Who is a gift for?

This post was written in 2015

My paternal grandmother came to Canada from Wales in the 1930s. Her family was beyond poor, often relying on a downtown soup kitchen for meals. I remember her telling me that if it hadn't been for a box of gifts distributed by the local newspaper to children living in poverty, she and her siblings wouldn't have received anything for Christmas.

Fast-forward to the 1980s, when my cousins and siblings and I were coming up. My grandparents were working class people living on a budget, but you would not believe how many gifts my grandma gave us at Christmas. Little things, but tons of little things. Cheap plastic toys and clothing from the clearance rack at her local discount store. We're not talking one or two items (or three or four)--we're talking garbage bags full of stuff.

I don't remember how I felt about the sheer quantity of gifts I received from my grandmother. When I was a kid things like storage space were not a concern. But the reason she gave us so much is clear to me now: she was compensating for the poverty of her own childhood by spoiling her grandchildren.

Fast-forward again to the present day. My grandmother died in the 1990s, but her memory lives on--most notably because my mom and my sisters refer to my girlfriend as "Grandma R" behind her back. It's something they snicker about. They snicker, I groan. It's easy enough to laugh when you're not the one whose girlfriend gives you gifts you don't want.

I live in a 1-bedroom apartment. I'm not a fan of "stuff." And yet from our very first Christmas as a couple, my girlfriend has been giving me an abundance of junk for Christmas. And when I say "junk" I'm talking about bags of random shit from the dollar store.

The thing is, my girlfriend LOVES Christmas. She is a Christmas fanatic. I won't even go to her house between November 1st and the end of January because it's so overly decorated (Christmas stuff EVERYWHERE--including on the floor) that I can't breathe. It's overwhelming.

Just like the gifts. The gifts are overwhelming. It's too much cheap crap, too much stuff I have no use for. And I'm too environmentally-minded to throw it in the garbage, which means it's now my job to figure out which charitable organization accepts donations of stupid crap.

I'm sure I sound like a snotty ungrateful child, but this is my eighth year trying to communicate to the most important person in my life that I really would prefer it if she didn't buy me presents. I'll tell you right now, this conversation never goes well. I try to communicate that I would prefer we did experiential gifts, like a special meal or a getaway. DO something instead of giving things.

Every time I broach this subject, a hissy fit ensues. "Fine! If that's what you want, fine!" And then she inserts passive-aggressive little jabs into conversations again and again. She wants to give me gifts. She derives joy from the act of shopping for me and giving those things to me and watching me open presents.

But what if I don't want them?

A more gracious person would accept them and smile and say, "Thank you! How did you know? It's just what I've always wanted." But I don't believe in lying to an intimate partner.

Last year my girlfriend handed me my gifts and said, "Here's more crap you're just going to throw in the garbage."

So why give it to me?

Who is a gift for? If I've said please please please do not buy me anything and you do the opposite, who benefits? Not me, that's for damn sure. If my girlfriend enjoys buying me gifts so much that she will go against my wishes year after year to give them to me, isn't she doing that for HER, not for ME?

Is a gift for the receiver, or is a gift for the giver?

All I know is Christmas was a hell of a lot easier when I was a kid.

Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies

Here's the truth: I lie about what I do for a living.

I lie about it all the time. You know what I do, because I'm honest on the internet. I'm an author. I write books.

But if we were acquaintances or you met me at a party (well, first of all we wouldn't meet at a party because I don't go to parties), I'd lie to you outright.

What would I tell you I do for a living? Depends on the day. Depends on the context. Usually I pick a job I held, once upon a time, when I still punched the clock. I've had so many jobs in my life. Holy Moses, so much retail! So much admin work! Warehouse worker, military test subject, farmhand. No, I'm not lying to you. I've done all this. Oh hey, I was a mystery shopper at one point. Totally forgot about that one. I've had jobs I can't even name. I would have to describe them to you. And that would take forever. But it would be really funny.

When random people ask me what I do, I pick the most boring of my many, many past occupations. Why pick the boringest one? So people won't ask any follow-up questions. It works pretty well.

Why don't I just tell people I'm a writer?

Glad you asked.

See, I used to tell people. There's a possibility that, at one time, I was proud of my career. Not that I'm NOT proud now. I love what I do. I'm always telling family members to quit their stressful day jobs and write for a living. (The response is usually, "But you're poor." And my response to THAT is, "Poor, but happy!")

So if I love my job so much, why do I lie about it?

Well... a lot of reasons. Cameron sort of touched on one the other day when he mentioned people's perceptions of erotica authors--that we must want to jump everyone's bones. Let me tell you, there are a LOT of people I don't want to have sex with. Most people, in fact. I don't even want to talk about sex with most people. That's just not how I was raised.

Of course, this assumes the first question someone asks when you tell them you're a writer is, "What do you write?"

But it is, 90% of the time.

What reactions fall into that other 10%?

"Oh, you're a writer? Are you published?"

(Uhhh yeah or this wouldn't be much of a career)

"Oh, you're a writer? Self-published?"

(Love that condescension, buddy. Keep it up)

"Oh, you're a writer? How much money do you make?"

(Not nearly enough)

Or instead of asking any follow-up questions, people just laugh or roll their eyes. Or laugh AND roll their eyes. That's actually my favourite reaction, because then I don't have to talk anymore.

The worst, for me, is when people have endless questions about my work. This might be hard for you to believe, since I bang on about every aspect of my existence here and elsewhere online, but in real life I don't like talking about myself at all.

Being a writer seems interesting. That's why people ask. If I weren't a writer, I'd probably think this was the coolest career EVAH. But I do it every day, so to me it's just a job. Not saying I don't love it. I wouldn't trade this life for anything. But I'm not the kind of author who wants to talk about process. I'd rather just do it.

I talked to my sister about all this stuff a few months ago and she said to me, "If those are all the things you DON'T want people asking when you say you're a writer, how DO you want them to react?"

That's just it: I don't know. I guess I'd want them to be like, "Oh, you're a writer? That's interesting. I have 400 chickens and now I'm going to tell you all their names..."

But that almost never happens.

So I lie.

Although, truth be told, when I tell people I have some boring job, they usual say, "That's weird. You seem like you'd have some kind of creative career... like a writer or something."

Infuriating Technology (or, Crisis at the Craft Store) (or, Giselle Needs Professional Help)

This post was written in 2015

I'm much more patient than I used to be. Much less irritable, too.

But something happened earlier in the week that really set me off: my computer started acting up.  Maybe you can relate.  There's something about electronic devices not doing what they're supposed to do that's absolutely maddening.

I can handle a lot of intense stuff pretty calmly.  I have certification (albeit lapsed) in crisis prevention and intervention. Does that mean I never have out-of-control moments myself? Nope. I had one just a couple days ago. We'll get to that.

Last week I was at Michael's (the craft store) when a man burst through the door screaming and swearing.  Customers RAN from this person, who was obviously in crisis and perhaps has mental health issues.  While he screamed that he'd lost his towel and he was having a very bad day, a staff member asked if she could help him. She spoke clearly and casually, without a hint of fear and without that demeaning therapist voice people sometimes use when they don't know what they're doing.

The man asked for a product the store didn't carry (not a towel, by the way).  The staff member made a suggestion about where he might find it, which inflamed the man because he'd already been there.  He shouted about all the stores he'd visited. Nobody had what he needed.

