Package for You

I’ve had a lot of odd jobs, and some of them were odder than others. I went through high school with no career ambition beyond writing, no desire to attend university (an act of rebellion against my parents, then university students, enroute to earning their PhDs and distinguished academic careers), and no concerns about job skills. After all, in my last two years of high school I worked two part-time jobs, about 30 hours a week, and made more money than I knew what to do with. Which is to say I bought the best music system I ever owned.

It didn’t take long for me to realize I needed some job skills, so I signed up for a typing course, reasoning that skill could also help with writing. I pawned the music system to pay the rent and buy groceries, and started attending university part-time for job skills and help with writing. Meanwhile, I worked whatever jobs I could get, temping for both office and blue-collar agencies when I could not find permanent jobs.

Given that I pursued a degree in English literature, it’s fair to say the degree helped more with writing than job skills. Supposedly any degree helps with employment, and after five years with one employer they were happy to give me four months unpaid leave to finish my degree. They told me they supported life-long learning. When I returned to the office, newly credentialed, I was demoted two job levels, with the equivalent salary reduction. It turned out my employer was only willing to hold a job, not the job I had before, let alone consider a promotion.

Between no credentials and credentials not recognized, work has sometimes been a challenge. In December of 1988, I was driving passenger vans for a transportation company, taking children to and from schools in situations where the school bus was not appropriate, such as ferrying children from women’s shelters to their schools. The pay was low, the hours limited, the children difficult (understandably so), and there was no work over the Christmas school vacation, so I jumped at the chance to supplement my income by delivering packages for the post office.

Box wrapped with paper and string.

Most jobs where I’ve dealt with the public have involved people who have purchased something – their food, their rollercoaster ride, their delivery to the airport – and they often believed their status as a paying customer, and mine as a low paid employee, entitled them to be demanding about the ingredients, the preferred seat, the speed of my driving. Delivering Christmas parcels was delightfully different. People were glad to see me, and grateful for the service. Sometimes the package was a complete, and happy, surprise. Other times it was expected, even late, but they were still happy it arrived. And I was gone before there was any disappointment over the contents.

It’s tempting to draw some sappy conclusion about the joy of the holidays being found by delivering packages, or receiving them, or perhaps about how everyone is more cheerful at Christmas, but I know from other jobs that everyone is not more cheerful at Christmas. It’s just nice to deliver and receive packages any time – or at least delivery was years ago, when the job involved a company vehicle and an hourly rate, even if it was minimum wage. I’m aware that many folks delivering packages these days do so under less fortunate conditions.

As with every job I’ve had, odd or otherwise, from Christmas package delivery I learned tidbits of information that I find interesting and are fodder for inclusion in stories. In addition to seeing the happiness of the recipients, I learned that a surprising number of people answer the door wearing very little. Risking the sin of vanity, I was younger and fitter then. And to put that in perspective, the surprising number was something like two men and three women out of several hundred people. Also, the promised plain brown wrapper on sex toys doesn’t fool anyone. Incidentally, there was no correlation between state of dress and package, and as a package delivery person my approach to both the packages and the customers was strictly professional.

The following Christmas I was working at a better, full-time job, and I was lucky in my employment for several years after that. I wasn’t odd-jobbing over the Christmas holidays again until about five years ago. I was serving food and distributing party favours at a large New Year’s Eve bash. I’ve never seen so many people so desperately trying to convince themselves they are having fun. It was grim. At least this year they’ll have to stay home. If they’re lucky, someone will deliver a package to them.

In Defence of Social Media

I’ve been on Facebook for over ten years, and I am active on Twitter, Instagram, Library Thing, and GoodReads. I’ve dabbled with YouTube, checked out Tumblr, and even this blog is a form of social media. Time being limited, I have not explored other and newer options for being social online, and I am by no stretch an influencer, but I’m a regular user of some social media.

Now and then, friends, acquaintances, or some celebrity announce their departure from social media, citing concerns with the companies, loss of privacy, advertising, and disturbing material. Facebook is currently in the news for the prevalence of hate speech on the platform, and facing an ad boycott. The concerns about social media are valid, but social media is not without benefits, especially for more introverted persons such as myself.

My parents were immigrants, and our family moved several times. My second dad has roots in one province, but had already moved cross-country when he joined the family, and the family continued moving. Once on my own, I kept moving, for various reasons. I don’t have a home town, I’m not sure where I grew up (assuming I have), and the nine years I have now lived in Halifax (including Dartmouth) is the longest I have lived anywhere. Social media has allowed me to find and stay in touch with friends from previous cities, and helped me meet people in new cities.

