Winner winner, chicken dinner

Confession: I’ve never been obsessed with winning. It might be that, as the chubby and awkward girl, I was often picked last for sporty type things. It might be because, even when I made the softball team in high school, we didn’t win a single game all season. Truly, with the exception of Jeopardy and Scrabble, I’m not competitive about much of anything.

Still. It’s fun to win. Yelling bingo at the American Legion when you take your mama out on a Friday night. Knowing the answer to final Jeopardy when your partner doesn’t, especially when she’s kicked your ass all night.

In that spirit, then, I shall give you the fun and fluffy blog post I promised, complete with your very own chance to win. First: a semi-absurd work story. Second: a book giveaway.

First, the work story. As many of you know, I work in higher ed. I’m an assistant dean in a business school. As such, I’m on lots of committees. Shortly after taking on the chair role on one of these committees, I successfully navigated a policy change despite opposition from a particularly obstructionist administrator. I was so impressed with myself, I arrived at our next meeting and opened with my (albeit very bad) rendition of DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win.” While thrilled with the result, my colleagues did not appreciate the pop culture reference. My attempt at being a badass was decidedly not a win.

If you ever need a chuckle, imagine me attempting to sing this to a bunch of white people in their fifties.

You’re welcome.

Now for the winning! The release of Built to Last is less than a week away (at least it is if you’re buying it from the BSB store, which you totally should). I’m giving away two copies–one ebook and one signed paperback. Want to win? Leave a comment here with your favorite win (or most hilarious fail). Enter by noon EST on April 4 (my birthday!) and I’ll pick two winners at random. Feel free to include a link to your own epic winning soundtrack!

Built To Last cover

One of These Nights, or Things I Learned while Listening to the Eagles

They say that all the stories have been told. For a writer–or reader for that matter–this is intrinsically depressing. Why do we even bother?

We bother because it’s not so much the story we’re after. It’s the telling. Now before you your get your knickers in a twist, hear me out.

When I say story, I mean the basic arc of a narrative. The archetype, if you will. Sure there are some crazy twists and new takes, but it’s pretty rare that something entirely new will pop onto the scene.

This isn’t a bad thing. Part of what makes stories so powerful is the fact that they resonate; familiarity is what makes that possible. But it’s also because, within the telling, there is still so much room for variation. Limitless possibilities, an infinite number of stories to be told. As a writer–and reader–of genre fiction (specifically romance), I find the whole thing reassuring. I know what’s coming, but I’m still surprised. It’s like having my cake and eating it to.

So, if you’re still with me, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with the Eagles. Well, I’ll tell you.

This weekend, as we so often do in the summer, A and I built a fire and poured some wine.


The sun goes down. The fire roars. If A has anything to say about it, the Yacht Rock station comes on. Although we are both children of the 80s, she has a 70s fixation. I make fun, but it’s pretty entertaining to watch her get down to Hall & Oates. Who am I kidding? I do, too. But I digress.


It’s at this point in the evening that the conversations get interesting.And by interesting, I mean seemingly philosophical, but borderline silly. The kind of conversation that comes after a third glass of Cabernet.

Case in point: “One of These Nights” comes on. Great song, right? I’m sipping my wine and singing along and I get to the part where Don Henly says, “I’ve been searching for the daughter of the devil himself / I’ve been searching for an angel in white / I’ve been waiting for a woman who’s a little of both.”  And it hits me. It’s just like when Ludacris says he wants “a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.” I share this revelation with A, who rolls her eyes but laughs heartily and refills my glass.

The moral of the story, other than me thinking I’m super clever? The stories may not be new, but the tellings sure are. And as a reader and a writer (and a casual listener to yacht rock and hip hop) that’s what makes it fun.

Out and Proud

It’s pride month, such an uplifting time of year. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve read quite a few coming out stories. Some have been funny, some sweet; some have been downright raw. There seems to be a common thread, though–hope. The luxury of hindsight helps, for sure, but it’s the spirit that counts. Even when things are hard, even when you think you might throw up just thinking about it, there is the hope that things will get better. They did, they do. If you’re questioning that right now, reach out to someone. We’ll listen.