The staff member listened without rushing him or interrupting. She eventually suggested a store he hadn't tried, and he left without escalation. The situation was handled extremely well. When you're speaking with a person in crisis, things can go really bad really fast. Here, they didn't.

Around the same time, my computer started acting up. Slowing down. Not responding.

Annoying, right?  I'm no expert, but I couldn't figure out what the problem was. I started running scans. Scan after scan after scan.  Nothing seemed to be working. The solutions I implemented to my possible problems only exacerbated them.

I can't remember exactly what set me off.  After five days of getting zero work done because all my energy was going into resolving this issue, I had a bit of a mental health event myself.  The helplessness of not being able to fix my stupid little problem culminated in an explosion of screaming, swearing, crying, rocking, and punching myself in the head (a new one, for me). I'd lost my towel. I was having a very bad day.

It was a true crisis moment, brought on by... computer problems?

When I was a teenager, I remember a teacher trying to warn me off my ex because he'd once kicked the crap out of a photocopier.

There's something about technology.  It brings out my inner rage in a way humans never can.  I used to have a printer that could provoke similar reactions, though never as intense as this event. This was a bad one. I've never hit myself before. That was new and painful and actually pretty scary.

My computer's still not working properly. Mostly, programs randomly choose not to respond for reasons that remain a mystery. When this happens, I get up and walk away and do something else for a minute.  I know I have to take a breath and distract myself or risk another meltdown.

A close friend suggested seeking professional help, meaning an IT person. That made me laugh, because when my girlfriend made that same suggestion she was talking about a healthcare professional.

I think they're both right.

Gratitude

This post was written in 2015

Last week I had a dream. I dreamed I still worked in an office, in the industry that employed me in the early 2000's. I dreamed my client was freaking out about some ridiculously minor issue. It felt so familiar. That was my every day when I worked in the business world: clients losing their shit over nothing, and taking their frustrations out on the people below them.

My late grandfather's favourite expression was "Shit flows downstream." That's the business world for you.

In the dream I got into work just after 8 in the morning, and all day I kept reminding myself I had to leave on time. I'd promised to cook dinner for my grandmother.

In the real world, I've taken on more of a caregiver role in my grandmother's life. She's hard of hearing, legally blind, and has a number of physical limitations. I help her with things she can no longer do on her own: cooking, cleaning, paperwork, communications. I act as a support person on occasion. She's been asking me to move in with her for almost a decade. She trusts me. I know it hurts her that I always decline, but I'm not prepared to devote the rest of her life to being a full-time caregiver. I value my freedom too much.

Back in dreamworld, my workday went by in a stressful blur. The next time I looked at my watch, it was almost 11 at night. Well past dinnertime and I hadn't cooked my grandmother's meal. The pressures of work and family were pulling me in two directions and work had won out.

I woke up that morning feeling relieved to live this life and not that one. I don't make a ton of money as an author, but I earn enough to pay the bills. I have readers, not clients. I have time to devote to my family, to my relationship. I sleep in every morning and go to bed late every night.

I write stories for a living. I am incredibly grateful for the life I have.

I'm also so grateful to be in a position where I can use my work to raise funds for a number of organizations. My latest release, Food of Love, is an anthology of food sex stories. Sink that sweet tooth into this collection of gourmet erotica and you’ll not only feel great about your purchase, but you’ll also be doing your part to end food insecurity in Canada’s North. That’s because I'm donating 100% of royalties earned from this book to food banks accommodating immediate needs and community services with a long-term focus on country foods and land-based programs in Nunavut, Yukon and the Northwest Territories.

Food of Love is available from many vendors including Amazon
Kobo
iTunes
Barnes and Noble

Library Voices

This post was written in 2015

Once upon a time I was a teenager at the Toronto Reference Library.

A friend had introduced me to this edifice downtown, far from the wilds of suburbia, where books were housed, sure, but in addition to books they had all sorts of other media.  Oh sure, so did my local library, but the difference with the Reference Library was that they had listening booths.

My friend showed me how to select a CD to listen to (a CD!  I didn't have a CD player yet!  This was really the future!) and check in with the lady guarding the listening booths and put on headphones and sit... and just listen.

We were both big on Broadway musicals, so we both picked out musicals to listen to.  I don't remember what she selected, but I picked out a musical called City of Angels.  I'd never even heard of it.  To this day I remember nothing about the soundtrack, but I remember the experience.

I wasn't the kind of kid (or teen) who went out with friends very much. I had too many family responsibilities, plus the cost of going out was prohibitive. To get to the Reference Library, I had to take a bus and a subway, and, while my mother covered the cost of my transit fare to and from school (I went to a high school that was out of area for me, a good hour from my house), any time I wanted to go anywhere that wasn't school-related it was my responsibility to cover my transit costs.

Part of the reason I didn't go out with friends much is that the things they wanted to do cost money.  I was saving my money for university.

From the time I could write words on paper, every year at Christmas I would put the same one item in my letter to Santa: a university education. My parents hadn't gone to university.  My grandparents hadn't finished high school.  I would be the first in my family to get a degree.

You'd think a mom would be proud that her child had such lofty aspirations, but something else won out over pride with my mom--either pragmatism or crab-bucket jealousy, I don't know.  Every year she'd laugh at my letter to Santa.  She'd say, "If you want to go to university, you're on your own. I'm not paying for it."

I got my first summer job when I was 8 years old.  Picking berries. Same first job my grandfather had 58 years before me.  He earned half a penny per pint.  I earned 25 cents. Thank you, inflation.

But that money didn't last long.  Because the thing about living with a substance abuser is that sometimes they steal from you. Sometimes they steal every penny of berry picking money you earn. Babysitting money, birthday money. Addiction breeds desperation.

It's true what they say: life isn't fair.

And, you see, this is why it was a very difficult decision to go out or not to go out: can I afford to spend $1.35 on transit fare?  It'll take a lot of dollar-thirty-fives to add up to a university education.

So, more than not, I stayed home.

But that day, when my friend invited me to the Reference Library, I decided to go out. Of all the friend-dates a person could go on, the library's a pretty good one.  And not just because it's free, although that's an attractive quality for sure.  It was more the fact that we could sit side by side at listening booths and just... listen.  No talking allowed.  Libraries were different back then.

Not being allowed to talk can really be quite freeing.  People found me standoffish as a teen, but that's really because I had so much shame about my family of origin.  I didn't want people trying to get close to me and discovering what was behind the facade.  I didn't want people asking questions.

My friend didn't ask me a lot of questions. I didn't ask her questions either. I knew it was just her and her mom.  I didn't ask about her father because I didn't want her to ask about mine.  By that time my mother had a restraining order against him. He lived in a motel room in a small town, but he often swung by our place to break into our house, destroy our belongings, and threaten to murder us all.

One time my friend invited me to her place when her mom was at work.  She wasn't supposed to have people over, but her mother would never know.  It was kind of exciting for me to take the streetcar to her neighbourhood because she lived in a gentrified area with lots of quirky boutiques.

As it turned out, her house was one of the forgotten left-behind ones.  It was the tiniest house I'd ever seen, just two small bedrooms of one main living area that incorporated the kitchen. There must have been a bathroom somewhere but I can't recall seeing it.

The bedrooms had carpeting, but the main room was just a dirt floor covered in pine needles.

My friend transferred out of my school in Grade 10.  I heard she went to an alternative school, but I don't think she lasted long there. In Grade 12, I went to a university fair at the convention centre and there was my friend! I hadn't seen her in two years. I was overjoyed to see her again. I loved her in a way I still hadn't learned to express.