Social media also helps me avoid the phone. I rarely feel comfortable phoning someone to ask how they are doing and find out what’s new. Social media lets me learn how they are doing without bothering them. This has been particularly appreciated during the pandemic.

And yes, the likes and other responses to things I post feel good. Maybe that indicates low self-esteem, but maybe that’s because I’m a writer, and I like to know that people are reading what I write. If your sense of purpose is to entertain and instruct with stories, being read confirms you are on track. It’s not just writers that seek validation – so do DJs, when they ask people to phone in, and actors and comics love getting responses from an audience. Positive responses are better than negative ones, but “any stroke is better than no stroke at all.”

Long before social media, I wrote a few stories for fanzines. (I’ve noticed my romance novel drafts play with the same themes I worked with decades ago.) I also contributed to an Amateur Press Association (APA). APAs are basically blogging in paper form, and date back to the 1840s. My “blog” back then (35 years ago, not the 1840s) was called “By Candlelight,” though I cannot remember why. Speaking of ancient history, in the 1980s I started communicating online using bulletin board systems, and joined CompuServe, which was essentially the same as Facebook. Over decades of moves and life events, sharing and communicating online has been important to me.

Social media interaction does not need to be profound. Some nights when I’ve been too stressed to sleep, I play word games with strangers for hours. That simple anonymous human connection can be intensely valuable.

Facebook may go the way of CompuServe, but if it does, I’m sure something else will take its place. People are social creatures, even if they are introverted, and social media, especially for the introverted, is a way to be social. Yes, large companies with questionable ethics profit from that, but small businesses and independent artists find audiences and make sales too, and yes, there is disturbing material shared, but there is positive and uplifting material shared too.

My self-esteem is strong enough that I probably won’t check the stats for this page, or worry about likes, but if you think I’ve said some interesting, or you agree, I’ll appreciate any likes or comments. Just don’t ask to phone me so we can chat about it.

Sandcastle Rock Beach – Chapter 12

Completed a style edit, and now working on a grammar edit. Progress is slow, and I’m blaming the pandemic for new distractions. However, making progress. I haven’t done the grammar edit on this chapter yet, but sharing it anyway. This is first part of chapter 12, and takes place the morning after the road to the campground, and Darwin’s tent, were washed away. Comments appreciated.

Darwin woke with the sun warming his face. He opened his eyes, registered that he was in Marianna’s spare bedroom and the sun was shining, and closed his eyes again. This was much more comfortable than the previous night in the truck, and the night before in the tent. The cotton flannel sheets were soft and smelled of salt. The house was quiet, and he could hear the waves through the open window. It was the same sound he had fallen asleep to last night.

Last night he’d kissed Marianna. He still was not sure why. No, he knew why – he was attracted to her. She was smart, hardworking, tough, and beautiful. But she lived 1400 km from Toronto, in the middle of nowhere, and now was not a good time to start a relationship. Especially with someone he planned to steal land from. No, it wasn’t stealing, he reminded himself. It was business. She knew the terms, she’d signed the document. And this was the deal that would secure his future.

He’d grown up in a house where the mice and rats scampered through gaps in the stone basement walls. His sister probably still lived in a house like that. His first apartment in Toronto had mice running from one radiator to the next. It wasn’t the specks of mouse shit on the counters, annoying as it was, or the need to keep all food in rodent-proof containers, that made mice annoying. It was what the poverty they reminded you of. Being too poor to fix your house, or being too tired from working long hours to fix your house, or not owning the property to fix, and knowing that you might spend money on it and be moving out a month later. Money was security.

He thought of his condo, peaceful and rodent free. He could leave a chocolate bar on the counter, half-eaten, and it would be untouched the next day. This was the happiness money bought. Carla had liked the condo, and loved the view of Lake Ontario, visible in a gap between the waterfront towers. He wondered what Marianna would think of that view, compared to her property. He imagined showing his place to her. Would she appreciate the double size shower and the soaker tub? He closed his eyes and imagined her there. Relaxing in a bubble bath. He’d come in, and she’d put down her book. He’d offer to wash her back. She’d sit up, her breasts emerging from the bubbles, and as he stroked her back with the cloth he’d lean down and kiss the top of her breasts…. Damn morning wood, he thought, and threw off the covers. His attempt to cool his feelings with chilly air failed in the warmth of the room. Why was his first kiss with Marianna – his only kiss, not his first – more comfortable and yet more exciting than kissing Carla, even after all their time together? That thought was enough to distract him.

