Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Happy New Year...

Originally uploaded by adriannadane
"Happy New Year...for lord sake," she snapped. That made the hundredth time if not more that she had to wish someone a happy new year.

"Happy, happy, happy," she muttered as she turned back to her computer and resumed pounding at the keys.

New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, New Year's Resolutions! She was sick to death of talking about the new year. What's so good about the beginning of another year? She'd just like to know. New taxes, new bills, same old job, no raise. Just what was so great anyway? She'd broken all her resolutions, spent New Year's Eve at home alone, burned the ham on New Year's day--give me a break.

She kept on typing, stopping and starting again as she made mistake after mistake, muttering to herself.

"What am I doing here?" It wasn't the first time she'd asked herself that question. "No one appreciates me. I'm just taken for granted by everyone. Eliie will do this, Ellie will do that--for God's sake doesn't anyone else exist in this office?" Talk about feeling sorry for herself.

"Hey, Ellie," Marvin the mail guy rushed up to her desk. "I'm really sorry. This envelope was for you and it got stuck under a shelf in the mailroom." He handed her the envelope.

As she took it, she muttered thanks, sort of absentmindedly. Who could it be from? She didn't recognize the handwriting. Well, the only way to find out was to open it.

She picked up her letter opened and ran it along the sealed flap of the envelope. It was a card. It said, "Happy New Year from the whole gang." It was signed by everyone on the floor. It also contained a gift certificate for her favorite restaurant. And it said, "Take a break on us--you deserve it!"

Slowly a smile spread across her face and the dark cloud that seemed to be surrounding her, lifted. Well, maybe the new year wouldn't be so bad after all.

January 7, 1991

Monday, December 22, 2008

Winter's Day

Originally uploaded by adriannadane
I wrote this poem for my children, who are all now adults, on a very snowy afternoon.

Winter's Day

Snowflakes in the air today,
falling, calling me out to play.

Cold and white and wet and clean,
Shapes are many, all unseen.

Calling to me from the sky,
"Come join us, we'll pile high."

Bundled warm I rush outside,
Towing a sled that I can ride.

Time for snowmen the flakes do say,
Or angels maybe to brighten this day.

Shoveling walks for passersby,
Jumping into those flakes that are piled high.

And when the sun it settles down,
Home is where I'm finally bound.

To sip hot chocolate and warm my toes,
And think of snowmen as this day comes to a close.

January 6, 1991

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Her Own Traditions

Christmas normally meant rushing around to do last minute shopping, helping to prepare for Christmas dinner and exhaustion complete at the end.

This year would be different though. Miranda wasn't planning to go home this year. It seemed odd somehow--all those family traditions--not to be celebrated this year. She felt a bit sacraligious somehow when she'd informed her mother she wouldn't be home this year--how could she break tradition?

But looking back, Miranda was glad she had done it. The rushing, all the excitement, all the people. She needed a break. It had been a tough year for Miranda. She'd been sick a lot and her body was telling her to ease off. That was what really led to the big decision not to go home for Christmas.

Tradition--what was it really? But something started at one point for whatever reason and repeated year after year until it becomes a natural habit of things--and difficult. It wasn't that old traditions were bad, but for her, right now, she needed something different. Maybe just a time reassess.

This year she would be starting her own tradition. Quiet time for herself. How strange to think about all these years, that if she broke "tradition" a big pit would open and swallow her up. It didn't happen though. Her mother had understood--sort of. But at any rate here she was now curled up on the sofa, engulfed in a multicolored afghan blanket and Buttons, her calico cat, curled up in her lap fast asleep.

It had been nice attending Mass and being able to savor the full meaning of Christmas, enjoying each moment and able to stop and appreciate the peace and beauty of the night.

Miranda though she would hate staying at home, being by herself, and missing her famiily. But even though she missed the boisterous family cheer, she enjoyed the peace and solitude.

She was older, no longer the child of her parents' traditions, but an adult ready to make her own way. How strange that she finally felt old enough to make these decisions. Had the umbilical cord finally been cut or had it only been weakened? That was yet to be seen. Miranda only knew she would savor this moment for the here and now.

So she took a sip of her hot chocolate and picked up the book she bought just to read on this special night -- Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," and carols softly playing in the background. The small table lamp the only light to illuminate the room. Maybe next year she would go back to the traditions of her parents and her childhood, but for now, this was what was right for her.

January 7, 1992


If Miranda's story had been written today, she'd be reading "A Christmas Carol," on her ebook reader, and connecting with her family by webcam Christmas morning.

An interesting thought as to how the technological changes in just a few years can tweak our family traditions to fit our lifestyle and our personal needs. :-)

With much love and peace,


Saturday, December 20, 2008

Thoughts To Music

Originally uploaded by adriannadane
Christmases long ago were a simpler time.
Pleasures plainer...

Faith of Our Fathers reminds me of Thanksgiving.

I see glitters of silver and gold,
the pomp and circumstance of kingdoms.
A royal walk and processions of many,
a formal affair, powdered hair.
Silks and satins in muted colors and whisperings of luxurious cloth...