But she wasn't attending the university fair as a prospecting high school student. She was working it as a security guard. She'd dropped out of high school. She hoped to return at some point but she and her mom really needed the money and, well, you know how it is...

After working part-time and summer jobs throughout high school, I was able to afford my first year of tuition at the University of Toronto, but it was tight. Throughout university, I think I spent more time working than studying.

When I finally had that degree in hand, it was really a non-event. Aside from my grandmother, nobody in my family seemed to care much about my achievement.  But I never expected them to.

The Crisis in Midlife

This post was written in 2018

I'll tell you how I've been feeling lately.

I've been feeling like every worthwhile thing I'm ever going to do in my life--everything good, everything useful, everything productive--I've already done. The best is behind me. I'm just waiting out my sentence.

Last month, my mother told me I'm not a spring chicken anymore. That threw me for a loop. Isn't your mother supposed to think of you as a child for always? But when I told my girlfriend, she said, "Yeah, well you're middle aged."

Middle aged?

My ex, who (as you know) was much older than me, used to say that every time he looked in the mirror, he expected to see his 18-year-old self. And instead he saw an old man. It was jarring.

I didn't get that when I was 19.

I get it now.

The thing I really didn't get is that a midlife crisis is... well... a crisis. Crisis in the sense of crisis counseling, crisis lines, crisis intervention. The term always made me think of sports cars and 22-year-old girlfriends, but there's more to the story. Holy Mother of God, is there more to this story.

There's a reason you try to recapture your lost youth: that's when you accomplished everything of value. Or, at least, that's when I did. Or, at least, that's how I feel. But you're talking to someone who peaked in high school. Your mileage may vary.

I'm sure there are ways to feel useful again. Volunteer work and such. But volunteer work is just one more of those things I did when I was younger. I worked in the domestic violence sector for years, and I burned out so hard I can't even tell you. I've volunteered my ass all over this city, and most organizations (the big box charities in particular) have left me disillusioned at best and disgusted at worst.

In a perfect world, I would feel fulfilled by my work.  So I've devoted a lot of my time and energy to projects I felt would be helpful to others. The thing is, in order for your book to help anyone, someone in the world has to... read it. And when you get to the point where you write something super-meaningful and then you literally can't even give it away for free, it becomes pretty clear that the work isn't going to dig you out of this hole.

Now I get why people go back to what gave them pleasure as children, as youths. There's a simple joy to childhood that's so hard to recapture decades later.  The lights dim over time. The world is less shiny and bright.

Maybe I've been watching too many YouTube videos about nihilism and existential angst, but lately I've been wondering if I should even bother trying to do anything of value, if anything actually has innate value anyway, or if we're all just marking time.

I remember having fantasies, when I was young. Fantasies about all the exciting things I would do in the future. I would imagine scenarios in detail. It was really energizing. Made me want to get up in the morning and work toward my goals.

Now? In midlife, or whatever this is?

I don't have fantasies anymore.

How do you get through life when it seems like your best days are behind you?

I'm taking it one day at a time.

C'est pas tes oignons

This post was written in 2018

When I was in kindergarten, the whole class had to line up single file by the door at the end of the day. Mlle Medina wouldn't release us into the care of our parents or picker-uppers until we'd neatly arranged ourselves in no particular order.

One day, I saw Grant bud in front of Nathan. I was not happy. You can't just cut in line like that. Nathan was there first! How dare you?

Even at the age of six, I was not one to let injustice go unnoticed. I went over to Grant and I was like, "I saw what you did! How dare you? Nathan should be in front of you!"

Mlle Medina came over to see what all the loudness was about. I explained the situation to her. She explained that it had nothing to do with me. C'est pas tes oignons, Giselle. I should take my place in line. Mind my own business.

My teacher wasn't mean about it. Not at all. I could tell that she was amused by my crusade to right the wrongs of the kindergarten line. This was the same teacher who told my mom not to worry too much about my... behaviour. Life would soften out the edges.

It hasn't.

I'm in trouble again.

With family, this time.

I just finished watching a very touching documentary called Much Too Young, about caregivers of parents with early-onset Alzheimer's and dementia. The thing that sets this film apart from others on the topic is that these caregivers are young men and women in their twenties, some in their teens. I could never have done what they're doing. Not at that age, not at this age, probably not at any age. I'm not a nurturer. I care, but I'm not caring.

But some of the sentiments they expressed resonated with me, especially early in the film before the various participants had met each other. They didn't know who to talk to about what they were experiencing. There were support groups for caregivers, sure, but not for people under 30. All the caregivers were the age of their parents. They felt very isolated.

I've been feeling that way too, when it comes to stuff with my grandmother. If you've been reading my posts over the years, you know that I've participated in her care. She does not have dementia. That's a big distinction. But she is legally blind, she's experiencing hearing loss, and her mobility isn't the best. Recently, she was hospitalized for 6 weeks with multiple infections that resulted in a whole lot of delirium.

She checked herself out of hospital prematurely. Realistically, she requires round the clock care. She can afford it, but she's too cheap to pay the money. A lot of people who grew up in the Depression era are like this. She wants to stay in her house. It's not safe for her to be living there anymore, but my grandmother is one hard-headed motherfucker. I'm allowed to trash-talk her because I AM her. We have exactly the same personality. We share the same faults. Anything negative I say about her, I would be more than willing to say about my self.

So how did I end up in hot water with my family?

Well, here's the thing about old people... they can be assholes. I have this on good authority. Every story I tell my girlfriend about the latest asshole thing my grandmother (whom I love very much) has done, she's like, "That's old people. That's what happens."

I sure as hell hope that by the time I'm in my late 80s, those suicide booths from Futurama will be a real thing, because God Almighty I don't ever want to turn into that. Does it really happen to everyone?

"Focus narrows," my girlfriend says. "Life becomes very narrow."

This is what I see in my grandmother now. It's not that she's necessarily a different person than she was before, it just seems like you're dealing with the worst possible version of her. Someone who takes everyone else's time and care for granted, someone who feels entitled to all this and more, someone who expects everyone to give give give even when they're already drained and never feels the need to say thank you.

Without getting into too much detail, it came to my attention that my grandmother had lied about a medical professional in order to manipulate a situation and achieve her own ends. My grandmother's actions led to serious repercussions for that medical professional.

I love my grandma, but no. Just no. You can't fuck with people's livelihoods like that. This is someone's job, someone's career, someone's pay cheque. Someone's life. I don't care how old you are and how much your focus has narrowed, you don't pull this shit.

My grandmother's already reeling from feeling that she's lost control of her life. She calls us "mean" and tells us we won't let her do what she wants to do, even though everything we do is what she wants. At times our entire lives are wrapped up in doing what she wants. So I went over her head with this one. I phoned the supervisor of the medical professional to tell them my grandmother had lied and here's what her motives were.

The supervisor was frankly quite relieved, because their whole organization was baffled about the accusation. It didn't make sense to anyone--didn't make sense because it wasn't true. I was told that an investigation was already underway, and I spoke to them less than 24 hours after the whole thing started.

Maybe I'll always be the same kid I was in kindergarten, but if I see someone doing wrong by another human (even if the wrongdoer is a relative and the wrong-done-by is a relative stranger), I need to speak up. You can love someone and not support their actions.

