kate rothwell

Her baby was gone. She woke up alone, in the dark, and reached for the comforting, sleeping shape of her baby but it was gone.  She wanted to cry out but something had been jammed down her throat, cold and plastic. A tube, right, right …this was the hospital. They did that in hospitals, but she had to talk, to tell someone, the baby was more important than comfort. She reached for her face and the tube blocking her throat.   Pain then more tubes moved with her hand. Awful pinching, and pulling tubes she plucked at them. The baby—she could hear it crying.  Help me. The scream didn’t come to her mouth. She wasn’t strong enough to get the wretched thing from her throat which ached with plastic and tears. She passed out.  When she woke, she didn’t remember the baby immediately and when she did she wondered how she could have forgotten. Perhaps there’d been drugs. Had they moved her from a place she’d been comfortable, hoping she’d forget. Why was she...

I'm listening to Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Lost Prince and it's a funky book that didn't age well, not like her other books. Written just before WW1 it has a strange kind of worshipful attitude about righteous war and royal blood. There's a whacko religious feel to it, pseudo-zen stuff. Also odd? There is no mention of the two kids' mothers. Not so much as A  Word. These two kids are only products of their fathers....and the Princely One is exactly image of his father who's the exact image of an ancestor who died 500 years earlier. I can tell she was writing for boys who have no interest in female events but still, you'd think there'd be a passing remark, like 'golly, wish your mom could see you now!' And the only attractive female in it is an evil spy. I'm not at the end so maybe a woman will jump up and say, "yo, hey! Here I am, your mother whom you've never even given a passing thought to!" There's a homoer...

I was shoveling snow and the stranger, a big guy, tapped me on the shoulder and scared the crap out of me. I was out of breath and hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings. "Give me that shovel," he demanded. I tried to argue with him, but no. "Humor me.  No way I can stand by and watch you do that." He grabbed the shovel--I think he pulled it from my hands--and finished uncovering our walk, the sidewalk in front of the house, and the car. It took a while because there was a lot of snow. When he was done, he handed back the shovel and walked off without another word. I was nine months pregnant at the time and trying to get that baby out. I felt was a total hormonal mess of resentment and gratitude. I never saw him again.

back to promo. And look! You can win prizes. From the GeminiGirls: 3 days of our favourite M/M Romance authors, with reviews, interviews and of course, giveaways. Bonnie's interview! Summer speaks!

I realized today why I don't blog here--nothing to do with the fact that no one comments. I never did this blog for the comments...I usually did it to avoid work or to air my opinions. I'm tarred of opinions. I'm tarred of comments and people being tarred of things, sick and tarred. Tarred, tarred, tarred. Internet burnout. That includes my own opinions, as it turns out. I keep starting to write things and then stop because hey If I don't care what I think, why would anyone else? spoiler: no one, except molly the dog who waggles her big ears and stares deep into my eyes every time I say a word. And that's freaky after a while. My response isn't 11 on the  scale of screamingly negative, more meh... Definitely not HEY NO BLEH. because HEY NO BLEH shows up on the comment thread on any article in any part of the internet and I wish to avoid that. HEY NO BLEH is a kick or a slap because people are wrong or you think they're wrong or they are mean or they ...

you know the ones who only use their blog to do promo? I didn't want to be one of those people. At the moment I am. Here's an article I wrote. Go comment. Thank you.  Please, please I'm feeling slightly desperate about it, of course. Most promo puts me in a fingers trembling, head sweating sort of a mood. It's probably training. But the fact is so many promotional efforts do not work and they don't work right out in public. Of course the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Q** Public are watching porny fun and not paying attention should made the whole thing less painful, because it's a nice quiet failure. Somehow that never makes one feel better. ** Stands for Quigley. I'm not sure why or how, but that's what they said.