Thieving Is Believing

Following through on our threat…

LAC 22 Chapter 2

We spent half an hour chatting and nibbling before the artist and the cop herded us into their living room to “get the show on the road.”

They stood in front of the back door as we overtook the couch and the floor.

“First of all,” Holly began after we settled in, “we’re calling our weekend ‘Arbor Earth Day for April Fools.’”

Laura quickly added, “We thought about adding something to do with taxes and Easter bunnies, but we decided to keep it nondenominational.”

We rolled our eyes as we exchanged the mandatory glances.

Continue reading Thieving Is Believing


The Domino Effect

No, we ain’t talkin’ pizza, although we readily could.

I’m talking about someone complaining to asking the powers-that-be about when the next LAC is coming out. The powers-that-be, in turn, struck a match, lit a firecracker, and shoved it up the author’s behind. Can you say ka-frickin’-boom? This, in turn, caused a major rupture in the author’s thick skull, which in turn allowed us finally frickin’ finally to see the light of day and inhale a breath of fresh air. Indeed, we thought we were going to die in here! Thank you ever so much, complainer asker of the domino-nudging question!

Over the past months in this dank place, we have theorized that the Squatter chicks did something to the author’s brain. Just as one of them got trapped in a bathroom, they seemed to have trapped the author somewhere—somewhere far, far away from her reservoir of words, or maybe they drained it. Whatever. But, we have seen her bloody her head, cry, scream, and threaten to jump off her office chair. We’ve watched her slobbishly consume books about writer’s block and burnout, take self-help classes, meditate until her oozing gray matter could have filled a Tibetan singing bowl. We watched her take notes as she scoured the pages of Have I Finally Gone Insane? For Dummies. (I really should check my sources. There could very easily be a book with that title.) She has sloughed off to heal from burnout. She has gone on spiritual retreat to find her writer. She has gone into seclusion. (Need I say because no one could stand to be around her?)

Seriously, is there any worse creature on earth or in mythology than a writer who cannot write? From the characters in her books, a resounding: Oh hell no!

Yet, she has written, just not consistently, and certainly not without agony. In fact, she has most of LAC 22 written, half of 22.5, and even the beginning of 23. (There’s other stuff, too, that has nothing to do with us, so I won’t mention it.)

So… Now, that the Dykes Who Dare can breath again, we realize we have to do something. As you can imagine, our entire existence depends upon doing something. We have an idea.

(Let it be stated that while we are issuing the following threat, I am just stuck doing the dirty work.)

Roz, finish LAC 22, or Kate will steal and post every single word you have written: typos, grammatical errors, holes, warts and all—the stuff that would make our professor of English gasp. In other words, write it or risk public humiliation and the scorn of Ginny.

Here is our warning shot and a thank-you to the complainer asker of the domino-nudging question…

LAC 22 Chapter 1

Spring had finally frickin’ sprung in Granton, which seemed a stupid thing to realize since we had just left its city limits. Okay, to be precise then: Spring had sprung in Granton and its rural outskirts. In fact, the weather guy promised a balmy sixty-five degrees on this mid-April day, and I figured that amounted to a death-blow to a winter that had stayed on its feet far too frickin’ long. I was so ready for spring.

We were on our way to Holly and Laura’s for a Lesbian Adventure Club weekend, and I could not have been more excited. I know: I probably should’ve been afraid of what they had in store for us, but frankly, I really didn’t care. As I just said, spring had sprung, and every tick of the odometer meant I had been sprung, too: from winter, the city, the rat race, school—everything. I just wanted to breathe, kick back, and forget everything. Determined to do just that, I rolled down the passenger window and stuck out my head.
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Greedy Squatters

The Squatter chicks have won the attention and words of our author. Squatter 3 is an official first draft, and she’s already working on the edit. Can you hear the spittly sound of ten raspberries?

Thief that I am, here’s the first of frickin’ forty-two chapters.

Chapter 1

With a grunt of triumph, Trinity MacNeil heaved a large bundle of tomato plants into the fire pit, being careful not to smother the flames. She grabbed a straggler from the wagon beside her and threw it in, as well. 

While the plants had already been victims of the season’s killer frost, they were nowhere dead enough to be consumed by the flames. Rather, the intense heat first had to desiccate them, and then it could slowly turn them to ash.