When I talked to that supervisor, I figured they'd tell me "Oh yes, your aunts have all called me to give me this information." I was very surprised that, even though the whole family knew about my grandmother's wrongdoing, nobody was willing to say it out loud, except to each other. I told my mom I'd made that phone call. She supported my decision but warned me not to tell my aunts.

Last week I let my guard down. I told one of my aunts I made the call. To my face, she was smiley and supportive, but my sister tells me that, behind my back, my aunts are all saying I should mind my own business.

These days, because anxiety has been an issue, I'm trying to reflect on potential repercussions before I get worked up. When my sister told me my aunts are mad at me, the first thing I did was laugh. Then I said, "What are they going to do? Punch me? Disown me?"

Most probable scenario is they'll keep talking about me behind my back and never say a word to my face.

You know what? I can handle that.

Every Book Needs Readers

Last year, I talked about filling The Well of Creativity with every kind of media I can get my face on.

At that time, I viewed myself as a dry well. I've shifted a touch, to view myself as a fallow field. A healthier outlook, I hope.

We all need to rest once in a while. I used to be obsessed with the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Aspects of Love. One of the first lines in the show is: "I'm resting again--that's what actresses say when they're not in a play." Am I resting because I'm not writing? Or am I not writing because I'm resting? Either way, I'm not in a play.

Most writers are readers first. Reading is important to fill The Well. Watching movies, TV, plays, listening to audiobooks and Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals--it all helps us to be better writers. But I covered that last time.

I'm revisiting the importance of reading (and watching and listening) because a new thought occurred to me the other day, another reason it's so important to be a voracious consumer of media:

Every Book Needs Readers

Before, I was thinking about the benefits of reading to me, as a creative writer and human person. Now, I'm thinking about the benefits of reading to the author of that book, and even to the book itself.

One of the reasons my will to write has dwindled is that there are far fewer eyes on my words than there used to be. Or at least it feels that way. Every time a reader picks up a story I wrote, a novel or an anthology or short, that's huge for me. Every sale is a big deal, but it's not even about the sale. I put so much time and energy, so much of myself, into everything I write. I want eyes on those words.

So now, every time I read a book, I imagine how pleased the author must be that their words are being read. Kind of silly, I know. They're probably so successful that one more set of eyes makes no difference to them. But maybe readers think that about me. After all, I'm a full-time writer. I've been doing this job for more than a decade. Maybe readers consider me established.

I hope they know how much it means to me when they consume my words. Every book I write needs readers. If my words aren't read, what's the point in writing them?

I used to think of reading as part of my ongoing author education. And it is. But lately, I've considered it more of an imperative. I'm particularly drawn toward books that are out of print, stories that aren't online, aren't available on Amazon, aren't ebooks. Yellowed paperbacks that will cease to exist once these few copies have come apart. They're on their last legs.

Every book needs readers. Doesn't matter what you're reading, as long as you're reading. But, for me, those yellowed finds are the ones I want to read... before they disappear forever. 

When does the mellowing begin?

This post was written in 2018

I should have known it was a dream. This sort of thing never happens in real life: I was having a frank and honest discussion with my mother... about the menopause. And then I woke up.

Remember a few weeks ago I mentioned an elementary school teacher who told my mom not to worry too much about me, that life would round out the rough edges? Remember I said I'm still waiting for that to happen?

Well, I wish it would happen soon. I'm really getting sick of myself.

Summer came about three months early this year, and that's something most Canadians get excited about. Not me. Summer in the city means more people in the streets, more construction, more dirty-and-gritty.

In the summer, it is impossible for me to leave my house without getting into some sort of altercation. My sisters call me a New Yorker. My mom's afraid I'm going to get shot one of these days. It amazes me that nobody's thrown a punch. A few have come close, but I'm pretty sure I know what's stopped them: I'm five feet tall and I weigh 87 lbs. If you're bigger than that (and most people are) and you come at me swinging, nobody's going to be impressed.

I'd say I start at least 98% of the arguments I get involved in, with strangers on the street. In the sense that I speak first. Yell, usually. At drivers, at cyclists. I yell at them because they're breaking traffic laws and endangering my safety: failing to stop at STOP signs, driving through red lights, making illegal turns, driving on the sidewalk. I see this stuff literally every time I leave the house. So basically every time I set foot outside, my life is in danger.

You'd think after the attack last month, drivers would be more sensitive. But no. Pedestrian deaths in this city have skyrocketed over the past few years. It's bad.

So when people drive their cars or bicycles right-the-fuck at my body, you bet your ass they're going to hear what I think about that. I'm not impressed.

I'll tell you the one that happened yesterday, because it's fresh in my mind--but I've got hundreds of stories like this one. I've lost track, honestly. So I was walking along the sidewalk and there was this team of surveyors who had their equipment set up on the sidewalk, and there was me and some dude walking along, and this cyclist (who had been riding on the road previously) mounted the sidewalk and came right at us.

She was playing chicken with us. She wanted us out of her way, even though it's actually illegal for cyclists to ride on the sidewalk here. I've seen it so many times I can tell when people are playing this game, deliberately trying to scare other humans. That's what she was up to.

Don't fuck with me, lady. Seriously.

She was coming at me and this dude, and I was just like "Get off the sidewalk!"

The words were barely out of my mouth and already she was telling me to fuck off.

She won her game of chicken against me and the dude. What were we supposed to do? She was coming right at us. So I jumped off the sidewalk in one direction and the poor dude had to jump into the street.

The surveyors moved to protect their equipment, blocking it with their bodies so she wouldn't crash into it. That worked. She didn't tell them to fuck off, not that I could hear. She got off the sidewalk and went off looking for other pedestrians to harass, I guess.

I've been in this exact situation (minus they surveyors--that was new) more times than I can count. But here's what really scared me yesterday: I had this visceral reaction to being told to fuck off. I've been told to fuck off hundreds of times by hundreds of strangers, but yesterday... it wasn't even anger. It wasn't an emotion. It was this surge of primordial rage.

I wanted to bash in her skull.

I have one of those metal water bottles that's sort of club-shaped, if you can picture what I'm talking about. I just kept thinking how glad I was that my water bottle was in my bag and not in my hand, because if it had been in my hand I think I might have hit her with it. Hard.

When I told my girlfriend this story, she was like, "Good thing you didn't or you'd have landed yourself in jail." And I think she's right.

I've been thinking about why I feel it necessary to stand up for myself so loudly every time I feel even the slightest bit threatened. Stuff like this always seems to go back to what we learned in childhood, right?

When I was a child (and even into adulthood), I viewed my mother as weak because she allowed herself to be subjected to domestic violence in many forms. I didn't know about trans-generational trauma and stuff like that. All I knew was that my mom was weak and I didn't want to be like her. So I spoke up all the time. My mom told me I was too loud, so I got louder.

I learned another very valuable lesson in childhood, also from my mother (sort of), and that's that the police don't give two fucks about womenfolk. My mom called the police pretty often, when my dad was getting violent. Sometimes they showed up, but even when they did they were like "Don't worry your pretty head. Just let the man tire himself out. There's a good girl."

After my parents divorced, the violence escalated. Suddenly the threats weren't just against my mother, they were against us kids too. My dad would break into our house, bust up our shit. One time he broke in with a can of spray paint and wrote horrible things on our walls. It was... traumatic.

We went to the police. Oh so many times. The police did nothing.

So the lesson I learned in childhood was that you need to stand up for yourself because nobody else is going to do it for you. Especially not the police.