All this has me thinking about my own experience. I was in my mid twenties when I started coming out to my mostly conservative, Catholic, Southern family. They were far away. It was complicated. The usual. But in the end, I did and I survived. Today I have a good relationship with most of them. It got better.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of taking a course with Minnie Bruce Pratt, legendary femme writer and activist. Out of that class came one version of my coming out story, inspired by the style of Aurora Levins Morales’s Remedios (which I highly recommend). Looking back, the writing feels a little rough, but it was the first time I wrote about coming out. It was also the first time I wrote about some of the tensions in my family, a topic that used to instill its own brand of panic in me. But I’ve learned a lot since then, and again I have the luxury of hindsight. I’ve come to appreciate, for example, that my Aunt Claire is fiercely protective of her sisters (my mother and her twin, my godmother), both of whom have schizophrenia. She also turned out to be one of my biggest champions and allies. I hope she knows how much I appreciate that, among other things.

The story was published in G.R.I.T.S. – Girls Raised In the South: An Anthology of Southern Queer Womyns’ Voices and Their Allies (2013, CreateSpace Independent Publishing). In the spirit of pride month, I thought I’d share it with you.


Roux makes things thick; it gives them flavor and body. Fat and flour stirred over heat for a little while or a long long time. Cajun roux is cooked dark—not caramel dark, not peanut butter dark—chocolate dark. It is a test of will as much of skill, waiting until the exact moment before flecks of black mean you have to start all over. It’s a culinary game of chicken, played in a cast iron pot with a wooden spoon in one hand and a beer in the other. It’s the beginning of countless recipes, written or otherwise: First, you make a roux…

The call comes at about nine in the evening. I pick up the land line in the kitchen; I think the call will be quick. I am mistaken. There are serious concerns. Aunt Claire wastes no time.

“You know your Mama and Nannie will go along with whatever you say. You and Michelle could be best friends who decide to live together for the rest of your lives. We had and aunt who did that and no one ever even talked about it.”

“There’s only one bed,” I say. “Omission is one thing. All-out lying is another. I don’t want to lie to them.”

“You have no idea how they are going to react. You know when your MaMaw died, your mom cried for weeks. And your Nannie, she didn’t cry at all and ended up in the hospital because of it. This could be just as traumatic for them.”

My stomach starts to twist over on itself. I feel like I need to sit down, but I’m stuck in the kitchen and there is nowhere to go. “I just, I think they will be okay. They’re going to be able to see that I’m happy. They’ll probably have questions. I printed out some PFLAG literature.”

Claire pounces on that. “I’ve read some of that. It’s very academic and I really don’t think it would help them. Look, are you prepared to deal with the consequences if your news causes one of them to have a psychotic break? Are you going to come home and deal with it if that happens?”

I’m pacing now. Back and forth, lining up my socked feet on the faux-brick linoleum of the floor. One-two-three-four steps toward the dining room. One-two-three-four steps toward the stove.

“I really hope it doesn’t come to that. But I assure the family that if things get really bad, then I will find a way to come home and help. Yes, I assume responsibility for that. I do care about them, you know. I don’t want them to be left out of a giant part of my life for the rest of their lives. And I don’t want them to find out later and feel like I lied to them. What if we decide to have children? I have to do this.”

Claire sighs.

“I’ll call you once they’re here. I know you’re trying to do what’s best for them. So am I.”


Nannie and I are sitting at the kitchen table. It’s a little after 9:00, so Mama won’t be up for at least another couple of hours. We’re playing a round of kalukah—we each have a hand of fifteen cards and a little dish of nickels and pennies. The pot is up to sixty cents, a lot for just two people playing.

Nannie takes the three of hearts that I discard and goes down. She plays four sets, leaving only three cards in her hand. If she pulls the right card, she’ll go out. I’m only one card from getting kalukah, but I don’t want to get caught and have to pay her a quarter.

“You’re scaring me down,” I say with a laugh.

Nannie doesn’t laugh. She adjusts her glasses, rubs her nose, touches her short gray hair. She’s been fidgety ever since they put her on Seroquel. I know lithium has more dangerous side effects, but the twitching is hard to watch.

“So, Dawn, do you um…” Glasses, hair, nose. “Do you and Michelle do things in bed that people would call, um, lesbian?”

And here it is. Mama and Nannie said little last night when I told them. They didn’t seem upset, and the little they did say was positive—supportive even—so I was feeling cautiously optimistic. This could really go either way.

“We…” Fuck. What do I say? “We love each other very much and we’re very committed to each other and plan to be together, so yes. Yes, our relationship is physical that way.”

Wait. Wait. Wait. I’m holding my breath.

“Okay, shugah, I just wanted to know.”

Nannie takes the queen of clubs and sets down queen-king-ace. It’s a good thing I went down when I did; I only owe her for the three cards I’m still holding. I give her three pennies and add a nickel to the pot for the next hand. I pick up all of the cards and start to shuffle them. It’s my deal.