round face softened. 

For someone so concerned about rules and regulations, I thought Gemma secretly loved it when I first got my bingo card. She was less excited, however, when I actually began to complete the tasks. 

"Some of the usual,” I noted. “Bump into a passenger when there's no turbulence. Use a fake accent all flight. Wear a life preserver until someone says something.” I wrinkled my nose as I read the next task.  “Assist a puking passenger is the center square again."

"Stop withholding," Kent censured. "What are the naughty challenges?"

I scanned over the twenty-five bingo squares and their twenty-five unique tasks. I read aloud the red colored squares that typically indicated a more challenging task: "Get a passenger's phone number. Get a passenger to buy you a meal." I stopped when my eyes fell on the next red square. 

Gemma read aloud the square on which I'd paused: "Join the Mile High Club?!"

"At least it's not seat specific," I weakly remarked, despite how my stomach churned.

"Whoever comes up with these challenges has gone way too far this time," she huffed. Gemma hugged herself and continued to look upset. "It's basically prostitution."

"It's just a game," I tried to reason with my friend. "I'd never do something I wasn't comfortable with. I'll just aim for completing one row so I make my money back. Then I'll hope for a better card next month.”

“It's totally sexist,” Kent piled on.

“Oh really? How so?” I posed. Kent's complaint was a new one. I was intrigued to hear his argument.

“The challenges are much easier for women to achieve,” he argued. “How would a male flight attendant ever accomplish the Mile High Club task?”

“You mean how would a straight male flight attendant do that," I chuckled. "You get so much ass, Kent, don’t even deny it. I should be the one complaining about bias. As a lesbian, I’m at a complete disadvantage.”

“If you’d stop being so damn picky,” Kent proclaimed, “you’d probably have the whole thing won by now. Lower your standards, honey," he advised. "People do it all the time for less.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to whore myself out to win at bingo.”

“You’re not winning bingo; you’re winning money,” he pointed out. “Cold. Hard. Cash.”

Gemma interrupted our juvenile bickering before it could escalate. Conflict made her itch: “You guys want to do something tonight?”

“Can’t," Kent clipped. "I’m having spaghetti." He wiggled the fingers on his right hand in parting. "See you grandmas tomorrow.”

Kent scooted out of the flight crew lounge, leaving Gemma and me on our own.

“Kent sure eats a lot of pasta," Gemma observed with a wistful sigh. "I wish I could have carbs.”

Gemma was perpetually on the quest to lose five pounds. I thought her curves were sexy, but I could appreciate her concern. In our profession, every little extra bit on your body added to the overall claustrophobia of the galley.

I cocked an eyebrow at my friend and laughed. “You know that’s not what he’s talking about, right?”

“Huh?”

"He’s probably hanging out with one of his married pilot friends. Spaghetti is code," I supplied. "Straight until they get wet. Straight until they get a few drinks in them."

“Oh. Oh!" Gemma blinked rapidly as the realization set in. "That makes so much more sense."

I couldn't understand Kent's near-obsession with sleeping with married pilots. For one, they were married. How could your conscience ever forgive that kind of behavior? For the other, pilots were notoriously cocky. Confidence was attractive, but most of the pilots I'd met over the years were ego-maniacs. 

How many pilots does it take to change a light bulb? Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

"What are you doing tonight?" Gemma asked. "Are you having 'pasta,' too?” She highlighted the euphemism with air quotes.

I snorted at the suggestion. “Not likely. The only pasta I’m eating lately comes out of a little blue box.”

+ + +

“Honey, I’m home.”

I shut my apartment door with my foot since my hands were busy with grocery bags. I only went shopping once a month, mostly for non-perishables and a gallon of milk whose expiration date I considered as a recommendation, not the end all, be all. 

My apartment wasn't much, but I didn't spend too much time at home anyway. At least I actually had a home though. I knew some people who had crashpads around the country instead of renting a proper apartment. Crashpads could be a house or an apartment with bunkbeds in each room. For a couple hundred bucks a month you could have a place to stay if you weren’t keen on the commuting life. I had lucked out that the city I lived in—Detroit—was a central hub for my airline. I knew of others whose home airport was Detroit, but they commuted to a different city in a different state to go home. They always seemed overtired and overstressed. Commuting took a lot of planning and your schedule could be ruined with a simple weather delay. Even without commuting, the hours as a flight attendant were long. In a month, I typically spent between 65 to 90 hours in the air with another 50 hours of preparing planes for flight, completing reports, and other grounded tasks.  

I dropped off the bags on the short countertop island that functioned as both a food prep area and my dining table. I left the bags on the counter for the moment.

“You hungry, Honey?”

I didn’t expect a verbal response, but my pet turtle enthusiastically splashed in her tank. I’d had Honey—a red-eared slider—for close to a decade. My job kept me from owning more traditional pets unless I paid to have them kenneled or hired a pet sitter. That was money I didn’t have. Honey was the perfect compromise. She didn’t require much maintenance beyond occasional feedings and cleaning her aquarium. Plus, she had loads more personality than a fish.

I dropped a handful of floating food pellets into her tank and watched her hunt down each piece of food with erratic precision. She was clumsy—smashing her open mouth against the clear glass walls—but persistent. No piece of food went un-devoured.

"How was your day?" I asked. I leaned in close to the aquarium glass and watched her zip across the water's surface. I tapped lightly against the glass, but she was in hunting mode and paid little attention to me. "Get some good sunbathing done today? Take a dip in your pool? Must be nice; I was in recycled air all day while you're on a permanent vacation." 