Last year one of the altercations I got into started exactly like the one above: cyclist mounted the sidewalk and rode straight at me. I was like "Get off the sidewalk," but this guy didn't just tell me to fuck off and go on his merry way. He jumped off his bike and came at me, started shouting at me, calling me a "mouthy bitch" and all this.

That day, I thought to myself: This is it. I'm going to get punched for sure this time.

I just kept walking in the other direction because, honestly, I didn't want to get punched. Maybe my diminutive stature worked in my favour, because the guy kept cussing me out but he didn't get physical. Finally, he picked up his bike and went off.

The reason I'm telling you this is because that whole incident happened in front of a cop. Seriously. A police officer was standing directly in front of us the whole time this guy was coming at me, and he didn't do a damn thing. I guess he was waiting for me to get punched. Maybe then he would have stepped in.

So now I'm stuck. I've been a "mouthy bitch" for nearly 40 years. Do I even want to change, at this point? I don't know. Not really. But I also don't want to be stressed and angry. I don't want to get in altercations all the time.

You're supposed to mellow as you get older, right? When is that going to happen for me? Because I'm thinking, with the impending menopause and all... won't that just ramp up my already substantial rage? I barely have control of my emotions as it is. If I get worse, Sweet's right--I'm going to wind up behind bars. As we've learned, cops are not my friend.

Listen to me: I'm expecting change to come at me from the outside in. If I really want to mellow, it's got to start with me. I need to make a choice.

But not tonight.

The Cure for Social Isolation

This post was written in 2018

I've had a rough couple weeks. Pretty common, for a depressed person. The difference this time was that I was started to feel socially isolated. I can't remember another time when I would have plastered that label all over myself, but it got so bad I started reaching out to actual humans. And I never do that.

I got in touch with my oldest friend. We have a close bond. I know stuff about her that she doesn't tell most people. I knew her when she was going through some tough PTSD shit. She knew me when I was young and foolish.

Now we live in different cities and we rarely see one another. We rarely even talk, but somehow that doesn't matter. The bond between us is so strong we don't need to be in constant contact to feel connected.

But sometimes I need support, and sometimes she does, and that's usually when we reach out to each other.

It was me reaching out, this time. We made plans to see each other. Unfortunately, the father of a friend of hers died, and she had to drive clear across the province for the funeral. We formulated new plans for when she'd be passing through Toronto on her way home, but the thing about my friend is that she has a very serious health condition and her depressed immune system meant she became quite ill and stuck in the small town where her friend lives.

So none of our plans panned out. I don't blame her, obviously. But that doesn't stop me from being sad that we didn't get to see each other.

Depression and social isolation mingle in this weird way where the isolation is crying out, "I want to see someone," and the depression is whispering, "No you don't.  You just stay right here by me."  It's so seductive, the way it holds you close and runs its fingers through your hair. Depression has such a good grip on a person like me. It knows how to keep me from seeking out solace in the social sphere.

Through all this, my girlfriend's been working her ass off getting ready for a charity event she helps to run. She called me one night when she'd planned on coming over and said she was just too tired.  She'd been doing hard physical labour for 12 hours. I understood.  But I was so sad about not being able to connect with anyone, not even my own girlfriend, that when she called I was just silent on the phone.  I couldn't speak. I was too sad, but I couldn't explain why. I literally couldn't produce words.

It led to a very unfortunate misunderstanding, which I couldn't clear up because... Depression. Sweet was upset with me.  She didn't know everything that had happened with my friend getting sick and all that.  She just thought I was being a selfish brat.

When I woke up Saturday morning (okay, afternoon), life wasn't looking good.  The only thing I had to look forward was picking up a hold at the library.  And, to be honest, sometimes I get really jazzed about that.  But not when Depression's got me in her grip.

Thank goodness for radio. It's gotten me through some really rough times. And not just the music, but the hosts too.

I was listening to an indie rock station, and the host was talking about how she'd been feeling really irritated because she knew the streetcar she took to work would be diverted. The route change had to do with King Street being turned into a pedestrian walkway during the Toronto International Film Festival.

The radio host said that, after feeling disgruntled about the change in her commute, she decided to simply leave the house early, get off the streetcar where the road closure started, and walk through the pedestrian section of the street. And doing so took her from being irritated that her route was interrupted to feeling elated by the buoyant energy of all these people trying to get a glimpse of movie stars.

So I thought... you know what?  I'm going to King Street.

I'll tell you something about me: I don't even like movies. I have the attention span of a fruit fly. I cannot sit through a movie.  Just ask my girlfriend. She's a movie buff.  But she has a movie friend who goes to the movies with her, because I just can't.

I didn't go to the film festival for the movies.  I went for the people.

And you know what?

It worked.

As soon as I got to King Street, where it was blocked off for pedestrian use, the energy all around was just electric. There were people of all ages snapping photos, laughing and talking, lining up to try samples of products.  Restaurants had spilled out onto the street. Roads became patios.

But it was the people that helped me shake this bout of depression. Their excitement was frenetic.  There were big screens set up, I guess to broadcast celebrities getting out of limos?  I don't know. I'm really not up on pop culture.  But just that sound of teens squealing, the general frenzy, the joy and anticipation--it lifted me out of the pit I'd been living in for weeks.

My girlfriend's volunteer event was only a few blocks away, so I walked up to meet her.  She'd been on her feet for ten hours by that point, but she wasn't too busy to talk.  I was finally able to tell her everything that had been going on, and she said that if she'd realized all that she'd have cut me some slack instead of arguing.  We spent the rest of the evening together and it was great.  And a big part of the greatness was being out in the city, in these big crowds of people.

So the cure for social isolation is... people?  That seems a little too simplistic.

I've been thinking about those who are depressed and living in smaller communities. If they go out to a community gathering, they're probably going to see people they know.  The key, for me, was in being able to go out and be around people I didn't know. For me, that first step toward integrating myself more fully into the world is being anonymous in the world. Being around people, but being a nobody.  Enjoying the energy and excitement of an event without really being part of it.  I don't drive. If I lived in a tiny community, I'm not sure what I'd do.

But for those of us who live in active, vibrant cities, the cure for social isolation might simply be to find a crowd that's excited about something fun.  Steal that collective energy before it dissipates.  If you're anything like me, you need it.

It's funny--I was on the subway the other day and a man got on with his leg in a cast.  He was having trouble negotiating the crowd and I asked him if he needed a hand.  He thanked me, but said he was doing okay. He told me: "My motto is I'd rather have pain like this, that's visible on the outside, than pain on the inside that no one else can see."

I swear that man was reading my soul.

I Am My Grandmother's Legacy

This post was written in 2018.

My grandmother died.

The past month has gone by in a haze of hospital visits as my grandmother--my favourite of all the humans--took a turn for the worse. One week ago, she was taken off food and water. I got up the next morning and tried to wash some dishes before leaving for the hospital. She wasn't dead yet, but that's when it really hit me: she would be, in the next few days. I had to come to terms with losing her.

I cried into my dishwater. I sobbed so hard I thought I was going to throw up. After that, I realized I'd started speaking about her in the past tense. Technically, she was still alive, but barely. Just barely.

We were there at her bedside when she took her final breath: all of her many daughters and me.

I'd never watched someone die before. A few of my aunts had warned me about the horrific expressions they'd seen on the faces of loved ones. Or unsettling sounds they'd made.  As my grandmother's breath slowed, my aunts wanted me to be prepared for the things they'd found disturbing about death.

But nothing like that happened when my grandmother died.