He put on the baggy sweatpants and tight shirt from yesterday, padded to his door, and opened it. He could hear Marianna in the kitchen, calling Cerebus for breakfast. Marianna’s bedroom door was closed. He resisted the temptation to look into her bedroom, and stepped through the landing’s open door to the bathroom. She’d filled the jug of water on the counter for hand washing and toothbrushing, and added another note to the tips and reminders from last night. This one invited him to shave in the kitchen if he wanted hot water. He brushed his teeth, then picked up a towel and cloth. She’d also left out a couple of disposable razors and a bar of shaving soap. Always thoughtful.

As he came down the stairs the temperature increased. In the kitchen, something sweet was cooking on the stove, and cool warm air breezed through an open window. Marianna was setting the table, for two, he noticed, unsure how he felt about that.

“Good morning, Darwin. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes, thanks. And you?”

“Apart from letting Cerebus out to pee at two in the morning, yes. He didn’t wake you with his barking?”

Darwin shook his head. “You’re sure you don’t mind me shaving at the kitchen sink?”

“As long as you clean up after yourself.” She poured steaming water from a pot on the stove into a bowl, and set it beside the counter. “The first cupboard on the left has a mirror inside.”

Darwin opened the cupboard. “All mod cons.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Darwin shaved, deciding he did not want to ask what that meant. In the mirror he watched Marianna move about the kitchen, then position herself at the stove.

“Whatever you’re making smells good.”

“Thanks. Just oatmeal. But I’m heating some maple syrup to go with it. Also boiling some eggs for our hike.”

Her hips were swaying as she stirred the pot. Darwin shifted the cupboard door, so the mirror no longer reflected her. “Our hike?”

“I started the generator earlier and was on my radio. The storm was nasty all over the island. Lots of power lines down, and several road washouts. A couple of motels flooded, and the boardwalk is damaged in Sydney. It will be some time before the road out here is repaired – maybe a week.”

“A week? With no power?” Darwin finished his ablutions and came over to the stove. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got the generator, I can run my laptop on solar, I’ll have internet once they get the cell tower fixed, which could be before or after the road, I’ve got the woodstove for heat and cooking, and I’ve got food. I wouldn’t survive winter here if I couldn’t go a week on my own. Put that on the table, please, and take a seat.” She indicated a small pot. “We just need to get you home.”

“Right. I’m stranded here.”

Marianna brought the pot of oatmeal to the table and spooned some into the bowl in front of Darwin.

“Don’t panic, city boy.” He caught her grin.” One of the guys from Bay St. Lawrence can get you out by boat. Say when.”

“That’s good, thanks.” Carla had never cooked breakfast for him, but then he’d never stayed for breakfast. She spooned oatmeal into her bowl, took the pot to the sink, and came back to the table. He waited until she had poured some maple syrup, then poured some on his. “This is superb.” He’d had maple syrup flavoured instant oatmeal, but this, cooked in a pot and with real maple syrup, tasted so much better it was like a different meal.

“Thanks. But no one can come today – tomorrow at the earliest. They’ve got cleanup there too. It’ll be few days before anyone could drive you into Baddeck or Sydney.”

“Can’t I rent a car, or get the bus, from the village?”

“No. Not anywhere around here. Someone might be able to put you up in there, but Mike said you’re better to stay here if I’ve got room.”

She took a spoonful of oatmeal, swallowed, and continued. “Meanwhile, you’ve been here two and half days, two of which have been heavy rain, and had all your stuff washed away in a flood. I hate to see what the online review will look like. It’s a gorgeous day today, and one attraction of this campground is the hike up the mountain behind us. For you, guided, lunch included, just to make it more attractive.”

“Your company is more than sufficiently attractive without food and guiding. But the exercise will help take my mind off other things we could do to pass the time.” He shouldn’t be flirting with her, he thought, but he liked her plan to spend the day together.

Marianna blushed. “Darwin, you are a great kisser. But as I said last night, it was just a kiss. It’s not going to lead to anything. I’m not interested in a relationship, and even if I was, you’ll be heading back to your downtown Toronto office soon enough. Let’s keep things as friends. Okay?” She held out her hand.

Darwin was about to say he’d just been kidding, but he hadn’t and she knew it, and she was right. He shook her hand.

