Welcome to my weekly Author Spotlight. I’ve asked a bunch of my author friends to answer a set of interview questions, and to share their latest work.
Today, Lloyd Meeker – I met Lloyd in person for the first time at this year’s Rainbow Con and we had a great time.
Thanks so much, Lloyd, for joining me!
J. Scott Coatsworth: How would you describe your writing style/genre?
Lloyd Meeker: I write fantasy, murder mystery and suspenseful love storiesāoften all in the same story. I often say I write metaphysical gay fiction, and if that doesnāt send a person screaming from the room I hasten to add that my stories are deeply romantic, usually with some element of mystery as well as the mystical.
Iād say my writing style is basically poetic, romantic and mystical. I rely on rhythm of the breath to convey meaning as well as images, and want the story to have rhythmic impact when itās read aloud. I love long, undulating sentences and rich metaphor.
Iām strongly attracted to magical realism, and that may be the genre underlying all the others in my writing.
JSC: What was your first published work? Tell me a little about it.
LM: My first published work came out under a pen name, Liam Moran. It was an explicitly erotic swords and sorcery adventure called The Darkness of Castle Tiralur, published by Torquere Press in 2005.
Mercifully, itās out of print. Iām painfully aware of weaknesses in the writing, but even so it had its moments, and I still really like the story line. Itās a rescue adventure, full of warriors, bards and magicians jumping each otherās bones at every opportunity while saving the lover of one of the warriors. Classic scenes abound–in taverns, forests and a castle occupied by a vampire-magician who consumes a manās life essence when the victim climaxes.
I envisioned Tiralur as the beginning of a series of stories, āTales of the Nine Wayfarers,ā because in addition to the rescue the story is about a group of nine men who find each other and form a loving and loyal band of brothers, seeking adventure and making love with each other and anyone else who might strike their fancy. Some of them are in pairs, but nobodyās relationship is exclusive.
A couple of times Iāve thought of dusting it off and editing it, but it would take extensive re-writing and cutting out the long and very detailed sex scenes that donāt move the story forward (a few of them actually do). I still might, one day. I have notes on three more of the stories, featuring the strengths and weaknesses of different members of the band.
JSC: Whatās your writing process?
LM: I take a long time to think about a story before I start to make notes, let alone draft a step sheet. Once I have the step sheet, I write starting at the beginning and push on to the end. Iāve tried writing the story jumping from one point in the story to another, but I do best when write the scenes in order. That way I actually get more new ideas as I go. I use Dragon Dictate for getting the raw material down before I massage it into a first draft.
I like writing in the morning, and when Iām in first draft I try to do a thousand words a day, five or six days a week. Many days I do more, but Iāve learned not to put production pressure on myself. Ideally Iād like to complete two stories a year. I know other author friends do twice that or more, but for whatever reason I just canāt.
JSC: Tell me one thing hardly anyone knows about you.
LM: I took a number of psilocybin and ayahuasca journeys years ago, under the supervision of skilled shamans. They were an essential part of my spiritual growth. Iām very grateful for those experiences. I believe my writing benefitted from them.
JSC: What was the first speculative fiction book (sci fi, paranormal, fantasy, horror) that you ever read? How did it influence you?
LM: When I was a little boy my sisters and I had a book of fairy tales that we cherished. We read those stories over and over, and their imprint is still with me. That imprint registers in a special mix of wonder, beauty and excitement I get sometimes. When that feeling shows up in my writing, I know exactly where it comes from.
JSC: If you were stuck on a desert island all alone with only three things, what would they be?
LM: Besides survival items, you mean? Hmm. Iād have a lover/friend, first and foremost; my octave mandolin, which Iād finally have time to learn to play; and a solar-powered iPad (with premium speakers!) full of music and books.
JSC: Which of your own characters would you Kill? Fuck? Marry? And why?
LM: Who would I kill? None of them. I feel a lot of empathy for my villains. They always deeply believe theyāre good, and doing the right thing. Thatās what makes them so dangerous. And they often die anyway, so I donāt have to stain my hands.
Who would I fuck? Any of my protagonists, and most of my significant supporting characters. Gladly and oftenātheyāre interesting, yummy men. Iād start with Ta-Kuat from Traveling Light, though, and it would be a long time before we were done with each other.
Who would I marry? Russ Morgan, probably. Weāre very much alike in psychic sensitivities, personal history and values. Weād get along very well.
JSC: Do you have any strange writing habits or superstitions?
LM: None that I think are strange, LOL! I get really irritated at loud noise or interruptions when Iām writing. Thatās probably not very strange. If I get stuck I might meditate for half an hour. When I get back to my work Iām more congruent with myself and usually find a way through the problem.
JSC: Are you a plotter or a pantster?
LM: Plotter. I need to know the bones, what the story is about, especially its premise or theme. I create a step sheet with the main action points in it. I like a road map to follow. I know the road map isnāt the real territory Iāll travel through, and I have no problem changing the map to fit the reality I encounter. But I do like having the map.
JSC: What are you working on now, and when can we expect it?