She just stopped breathing. That's it. Her breath slowed down, and then it stopped. She slipped away. No strange expressions or noises.  It was such a peaceful passing. I'm eternally grateful that I got to be there for it.

After she'd died, one of my aunts asked, "What was Mummy's legacy?"

Her family.  Everyone agreed about that.  She was proud of her accomplishments and her work, but the one thing that lives on now that she's gone is this big family she produced.

In that moment, when my aunts and I talked about legacies, I stopped feeling like a worthless person with a useless career. I am my grandmother's legacy. There are no other storytellers in my family.  If I don't preserve the stories she told me--of her life, of her parents, of her grandparents--who will? Her generation is gone. I must preserve their memory.

I matter. I mattered to her. I'm not worthless. She saw my value.

My grandmother believed in me, even when I didn't.  She believed my work was important, even when I claimed I was just in it for a quick buck. She knew there were easier ways to pay the rent, and she was right about that.

She was proud that her grandchild grew up to become a writer. In my family, we're not showy with the emotions. We don't go around saying "I love you" or "I'm proud of you." In my entire life, my mother has never said those things to me. I've never said them to her.

But my grandma told me she was proud of my writing career. She told me that all the time. She said "I love you" to me only once, and I was so uncomfortable with the bigness of the emotion that my response was: "Shut up! Why are you saying that?"

I never returned the sentiment until after she died.  As the colour drained from her skin, I petted her cheek and said, "I love you, Grandma." 

Maybe I didn't say it in words while she was alive, but I know she knew how I felt. I showed her by spending time with her. Lots of time. That wasn't solely for her benefit. She was truly my favourite person on the planet. I'm so thankful for the nearly 40 years we had together.

I will miss her forever, but every time I start feeling worthless, I'll be able to remind myself I have stories to tell. I have value. I am my grandmother's legacy.

My grandmother was always an avid reader--she'd read the dictionary if there was nothing else around--and a lifelong library user. If you've been following my many posts about my grandmother's life and you feel inclined to commemorate her death, I encourage readers to make a donation in her memory to your local public library system. I think she'd like the idea that there were more books and services available to more people because of her.

Heartfelt thanks for allowing me to share our stories with you.
Giselle

Into the Woods with a Good Book

This post was originally written in 2018

I have a little ritual I repeat from year to year.

Every year when we arrive at the cottage, the first thing I do is peruse the bookshelves.

The cottage is not our cottage, and so the books are not ours. The owners of the cottage are avid readers (of literary fiction in particular), and their new books quickly carve a path to the cottage bookshelves.

But, among the newer books are a host of older ones, the jazz standards of the cottage bookshelves. They're always there and I never tire of seeing them. Plenty of Canadian fiction: Robertson Davies, Stephen Leacock, Margaret Laurence.

A few years ago I read A Bird in the House. This year it was A Jest of God.

There's a reason I don't bring my own books to the cottage: I'm generally a slow reader, and choosing a book from the owners' shelves challenges me to read the entire thing in the span of a week.

You can't take it with you--the book, that is. This isn't a lending library.

So I spend the week reading.

At home, I start every day with a book. Now that I've kicked coffee, I brew a cup of tea and I sit and read for a while. But at the cottage that while stretches out, fills much of the day. Reading, eating, board games, DVDs at night. That's a family vacation at the cottage, and it's really something special.

If you'd like the inside scoop on this year's cottage vacation, I invite you to read my second book of correspondences, Hi Babe. It's just a little book of letters, the ones I wrote to my girlfriend while I was away.

This year's vacation was more eventful than relaxing--not at all what I'm looking for at the cottage. As much as I complain about the city, our family getaway proved that life follows you wherever you go. It even follows you into the woods.

Thank you, technology.

If you're at all interested, grab a copy today!

Enjoy!

https://books2read.com/u/mYo6Rp

Tarot Through the Storm: Daily Reflections During Relationship Drama #TarotJournal

Tarot Through the Storm
Daily Reflections During Relationship Drama
by Giselle Renarde
Word Count: 11,600
ISBN: 9798224157624

Discover the Power of Tarot in the Midst of Heartache and Transformation

When life throws you into the depths of uncertainty, where do you turn for guidance and solace? For Giselle, the wisdom of tarot illuminated the path through a tumultuous period of life.

In Tarot Through the Storm, journey through daily tarot reflections that provided clarity, comfort, and courage during a separated partner's divorce. As assets were divided, a house was sold, and emotions ran high, the daily practice of drawing a tarot card offered profound insights.

This compelling journal isn't just a narrative of personal experience; it's a powerful testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of tarot practice. For Giselle, daily draws offered an opportunity for insightful interpretations and personal reflection. Giselle's honest and heartfelt entries are sure to resonate with anyone navigating similar life challenges.

Whether you're a seasoned tarot reader or new to the cards, this book will inspire you to find your own path of healing and transformation. Dive into a world where every card tells a story and every story brings you closer to your own truth.

Join the author on this intimate and enlightening journey, and let the cards guide you through your own life's storms.

Buy Now from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D92LX4YD?tag=dondes-20
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=GO0SEQAAQBAJ

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/tarot-through-the-storm-daily-reflections-during/id6523414172
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/tarot-through-the-storm-giselle-renarde/1145971306
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/tarot-through-the-storm-daily-reflections-during-relationship-drama

Everand: https://www.everand.com/book/748662797/Tarot-Through-the-Storm-Daily-Reflections-During-Relationship-Drama
Fable: https://fable.co/book/x-9798224157624

Find even more retailers with the Universal Book Link: https://books2read.com/TarotThroughTheStorm

There's also a paperback version: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/tarot-through-the-storm-giselle-renarde/1145971306?ean=9798227789679

Plus, there's a digitally-narrated audiobook: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAEAyVFAUcM

Join Giselle for a Rainbow Jigsaw Puzzle Video

Hiya.

I was feeling mighty lonesome, so I made this video to spend a little time with you. Actually, it's 23 minutes long, so that's a fair amount of time. Good visit.

Join me while I sort puzzle pieces and chat.

https://youtu.be/ONXvQS3MIJg?si=DYh6Hmj6_P62T12c

Rest in Blisse, Victoria

Earlier in the week, I wrote this post for my music blog, but I'm putting it here, too, because I want to make it available to as many eyes as possible:  

I found out via social media that my fellow erotica author Victoria Blisse died this week. I'm not sure how many readers of my lil music blog here are also connoisseurs of fine smut, but anyone who's been around the erotic fiction community for some time has probably encountered Victoria, and knows what a kick-ass, lovely person she was. 

Victoria Blisse used to organize an event called Smut by the Sea, and I'd ship Giselle merch over to her in England to give away, plus contributors' copies of erotic anthologies for her Erotic Tombola. That's how I learned what a Tombola was--we don't have them here in Canada.

Along with Lucy Felthouse, Victoria was co-editor of a number of anthologies that featured my work (including one that was called Smut by the Sea, though I think it's off the market now). I had plenty of interaction with her back then, though not so much recently, and that makes me incredibly sad. She just kept growing into an even cooler person, and I missed out on that for absolutely no reason. I started working independently more and more, and I lost track of a lot of the erotica writers who used to be part of my daily life.

In losing Victoria, we've all lost someone incredibly special. I'm not looking to put a bright note on this post, because I am so very saddened by our loss, but hopefully I'll be able to persuade myself to reach out to the many, many friends from the erotica community that I've wandered away from in recent years. I used to have so many writer friends, and now I have so few. 