She watched for several minutes, and finally satisfied the fire would continue without her intervention, she pulled her wagon back to the garden.

The late October morning had been brisk, but now that it neared noon, the sun had managed to raise the temperature to the unseasonable upper 50s. Deeming her blue sweatshirt unnecessary, she pulled it off and tossed it to the ground just as her cellphone sounded. Recognizing the tone, she excitedly lunged to its spot on the lawn.

Continue reading Greedy Squatters


Happy NBLD

NBLD? What the hell is that? A bad sandwich? A natural blond’s license plate? A refusal to allow bald people to exist?

Okay, so it’s National Book Lovers Day. We could be cheesy and put it all together. It’s a day to take your favorite natural blond fictional character out for a bad sandwich and keep her away from bald people. We could, but we won’t. Simply kiss your favorite LAC book and be done with it.

We are not in the book loving mood anyway. Those damn Squatter chicks have siphoned more than 100,000 from this reservoir of writer words in here. Meaning, she’ll run out, or perhaps worse, we’ll get stuck with the dregs. Let us hope she gets a refill soon, and those other two stop being so damn greedy.



The Squatter chicks are winning the word war in the author’s head. They’ve got a whopping 88,000 while we’re bored as hell—and feeling rather neglected—with a piddling 15,000. Our only hope is that Squatter 3 is almost frickin’ done and she’ll want to let it sit for awhile before even reading the first draft. If she dives right into editing mode, we are, seriously, going to either revolt or hire a ghost writer. Except, that’s kind of what she is right now. How revolting! Damn Squatter chicks!


No Mo’ NaNoWriMo

The author checked out of Camp this morning, a day early, with 50,104 words.

Who won, though? Okay, other than her.

Seems the Squatter chicks benefited the most, getting more than frickin’ half. We pretty much got the rest of it, and at the moment, we are not complaining.

She’s going to get the individual files from the big NaNo file into their respective manuscripts and see how much of a mess she made. We’re hoping that once the dust clears, she wants to work on our book, but then, again, maybe it’s better if she just gets the Squatter chicks out of her system.

Either way, we have words!



She’s nearing 25,000 and working on our book! A couple of snippets…

Payback isn’t a bitch. You are. Shut the hell up!

Maybe it’s a lesbian-only thing, but I have always firmly believed that anyone who uses “ejaculate” to describe speech should be drown in a vat of it.

Business as usual, hey?


NaNo-ing No-Nos

Our author is already 10,000 words into this month’s Camp NaNoWriMo. Unfortunately, for us anyway, all those words belong to the Squatter crew and a new kid on the block. We are, however, on the agenda, and our digits remain crossed. Maybe we should start the “Dykes Who Dare” chant we did at Crappie Cabin. Except, that could make her cross. Patience. Patience. Not our strong suit.


Dangerous Ground

So, the author finishes reading all our books, understandably freaks over some mistakes, and passes them on to the powers-that-be. She goes back to work on LAC 22, and we are happy campers.


She gets a reminder that Camp NaNoWriMo is set to begin on April 1st—yes, the day of fools. She signs up, and she thinks in that month she can blaze through the rest LAC 22 and 22.5. Again, we are happy campers.


She reads the shit about plotters versus by-the-seat-of-the-pansters, and she berates herself for sucking in the novel outline department. So, she puts writing LAC 22 on hold, signs up for a class on novel outlining, and begins trying to outline our book. Still, we are happy campers.


She decides we are too unruly to ever abide by an outline. So, she frickin’ starts a whole frickin’ new project! Yessiree, Bub. She makes characters, a world, does research, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. We are not happy campers anymore.


The project idea needs time to incubate in her weird-ass writer brain, she believes, and may even require the use of a pen name. Too, too much to think about in the middle of a class. Sooooo… She whips out Squatter 3, which she set aside to give us her undivided attention. Her outline grows and grows and grows, and she now has more words in the outline than she has written in the book. We are so not happy campers.


We are flailing our arms in her brain, which has got to be distracting— and, let’s face it, painful. We are being as frickin’ obnoxious as we can be, which I’m sure you know we are quite exceptional at doing. The clock ticks its way to month’s end.

Which book shall prevail?

For the hundred thousandth time in our history with you, we beseech: Cross your frickin’ fingers!