“Agreed Ms… I don’t know you last name. Agreed, Marianna.”

“It’s Beecker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Beecker.” Darwin offered his hand again.

Marianna swatted it away. “Marianna, please.”

Pondering the Pandemic

So far, the COVID-19 pandemic has had little impact on my daily routine. I’ve worked from home for years, and my day job continues unchanged, as does my work as a freelance editor. I’m preparing a journal article for publication, and the journal contacted me three times in the past two weeks to remind me that the deadline for requested reference formattings had not changed.

Social media is full of suggestions for things I can do at home or online. I’m happy not to have the time to take advantage of these. I’ve had precarious employment often enough to be grateful for good work at any time, and especially now. I spend most of the day in my room, at my computer, as usual. The only thing I miss is almost daily trips to a food court or coffee shop for dedicated creative writing time, but I’d been trying to reduce that anyway (the going out, not the writing).

Photo of typewriter with sheet of paper in it. "Pondering the Pandemic has been typed on the paper."
Testing backup blogging.

Movies about a disease sweeping through the population feature cinematic demises – people stricken and collapsing in the street. Science-fiction stories promise mass chaos and/or orgies. Instead, we have a disease that spreads silently, appears at first not much different than a cold, and results in people dying in hospitals. People are staying at home, largely following public health department guidelines when venturing out, and generally aware that mass activities of any kind are a bad idea. It’s easy to underestimate how serious this is.

It will be weeks or months before we know the full extent of this disease, but preventive steps are necessary now. Hopefully the steps taken and preparations are sufficient that governments are accused of over-reacting, though thousands have already died, and the numbers may be under-reporting. As for the long-term impact, some are predicting a return to business as usual, while others are suggesting we may see permanent changes in how governments and society operate. My guess is that this will be like the oil price hikes in the early 1970s. At first, there will be support for better public and social health, just as there was a interest in reducing energy use in the 1970s. And after a decade, people will have forgotten what they were concerned about, and vote for anyone who promises lowers taxes and fewer regulations.

Meanwhile, since current events have dated my contemporary romance work-in-progress, I may have to give a specific date setting of a few years ago, to make clear it describes life before COVID-19. How can I think of writing at a time like this? It’s not easy, but the world still needs positive stories – and writing gives me something do beside read the news and worry.

Sandcastle Rock Beach – Chapter 4

Revisions are never-ending. Since I posted Chapter 1, I’ve added over three thousand words while making plot and character fixes. Now I’m working on style, replacing passive verbs and reducing wordiness. It’s a slow process, but the story is improving, if I do say so myself.

This is short chapter, taking place at the end of the first day, after my couple have had some close time together. It is intended as a break between two longer and more dramatic chapters. Comments appreciated.

Marianna sat at her desk, waiting for the slow internet connection to retrieve email. He had seemed interested. She’d noticed his pupils enlarging as he spoke to her in the kitchen, and she’d caught him checking her out more than once, his eyes wandering over her body. She’d had a few good looks herself. But after the dishes were done, he had turned down her invitation to stay for a drink, claiming fatigue. She reminded him that WiFi was only available by the house, and added that it might be slow if he was planning to facetime a sweetheart back in Toronto. It worked. He mentioned that he’d broken up with his girlfriend. Before she could offer sympathy, he added that it had been almost a year ago. So, he was straight and single, though if he wasn’t over someone from a year ago, maybe she’d be wise to keep her distance.

The computer beeped, an unhappy tone alerting her to a send/receive error. The internet connection seemed okay. She tried again, and went to brush her teeth while waiting. Heading back to the computer, she stopped to look out the window. Darwin’s tent was dark. “Should we do a little searching,” she asked Cerebus, “and see if we can find out more about Darwin?” The dog looked up from his bed in the corner, yawned, and settled down again.

“I’d take that as a yes, but the internet is lousy tonight.” The send/receive failed again. “We’ll check him out tomorrow.”


Darwin could not sleep. He considered going for a walk, but a glance out the tent flap let him see a light on upstairs at the house. It was absurd, but he did not want her seeing that he could not sleep. She already knew too much about him, and he had learned little of about her. Except that she was smart, hardworking, and attractive, and the latter did not have anything do with her ability to fight the loan demand. He picked up his book, read a few pages, and put it down again. Weren’t books sold in airport bookstores supposed to be light and entertaining reading? The third chapter had nothing to do with the bank robbery in chapter one, or the sex scene in chapter two. It introduced a family with small children, going on a picnic in a park. There was far too much description of the wicker basket and  melamine plates.