You were a sparkling gem, Victoria, and your work lives on even now that you're gone. I hope you're smutting it up by the sea, in the afterlife. Rest in Blisse.  

 

Music Blog is Back + Personal News

I have news that I'm reluctant to share. 

In fact, I'm so reluctant to share it here that I'm just going to point you in the direction of my newly-revived music blog, where I shared this news yesterday and will continue to tell readers more about what's going on.

Life is very hard right now.

That's why I brought back the music blog, A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day:

https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com

The situation we're in right now--my partner and I--produces loneliness and despair that are desperately hard to shake, but music has always been my place of comfort, and I'm turning to it now. 

And I'm bringing you with me.

Please join me at A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day, where I will attempt to share a song and an anecdote daily. I want to share my life with you.

I also share A LOT  of my life with my newsletter subscribers. If you're not subscribed to my newsletter and you'd like to hear more about what's going on, here is the link to sign up. It doesn't cost a thing and I generally email everyone once a week: http://eepurl.com/R4b11

Much Love,

Giselle

The Way You Wear Your Face

This post was originally written in 2015 by Giselle Renarde

A teacher once said to my mother, "There's steel in that girl."

At the time, she was right. Still, I fought back tears when my mother told me. I couldn't decide whether I should be proud. I knew it was true, but was it really so obvious?

The neighbourhood I grew up in was and is very different from the place I live now. Earlier today I was walking down the street and asking myself, "What would be the perfect soundtrack to give this area?" 

The first song that popped into my head was Pleasant Valley Sunday.

I'm trying to think of the perfect song to accompany the area I grew up in. It would be whatever music scares you shitless, really. Or just the sound of music through apartment walls and people screaming, and then a big crash and you sweating bullets and thinking, "Should I call the police?"

But of course you shouldn't because it's none of your damn business.

I can't pinpoint any event or moment that turned young Giselle into steel. It was home life coupled with where home was. My mom still lives in that same house, and when I tell people the intersection their eyes widen and they go, "Wow" or just "Yikes." They know my old street because there's a gang named for it. 

Why would anyone choose to live in such an unsavoury area?

That's a question I can't answer. I left as soon as I could. 

I left the steel there, too.

This came to mind the other week, when I was watching So You Think You Can Dance. There was a young woman on the show who had that same steel in her. She came from a rough neighbourhood, too. She faced addiction in her family.

I saw my old self in the way she wore her face: hard, inaccessible, a brick wall of a face. A face you don't want to mess with.

That was me! That was me until I moved to a neighbourhood where I can walk around any time, day or night, and not be afraid. Sure it's weird, being poor and living in an incredibly affluent neighbourhood. I'm surrounded by ego and entitlement and it gets to me sometimes, but at the end of the day entitlement isn't going to steal your jewellery from around your neck or spray bullets from a car window.

Man, it feels good to not be afraid of the place you live. I'm practically Pollyanna when I'm out in the world. I talk to strangers! I smile at everybody! I love them all! Mwah-Mwah! Kisses all 'round!

And then I take the bus back to the neighbourhood where I grew up. Suddenly the smile in my eyes feels embarrassing. It makes me vulnerable. So I shut it down. I lock Pollyanna and her Pleasant Valley Sunday in the basement until I'm back at home base. Because I don't want to be targetted. I don't want to be picked out of the lineup. That one smiling face sticks out, on the bus to my mom's house.

But I feel odd about it. I love the compassionate me. She's my favourite kind of me! I want to share her with the people who live where I used to live. They're sort of like family, in a way.

I try, but I feel uneasy. The world I grew up in seems so predatory, so violent, so ready to take you down.

Out comes the steel, but I put it on like a mask now. It's not coming from the inside out. I'm wearing it so I'll blend in.

Sometimes I feel Pollyanna kicking and screaming, but I make her wear that mask. It's for her own good.

Delta's Diary: Big-City Butch in a Small Town #LesbianDiaries #ButchFemme #LesRom #LesFic

Last year, my partner bought a house in a small town. I've been splitting my time between city and country since then.

The first thing I read in this small town's local paper was homophobic rhetoric. The last thing I read in this small town's local paper (and I'm talking two minutes ago, right before I started typing this post) was homophobic rhetoric.

Living in a big city for forty years could not and did not prepare me for life as a small-town queer.

That's probably why I set my latest Lesbian Diaries book in (you guessed it) a small town. When I sat down to start Delta's Diary, I didn't anticipate writing a book about a character finding community in her small town. I remember finishing the first draft and kind of feeling irritable because, although Delta was experiencing some of the same mental health shit I continue to experience, she didn't face the homophobia I felt and still feel confronted by.

Maybe I want to take care of my characters. It's bad enough, what we queers have to endure in the real world. Maybe I wanted my dear Delta to get off a little lighter.

Not that she gets off light. She's had a rough life, and it gets only marginally easier throughout the book.  Her personality is based very much on mine. In fact, the scene where she's walking around town screaming at nobody is based on a true story. I was having a rough night soon after we moved here, and... well, you can read the book to find out more. 

By the way, I did not actually eat the Doritos.

Anyway, I feel like I've swallowed a rock. That's what small-town homophobia does to my body. 

Sometimes I write books.

Read Delta's Diary today. Consider this my personal invitation to you. I want you to read this book.

Delta's Diary
The Lesbian Diaries, Book 11
by Giselle Renarde

Can a big-city butch find community in a small town?

Delta's sunk about as far as she can go when she moves in with her brother. He's in the same boat: his wife just left him and he's down in the dumps. They don't do much to cheer each other up, but at least co-existence is peaceful.

When Delta crashes the town's Friday Night Queer Club, the girl she's got the hots for is not the one who wants her back. How she ends up with a girlfriend she doesn't even like is anyone's guess, but that's not the only thing ruining her chances with the femme of her dreams. Her crush claims to be straight, and she doesn't exactly ingratiate herself by doubting Melanie's word.

Even when you've hit rock bottom, you can always sink lower. If there's one thing Delta knows how to do, it's burn bridges.

How will Delta untangle the mess she's created when she's running on nothing but street-smarts and grit?

Buy the ebook from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BMBDH7X3?tag=dondes-20
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/delta-s-diary
Apple: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/deltas-diary/id6444419895

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=TNibEAAAQBAJ
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1178481?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica

Get the paperback here: https://www.amazon.com/Deltas-Lesbian-Diaries-Giselle-Renarde/dp/B0BMKCXW9W

Universal Book Link for more retailers: https://books2read.com/DeltasDiary

Stacy's Dad Has Got It Going On #OMYW #NewAdult #BestFriendsFather

I wrote Stacy's Dad Has Got It Going On one summer, thinking I'd put together a nice little fluffy sex romp about a geek girl and her roommate's father. And, in essence, I suppose that's what it ended up being, plot-wise, but I didn't expect the characters to take such firm hold. I didn't expect them to flesh out quite so fully. But they were insistent.

After I'd written this book, I realized it wasn't just for the nerdy girls who want to express themselves sexually in a non-Girls Gone Wild sort of way (like me) but it was also very much for those who grew up with addiction in their households (...like me).

There's something that stays with you all your life if you were raised by a parent or guardian with an addiction. It's a quality of trepidation, an immediate mistrust not only of people but of the potential impact of all substances. In this book, Savannah, the girl who falls for her roommate's dad, is all about clean living, and probably more out of fear of what alcohol and other things might do to her... or make her do.