With Honey fed, I started the task of feeding myself. I didn’t have occasion for eating at home too often. The airline paid for most of my food since I was on the clock during most meal times. I cooked a little though; my life would have turned into too much of a sad cliché if I relied on frozen microwavable dinners and cereal. My conversation with Gemma had inspired me to make Italian that night—homemade meatballs on top of thick-noodled spaghetti, swimming in a rich marinara sauce. I'd just settled down at the kitchen island to tuck into my meal and a glass of red wine, when my phone rang and my sister's name and number popped up on the screen. 

Dawn was a few years older than me. While I hadn't made it through college and had boomeranged back into my parents' house, Dawn had achieved practically everything she had set out to do. I was a single, gay, college dropout who lived in an 800-square foot apartment in Romulus, Michigan while she was married with kids and lived in a big house in the affluent suburbs.

"Are you coming to Peter's swim meet on Saturday?" she asked when I answered the phone. 

"I’m on call on Saturday,” I shared, “so probably not.” Although we had days off that scheduling couldn’t touch—called Golden Days—on some off days of the week we had to be flexible. An on-call day might eventually turn into an actual day off, but if someone called in sick or had a last-minute personal emergency, we had to make ourselves available and get to our home base airport to fill in.

"But you missed his last swim meet, too!" she protested.

"He's five," I deadpanned. "How much of a competition is it really?"

"That's not the point and you know it," she sternly chastised. "You're missing out on family time."

"I'm not doing it on purpose," I insisted. "It's just not going to work out this time."

"It never works out," she huffed.

My voice pitched up. "Because your kids insist on doing stuff on the days that I'm working!"

"Can't you switch with someone? Or pretend to come down with a cold?"

I tugged at my hair in frustration. "You know it doesn't work that way,” I growled into my phone. “I can't flake on my work. I've got responsibilities."  

"I don't know why you can't just skip," she openly complained. "It's not like you're curing cancer."

"I know. I'm just a flight attendant," I bit out as my frustration grew. "Nothing special or important about that."

"You know I didn't mean it like that, Alice.”

"I gotta go," I said, my voice suddenly flat. "My dinner's getting cold."

I hung up without waiting for my sister's goodbye. I knew she would only continue to text me the rest of the night, waffling between apologetic and passive aggressive, so I turned off my phone entirely. I swirled my fork aggressively through my spaghetti noodles and took a bite. I'd lost my appetite, but I had to eat. And my already thin pocketbook wouldn't forgive me for letting good food go to waste.

New Year, New Novel(s)

Happy 2020—we made it!

I’m at my laptop in my dining room, having a cup of coffee out of my favorite Frozen coffee mug, so now seems like the perfect time for an update.

If you follow me on the various social media platforms, you’ll know that I’m pretty geeked about the recent release of Don’t Call Me Hero as an audiobook. The original seed was planted in 2018 and now—over a year later—the book is finally live. I learned a lot during this experience and my stomach was in knots practically the entire time. You should have seen me sweating and squirming and hiding my face as I listened to the first 15-minutes of the novel so I could provide my narrator, Lori Prince, with initial feedback before she recorded the rest of the book. Lori was an absolute pro, and I’m so happy I contracted her for this first experience. She basically held my hand through the whole process since I was unfamiliar with the many discrete steps that go into producing an audiobook.

Now that the book is live, and many of you have listened and enjoyed, the next question I’ve been receiving is if I’ll be turning the rest of the series into audiobooks, if Lori Prince will continue to do my narration, or maybe even if Winter Jacket might be next. At this point, I’m still in the wait-and-see period. As an independent writer, I’ve traditionally done everything myself. I design my own book covers (for better or for worse), I do my own editing (for better or for worse), and I promote myself on social media. Making my first audiobook was terrifying because I was trusting someone else to narrate the book on my behalf and paying them to do so. When I write a traditional book, there’s no overhead costs involved and I get to keep a larger percentage of my royalties. In other words, I have to wait to see if I sell enough copies of the audiobook to break even.

I want to be completely transparent about the price of this audible book. As someone who likes to keep ebook and hardcopy book prices low, low, low, the purchase price for the audiobook makes me wince. Something I learned while going through this process is that authors don’t get to set their own prices on audible platforms! Audible, Amazon, and iTunes make their own decisions based on how long the book is and what others in the genre have sold for. Each retailer independently prices the book, which is why you’ll find it priced differently at the various audible retailers. I have absolutely no control over the price of this book. I do have a limited number of promo codes in the US and UK audible store, so if you really wanted to purchase this audible book, but it would be a financial hardship to do so, drop me an email. But also, you can always sign up for a 30-day trial membership with Audible, get the book, and then cancel your membership when that month is over. Or, maybe you discover that you actually really like this audio option and that 30-day trial becomes your new favorite thing.

Also, I want to hear from you! Do you want more of this series? Do you like Lori Prince’s take on Cassidy and Julia? Should Elle and Hunter be next? Where and why do you listen to audiobooks? Who are your favorite lesfic narrators?

I’m still (slowly) churning out words for my current work in progress, The Woman in 3B. I’m immersed in the banter between my two new characters, Alice and Anissa. I’m enjoying the slow burn as they get to know each other, and am anticipating the eventual heartache when one of them screws everything up. I don’t have a release date yet for this new standalone, but will update you as we get closer to the finish line.

If you’re not following me on social media yet, you should! I post sneak peeks of whatever I’m working on and pictures of my cat!

I’ve seen so many friends posting Resolutions about treating themselves better in the new year and wanting to be nicer to themselves. And what better way to be kind to yourself than to take moments for yourself? Let’s take time to fill the well this year. Let’s read more in 2020.

Stay warm,

Eliza