Darwin’s family had never gone on a formal picnic, but they’d had dinner on the beach several times most summers. It was fun, though less fancy than tonight’s dinner had been. The plates had been paper, not melamine or fine china. His dad and some of the neighbours would build a bonfire, and everyone would roast hot dogs over the flames. He wondered if his sister took her children to dinners on the beach.  

He hadn’t bothered telling his sister he would be in Nova Scotia. There did not seem to be any point. She still lived on the south shore, five hours out of the way. They weren’t close. He’d never seen her kids or met her partner. They all signed the dollar store cards they sent for his birthday and Christmas, but for the money he sent every holiday, that was the least they could do.

Wondering about beach dinners gave him the urge to let his sister know he was in the province. He picked up his phone and checked the time. Too late to call. A text might have an alert tone, unless she silenced them, but he did not want to risk that. He could use data, and connect to email, but the cell service, at least in his tent, was weak. He’d call in the morning or use the campground Wi-Fi then.

A gust of wind pushed in the side of tent. The poles sagged and rebounded. Hope it doesn’t rain, thought Darwin.

RWA – One Year Anniversary

‘Heart Loves the Ocean,’ by Jan Hull, at White Point in 2018. The artwork is now installed in Mahone Bay. Photo by Tim Covell.

It’s been a year since I joined the Romance Writers of America. As with any subscription, it’s time to consider if it’s worth the money.

I joined to encourage myself to finish a romance novel I started in 2012. I had a completed draft of about 22,000 words, but it needed a rewrite to flesh it out and resolve plot problems. I was working on it periodically, and considered an hour a week good progress. I thought joining RWA would give me the incentive and tools to finish the work – if I acted like a romance writer, I’d be a romance writer: Fake it ’til you make it.

The bad new is that a year later, I’m still not finished.

The good news is that I’ve been working more on that novel, getting up to about five hours a week for the past month. It’s taken a long time to get there, but regular social media and email check-ins with other local romance writers has helped me achieve that.

Hanging out with people who have published 2 or 3 or 50 romances, or who see regular income from their writing, is enough to bring on imposter syndrome. Fortunately, there are other unpublished writers in the local group and the RWA, and I feel welcome there.

For all that writing is a solitary activity, a supportive group, like a writing partner, is valuable. I’m renewing my RWA membership, and hope to have the novel finished by this time next year.

Romantic Revelations: Unmasked by the Marquess

One of the reasons I enjoy romance novels is their consistent happy endings. It’s not just the central romantic relationship that ends well – subplot relationships progress, siblings reconcile, estranged parents and children re-connect, small businesses succeed, and rural towns thrive. Is this realistic? Of course not. Does it show us what is possible, and encourage optimism? Yes.

I don’t need books to tell me how bad things are, or to explore man’s capacity for cruelty. I can read the news for that. This does not mean romance novels are an escape from reality – they are tips on how to improve reality.

In broad terms, until the mid-1970s, the limit of romance novel optimism was that women’s stories mattered. Then the novels started to demonstrate female agency. Female characters not only worked, but had more challenging and non-traditional jobs or ran their own businesses, and might continue to do so after marriage. In other words, women had goals and pleasures apart from marriage. In newer books, regardless of when they are set, it is not unusual for a woman to be the main wage-earner or provider, or for her career and interests to take priority when the couple finally get together. This is both a reflection of changing attitudes, and a recognition that women and marriages have always been more complex than they have sometimes been portrayed.

In recent years, thanks partly to the growth of e-books and print on demand publishing, non-heterosexual relationships have flourished in romance novels. In contemporary and historical settings, and with varying levels of heat, there are romances featuring gay couples, lesbian couples, bisexual characters, threesomes (of various kinds), and larger groups. What is particularly cheering is that in most of these books, the sexuality of the characters is largely accepted by themselves, other characters and their communities. Realistic? Sadly, no. As with women and marriage, love has always taken many forms and been more complex than often portrayed, but acceptance of this is rare. However, these portrayals are definitely optimistic. And Cat’s Sebastian’s Unmasked by the Marquess (from a major publisher) is among the most optimistic I have read.

There are spoilers below, so stop here if you avoid those.

Cover of Unmasked by the Marquess.
At first glance, a typical romance cover, but look carefully at clothing and character positions.