But she really resents the assumptions other people make about her based on her choice not to drink or do drugs--people ask her to her face if she's a recovering alcoholic, or if she's a religious nut. She's been so focused on school and high achievements that she hasn't given much thought to guys, even though GOD does she love to get laid when the opportunity arises.

Against all odds, and much to my bewildered satisfaction, this book blossoms into a romance when Savannah, who is so like me in so many ways, finds someone who understands the quirks leftover from childhood are still a driving force of her life and personality. Let's just say it surprised me, and I always love it when a book can do that.

(This blog post was originally written when the first edition of Stacy's Dad came out in 2011.)
 

Stacy's Dad Has Got It Going On
By Giselle Renarde

When Stacy's dad shows up unannounced at her apartment, her roommate Savannah is smitten. Eric's career in humanitarian relief makes him college-girl catnip, and his good looks and hot body only sweeten the deal.

Eric doesn’t often visit, but after catching his wife with a younger man he doesn’t know where to turn for consolation. Stacy does her best to cheer him up, but no amount of daughterly compassion is going to heal his bruised ego. He needs a special woman to lick his wounds.

Too bad nobody warned Savannah that Eric would bring more baggage than she'd bargained for...

Excerpt:

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

“Yes you are,” Eric replied simply. But instead of pulling off his pajama pants and pulling on his jeans, he collapsed beside her on the couch. “Just give me five more minutes.”

She sighed and reached again for the remote, this time with more care. “See?” she said, turning down the volume. “As long as I don’t move too quickly, I’m fine. I’ll just put another round of ice on my ankle and in the morning I’ll be healed.”

Eric’s eyes popped wide open at the mention of ice. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.” Pressing both hands down on the couch, he pushed himself up and hobbled to the kitchen. He sighed as he opened the freezer. The cold seemed to revive him. He brought the tray out and snapped it back and forth before dumping the ice into a metal mixing bowl. Even before leaving the kitchen, he picked up one piece and traced it along the base of his jaw and down his neck. “That’s better,” he said. “Nothing like ice dripping down your neck to wake a guy up.”

“If you say so.” Savannah chuckled. “That’s never been my game.”

He brought the ice to the TV room and sat on the coffee table before placing the metal bowl on her ankle. She flinched, but she didn’t move her foot away. Anything so unnerving must be a help.

“How does that feel?” Eric teased.

“Like hell.”

He moved the bowl from her ankle and set it on top of a magazine. From it, he swiped a single cube. Savannah cringed as she watched it coming for her, but when the ice made contact with her skin, she was surprised it wasn’t painfully cold. If anything, it tickled.

“How about this?” Eric asked, tracing the cube around her slightly swollen ankle. “How does this feel?”

The ice melted quickly between his fingers and her flesh. Droplets of water trickled down her foot and dripped from her heel onto the throw pillow underneath.

“Good,” she said. To her surprise, it was true. “It feels really good, actually.”

“What if I do this?” Eric asked, picking up a fresh cube and tracing it up the inside of her calf. Shifting her robe aside, he circled it around her knee before drawing it slowing up her thigh. The cold made her tremble now. She felt its effects more between her legs than she had against her ankle. A whole line of water droplets tumbled down her inner thigh, soaking the terrycloth beneath her. She knew where he was going with this, and she wanted to show him she was on board.

Savannah untied her belt and let her robe fall open at the front. Her breasts were warm and soft with sleep. “Do my tits,” she bid. “With the ice. Make them hard.”

A churlish grin bled upon Eric’s pink lips. “You want me to?”

Buy your copy now from Amazon ebook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B1N1942J?tag=dondes-20
Hardcover: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B1B7CRB7?tag=dondes-20

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1147896?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=WVxwEAAAQBAJ
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/stacy-s-dad-has-got-it-going-on-3

Chapters Indigo: https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/stacys-dad-has-got-it/9781005478988-item.html

And here is the Universal Book Link for more retailers: http://books2read.com/StacysDad

#WeddingHeat Pretty Bride #Lesbian #Cousins

Where to begin, where to begin?  

Well, PRETTY BRIDE, which was formerly titled "Wedding Heat: Pretty Cousin" is now available.  I guess it's best to start with the basics.  

Pretty Bride is the fourth story in the Wedding Heat series, but it was actually the FIRST story that came to mind when I conceptualized this series.

Because... okay, well... a lot of people have crushes on their cousins.

Right?

I definitely have one cousin I was a little sweet on at one point in life--not that I would ever have acted on it, and she's straight anyway, but fantasy is a huge driving factor in erotica.  I wouldn't surrender to temptation the way Vanessa and Maggie, but I sure as hell enjoyed writing about it!

The last thing I want to mention before sharing the blurb and an excerpt from PRETTY BRIDE is that, because this title falls into the "pseudo-incest" category (the girls are not blood relatives), it will not be available from ALL the usual vendors.  Most e-tailers don't allow this sort of content on their sites.  You can check out a preliminary list at the end of this post.

Pretty Bride

Wedding Heat, Book 4

by Giselle Renarde

Forget the happy couple—it’s the guests that make this wedding sizzle!

Vanessa’s had a crush on her cousin Maggie since before she knew what love was. They were inseparable growing up—that is, until Vanessa came out as lesbian. That confession sparked a rift between the girls that stretched out more than ten years.

Two days before her wedding, Maggie meets up with Vanessa for the first time in years. Will Vanessa give in to her lust and try to seduce Maggie so close to the wedding? Or will Maggie give Vanessa no choice?

EXCERPT:

“I can’t.”

Vanessa spoke so softly she could barely hear her own voice.  Shaking her head, she let her gaze wander the length of Maggie’s naked flesh.  God, what a body!  Maggie’s thighs were like cream, two milky paths culminating in pinkness hidden beyond a trim strip of hair.

“I can’t, Mags, I just can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Maggie whined, reaching for the soap dish indented in the shower wall and pulling herself to standing. She opened the tiny bottle of shower gel and drizzled it across her breasts.  “You can’t wash me?  You can’t just wash me?”

The way Maggie said that word, wash, made it seem like not such a big deal.  Still, Vanessa fought with herself: should she let go and abandon her good sense, or obey moral law and fight her urges and Maggie’s advances?

Maggie didn’t give her much choice.  Grabbing Vanessa’s sopping shirtsleeves, the girl pulled her in for a kiss. She didn’t even see it coming.  Her mind was clouded, hazy, lost in the heady sensation of Maggie’s tongue whipping around her mouth.

Moaning, Maggie pressed her big breasts against Vanessa’s front.  They writhed together under the shower’s hot flow as the mango-scented body wash began to froth between them.  In the midst of their frenzy Vanessa felt the tiny bubbles working their way through her undershirt and popping against her nipples.  The sensation defied description.  All she wanted was more.

“You’re such a good kisser!” Maggie cried as Vanessa licked her wet neck.  “Oh god, that’s amazing!”

Vanessa hesitated for an instant, assuring herself that Maggie wasn’t really her cousin, and then ran her hands across the supple length of the girl’s waiting flesh, tracing the perimeter, exploring all the boundaries.  “I want to lick your pussy so bad, Mags.”

“Do it.”  Maggie’s voice was tight and high, like she was so desperate for this to happen she could barely speak.  “Do it now!” 

Wedding Heat: Pretty Cousin is available from...
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1143032?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=tH1rEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JWUY104?tag=dondes-20