Then I roam amongst the middle class,
with warmth of fires, maybe a Charles Dickens classic.
The laughter abounds in the homes filled with warmth.
A skip and a hop, a smile with a twinkle, a flirtatious glance from
behind elegantly painted fans.

A room that could encompass a country with its size,
as the crowded room dances with a measured step,
a curtsy here, a bow there.

And now in the drawing room we sit and listen to a quiet concert
of one.
A melancholy moment, elegant and pure,
as the music captures and enraptures the room.

Away to the manager as a child is born.
More simple and purely rapturous it cannot be.
To the child that waits as the kings attend and the people do
come in processions and lines,
shepherds, kings, and all that do know.
As the angels watch over the manager below,
and here is the child of Mary...

The present emerges with visions of stores and snow-covered streets.
A rock opera of the present--42nd Street--New York--
a commercial production with jazz as its beat.
The dancers I see all aglitter on stage as they move and retreat.
Dashing with presents here and there, back and forth.
Wild is the beat as only the present can bring.

A modernist movement not to be outdone by the Christmas
production next door.
The present's interpretation of a holiday celebration.

And now we move on into a home of joy.
Still the present to be sure--but to a quieter side of of our nature.
A tree stands tall with the twinkling of lights, a fire in the fireplace.
Side by side we watch as the virgin snow falls to blanket the earth.
Children asleep as we enter the quietest and most profoundly peaceful moment of the year.
No other is like it, no other to compare,
To this moment of oneness with past, present, and future
Christmas Eve--the most holiest of nights.

December, 1996

Friday, December 19, 2008


Originally uploaded by adriannadane

Cold that is chilling, biting, killing,
Ice that is clear and crisp and brittle.
Sky not blue but mirrors winter,
No sun to warm the frigid earth.

Mind not thinking, numb and unfeeling.
Spring come soon to melt this frost.
Coldly winter, solid forever,
Ice unmoving, hotly cold.

Touch the ice with fingers of heat.
Away they come, slick, dripping water,
Red from cold, shiny wet.

Prints remain on ice forever,
Tracts made by the fingers of heat.
Spring come soon to melt these wonders,
Terrified thoughts encased in ice.

Sleep we do until the warming.
Not moving, unthinking, captured beneath solid ice.


February, 1994

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Winter in Washington

Originally uploaded by adriannadane
Yes, we have snow this year. I really like snow at Christmas. I was out this morning and I still say, Christmas snow--holiday weather feels different than it does in January and February. It's brisk and pretty and exciting. It sparkles, it's soft and puffy and glimmers with that special sheen of magic.

The sky is silvery and silent. Like it's waiting, as we all are--standing still, hovering, watching and waiting.

Here in Washington, I expect the snow won't last long. I remember New York winters and Montana winters, the snow likes to linger. It's rather mulish like that.

So I hurry out to take the pictures I can before it all disappears. And I thought I'd share.


Wednesday, December 17, 2008

The Age of Sexy Maturity

I so often hear people say, "I'm working toward retirement, but I'm just marking time. I hate this job." I don't get it. Why do we want to rush our lives? Is it the money? Where's the quality of life in that statement?

I'll admit I worked as a legal secretary in order to help support the family and maintain life insurance for the children. I didn't hate what I did--I liked it. It wasn't my passion like writing is, but it was a good profession and I felt challenged in what I did. You work for attorneys and see if you aren't challenged.

But in my spare time I was writing, learning how to work with stained glass, writing, taking genealogy courses, writing, taking community courses in Italian and Russian, writing... I wasn't waiting for "some day." Maybe because my father had his first stroke at thirty-eight, his second at forty-two, and he died at fifty-two, it gave me a different perspective about time and life. He had been a carpenter, an avid fisherman, a hunter, and he liked painting and going to the horse races in his spare time. He spent his last ten years in a wheel chair.

I guess it's all in perspective and what we hope to achieve in life. What are our dreams and aspirations? And we're all different. I have to say, I've always written--finding scattered moments here and there between job and kids and husband and activities. Often at activities--soccer games, hockey games. No moment in life should be wasted--it's all too precious.

Then there's that thing called "midlife crisis." What is that? He drives a sports car, she maybe learns to play tennis or get a different look. The kids are grown and they now have money for the fun stuff. That's "midlife crisis?" What is there that says crisis? Spare me. Wait till you get there. You're free and you're going to make the most of it. I was once told that a woman my age shouldn't wear long hair. Oh, but it looks okay on you. What? Give me a break. Since when. Whatever. My pleasure, your loss.

I was just reading an article in Out Magazine about Frank Langella. Remember, sexy Dracula? Oh, yum. I digress.

Anyway. He puts it probably better than I can.
I don't understand the notion of retirement. Getting older is the beginning of a whole different delicious pleasure.

Or adventure. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. The golden years--the years of delicious pleasure. Kind of like before the kids--but aged with splendid maturity. On the road to new adventures. Don't read that "maturity" word the wrong way.

Picture courtesy of Flickr

This all brings to mind the poem I read some years back (and ended up purchasing the book back when I was in my early thirties), by Jenny Joseph. Warning: When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple. I have always loved that poem.