Alistair, the titular Marquess, is bisexual. Not openly, as he is conscious of duty and image, but he has no concerns over his sexuality beyond keeping it discreet. The other main character (heroine does not seem right) goes by Robert, was previously named Charity, and is given the nickname Robin by Alistair. Charity dressed as man to attend university, but found herself more comfortable living as a man than as a woman, and became Robert.

Some reviewers have questioned whether Robin is truly non-binary, or simply a woman dressing as a man to survive in a society with gender roles more rigid than they are now. I feel this is worrying too much over labels. While a woman dressed as a man is an old plot device, the typical story arc has her presenting female at the end. (In Dragonslayer, the gorgeous Caitlin Clarke is initially a male character. Once she is revealed as a woman, her father proudly announces, “She was twice the man of any of them, and now she’s twice the woman.”) In Unmasked, this change does not happen. Sebastian has also been criticized for using the pronoun she to refer to Robin, but in the author’s note Sebastian explains this decision (and I am following the author’s lead).

Alistair finds himself attracted to Robin, and the feeling is mutual. This leads to kissing (in a library – a frequent setting for romantic activities). A few days later, he learns Robin has lied to him about a family connection. When they discuss this, Robin reveals her not-quite-birth name is Charity. Significantly, there is no change in Alistair’s attraction to Robin, though he is angered by the family connection fib. He loves the person.

A part of him, the part he had failed to silence with brandy and righteous anger, shouted that he’d be willing to call this person by any name he or she wanted as long as he got to hear that laughter, see that welter of freckles.

Sebastian, Cat. Unmasked by the Marquess (The Regency Impostors) (p. 99). Avon Impulse. Kindle Edition.

As the relationship proceeds, Robin recognizes that part of Alistair’s attraction to her is her presentation as male, but she has no concerns about this. It has been claimed that Sebastian is not fairly portraying bisexuality, since Alistair falls for an androgynous figure (Robin is conveniently small-breasted), and bisexuality does not mean a preference for androgyny. But bisexuality does not preclude that. And though I am calling Alistair bisexual, the term never comes up in the book, and non-binary is used only in the author’s note. The sexuality of the characters is not labelled in the story.

As Robin and Alistair prepare to marry (on the understanding that she can continue to dress and otherwise act as a man while having the title Lady Pembroke), other characters accept her with ease. One says this explains Robert’s oddness, another says he always thought Robert was unusual, perhaps French. As for the staff:

“This is Mrs. Selby, soon to be Lady Pembroke. You’ve met her before as Mr. Robert Selby. Youthful pranks, you understand. She’ll stay in the green bedchamber until the wedding.” Hopkins, not even raising an eyebrow, merely replied, “Quite right, my lord,” and that had been the end of it. Alistair knew the rest of the staff would follow suit, and if they had a problem with the new marchioness, they were free to find other employment.

Sebastian, Cat. Unmasked by the Marquess (The Regency Impostors) (pp. 300-301). Avon Impulse. Kindle Edition.

As this passage and a few others make clear, it’s easier to live an unconventional lifestyle and have an unconventional marriage when you are very rich. Despite that, the comfortably queer identities of the main characters, and the widespread acceptance of them and their relationship, is wonderfully optimistic portrayal of love without labels.

The plot, incidentally, has the usual historical romance tropes – scandalous family histories, scheming relatives, inheritance challenges, secret marriages, frantic cross country horseback rides, stays in dubious inns – as well as more general romance tropes such as noble sacrifice for love and miscommunications. There is good character growth and contextually appropriate steaminess. In other words, this is a solid and entertaining romance, regardless of the characters’ genders. Cat Sebastian has become one of the authors I seek out.

My interest in this book was sufficient that I finally researched what a Marquess is, and how they fit into the nobility. The short answer is a type of Earl, or Count. A Marquess ranks below a Duke, but above an British Earl (equivalent to a Count in other European countries). A count’s land is a county (aha!), while a marquess’s land is a march. Marches were historically counties on the border of countries, so managing them was a greater responsibility than counties entirely within the country, and the title reflected that. I still don’t know how to pronounce Marquess.

Romance novels, and associated organizations and publishers, have rightly been criticized for under-representation of minority racial and sexual identities. I’ve been told my male name will make it difficult for me to sell romances, since readers expect the authors to be female. It’s not an equal world. But it’s important to recognize steps being made to promote equality, such as stories that show queer characters finding love and acceptance.