Warning: When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Purchase the book at:

So, I'm practicing now because, goodness, I wouldn't want to shock anyone. My kids already know I'm out there. So, midlife crisis, here I am. We need new definitions for "retirement," "golden years," and "midlife crisis." The purple years, maybe?

Courtesy of Flickr

We're finishing up one year and moving into a new one. Start fresh.

Help me here. What would you call it?


Monday, December 15, 2008

The Messenger Now Available! (Contemporary Gay Erotic Romance)

Just in time for the holidays my latest release is now available from Loose Id.

Title: The Messenger
Author: Adrianna Dane
Publisher: Loose Id
ISBN: 978-1-59632-808-2
Purchase Link: http://www.loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=824
Author Website: http://www.adriannadane.com
Genres: Gay Erotic Contemporary Romantic Suspense
Length: Novella


Dillon Lloyd has had the hots for his attractive neighbor, Vance Keith, for quite some time. He's spent many nights in voyeuristic pleasure while the gorgeous man next door has sex with his current male lover in varied and delicious ways. Even so, Dillon has never entertained the idea of actually asking Vance out on a date. For one thing, Vance is a client of Dillon's delivery business. And business and pleasure should never mix.

All that changes when a package -- a gift that Vance had sent to his most recent lover -- turns up undeliverable. Dillon takes a chance and decides to return the package to Vance himself in hopes that maybe a miracle of the season will happen for him.

When Vance and Dillon meet in person the sparks ignite. And when Vance invites Dillon into his apartment on this icy winter night, though the weather outside is frightful, the heat between them is more than delightful. Their blistering passion sets a torch to the holiday festivities offering a bounty of unexpected gifts.

But things in Vance's past jealously battle for his future happiness and won't stop at murder to win.


He nodded toward the window. "I live over there. See that window? That’s my apartment."

"You mean, right across from my place?"

Dillon held his breath as he turned to look at Vance. They stood so close, shoulders brushing. He could swear he felt the man’s intense heat through the barrier of their clothes. Would he understand what Dillon was trying to tell him? Would he realize the curtains on Dillon’s windows were wide open. Just like in his apartment. And that he could see in quite clearly?

And if he did realize, would he throw Dillon out of his apartment without a second thought?

"You knew. You saw us."

Dillon couldn’t detect anger in his voice. There was surprise, maybe curiosity.

"Yes. You’re both very attractive." He swallowed hard. "Very…passionate." He looked straight into Vance’s eyes. "I’ll admit I was envious."

"You aren’t involved in a relationship?"

Vance didn’t move away, didn’t step back. In fact, it seemed to Dillon that in some infinitesimal way they came closer together. And yet, he doubted that either of them had moved an inch. The temperature in the room suddenly jacked up to sweltering.

"No. I’m not. There hasn’t been time. I’ve been too busy building my business. Felice keeps telling me I need a man in my life."


"My day dispatcher. She’s been with me since we opened our doors. She gets a little familiar sometimes. And pushy."

"Longtime employees do tend to get that family edge, don’t they?"

"Yeah, I guess so. She tells me I need a keeper." Dillon’s attention fastened on Vance’s mouth. So very tempting. He wanted to feel Vance’s lips against his own. To taste him. Would he taste like brandy? Like the hot blaze of the fire in the fireplace?

"You liked watching us." It wasn’t a question. Vance’s eyes seemed to dilate and turn darker, like the sky just after sundown. His voice deepened.

"Yeah, I did."

Slowly, Vance turned to look out the window and Dillon studied his attractive profile. Shadowed jaw this late in the day, hollowed cheeks, patrician nose, deep-set eyes. Not perfect, not airbrushed, but quite striking.

"Did you jerk off?" The question caught Dillon by surprise. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did.

"I…" Did he dare tell him the truth? "Yeah, I did." He felt the heat flare into his face.

"I wish I’d known you were there…watching us."

"I’m sorry."

Vance looked at him. Still, no anger, but Dillon did sense lust. "I’m not heart-whole, Dillon. I find you very…desirable tonight, but I haven’t forgotten Jake. I’m not sure I could give you what you’re looking for."

"I don’t know what I’m looking for myself. But I had to come here, you know? I had to meet you…to see…" His voice trailed off. Just one kiss. Just one, just to taste him. It didn’t have to be forever. But the yearning had been building for so very long. He had to quench the need.

Without a second thought he leaned forward, cupped Vance’s head, and pressed his lips to the object of his affection. Vance didn’t pull away and Dillon deepened the kiss. Tasted the brandy and coffee, and warmth and intimacy. A tinge of hesitation, a huge helping of lust.

Read another excerpt: http://www.adriannadane.com/themessenger.html

"Passionate stories with adventurous heart"

Monday, December 08, 2008

What Do You Think?

Currently, I'm reading "The Power of the Dark Side" by Pamela Jaye Smith. I've just come across this:

"Science now proves a common observation: females choose to sex-mate with rugged alpha males and to home-make with softer, nurturing males."

What do you think about that statement?

Or, how about this?

"...studies show married men are healthier and happier than single men. It's the opposite for women."


I'm not saying they're true statements, just curious what you think. Any thoughts?