LM: Blood and Dirt, the second Russ Morgan mystery just released, so Iāve been in a kind of absolute refractory periodācanāt tell you when to expect a new book. DSP Publications is re-releasing Traveling Light in spring of 2016, and Iām hoping Wild Rose Press will have released their edition of Blood Royal by then. Iāve got three new projects in front of me, though, and Iāll probably address them in the following order:
1. Sequel to Blood Royal, my m/f parallel worlds fantasy romance ā more political intrigue and mayhem to go with the love and magic, but also an exploration of two different approaches to magic and the effects of wielding it. Itās got a very yummy title, too!
2. Sequel to Traveling Light, with Ian serving his community as a shaman. I canāt bring myself to share the title I have for this one, either. Itās too perfect, and I feel protective and selfish.
3. A novel of magical realism, focusing on personal power contrasted against institutional power, intrigue against authenticity. Working title, The Relic. This one will probably take a while, and I donāt want to rush it, itās too big a story. I may tackle another Russ Morgan while Relic evolves more in the background.
And now for Lloyd’s latest book: Blood and Dirt:
Family squabbles can be murder. Psychic PI Russ Morgan investigates a vandalized marijuana grow in Mesa County Colorado, landing in the middle of a ferocious family feud thatās escalating in a hurry. Five siblings fight over the family ranch as it staggers on the brink of bankruptcy, marijuana its only salvation.
Not everyone agrees, but only one of them is willing to kill to make a point. Russ also has a personal puzzle to solve as he questions his deepening relationship with Colin Stewart, a man half his age. His rational mind says being with Colin is the fast track to heartbreak, but it feels grounding, sane, and good. Now, thatās really dangerousā¦
Exclusive Excerpt
CHAPTER THREE
Monday
In the morning, I cranked on the coffee at six, fed Colin, and kissed him good-bye at the door. I watched him bounce down the steps, his youthful energy sparking off him in every direction, happy and optimistic. He must have felt me watching, because he turned and waved, a goofy schoolboy grin on his face as he slung his backpack over a shoulder and headed downtown.
Feeling disoriented in my own home, I nursed my coffee and rattled around the upstairs of my pre-WWII duplex. Iād opened it into a sleeping area with bathroom in the back, and a pleasant sitting nook at the front looking out over 16th Avenue. I loved my little home, but Colinās absence sat in every corner like a thick cloud.
Apparently, it had been too long since I missed someone, because it felt like a big deal. One of my voices said I was getting involved too deep, too fast. But missing him felt good, tooāa sweet ache with an exquisite cure. Iād insisted he leave his hiking clothes for me to wash, so I threw them into a load of laundry. After burying my face in them for a hungry huff. Or two. Miraculous and intoxicating.
Bewitching, green-eyed Colin. Iād met him on an assignment last summer. As a paralegal and executive assistant to Andrew Kommen of the big downtown firm Stelnach, Breyer and Kommen, heād been my liaison in a case involving an especially dysfunctional family.
Weād flirted a bit, very mildly at the time, and after the case had been resolved, I invited him to a baseball game. Whether or not that had been a good idea, Iād never know. It was far too late to change the past.
But as heād said last night, Iād been elusive. He really had run me to ground. He asked me to go on hikes last fall, and Iād declined. He invited me to go to the aquarium, and we spent a wonderful afternoon strolling through the tanks and exhibits.
He wasnāt aggressive in his pursuit; he just wouldnāt let up, relentless as a starfish opening an oyster. He badgered me into seeing the movie āPrideā with him, even though I told him I didnāt go to movies much because the sound overwhelmed me, got too far inside me. But he persisted until I said yes, promising he would take care of me. And he did, holding my hand while I bawled like a baby as a hall full of Welsh mining families sang Bread and Roses.
Then he showed up on my doorstep last Christmas Eve wearing an elf costume, complete with green tights and curly-toed shoes, looking more edible than any sugar plum. He had a present for meāa book weād discussed weeks earlier. I couldnāt help myself, and asked him if he minded going out to a restaurant as an elf. We ended up at Le Central and had a magical, candlelit Christmas Eve dinner. That had been the real beginning, I saw in hindsight.
Now, as I cleaned out my fridge and packed for a week on the western slope, I reflected on how defensive Iād been against Colinās advances, again ashamed for my cowardice. It wasnāt that I was too fearful or passive, a voice pretending to be common sense, insisted. I just wanted to be sure I wasnāt taking a wrong step and setting us both up for heartache.
But surely that was a risk shared by both of us, another voice said. We were both adults. My gut still insisted more of that responsibility was mine. I was the older, experienced one, after all. Wasnāt that the way responsibility usually worked?
I set the security alarm and locked up the house, stopping next to my car for a moment to enjoy the heat of the morning sun, already sharp on my skin. I threw my backpack and duffel in the trunk and headed for 8th Avenue, my best route out of town.
The five-hour drive to Grand Junction gave me plenty of time to reflect further on developments with the young Mr. Stewart. I had to stop being so skittish. If Colin really wanted to date, I had to stop insisting he didnāt know what he was doing. He was an adult, and I had to respect that.
I came to that lofty realization driving through Glenwood Canyon with the ageless Leontyne Price singing Madama Butterfly, soaring and tragic, filling the car. The drama queen in me said I might be setting myself up to be Butterfly, but that was silly. I could take care of myself. And Colin wasnāt Butterfly either. I just had to make sure I wasnāt Pinkerton.
The directions to the ranch were simple and clear. Before long, I turned off the highway at a ten-foot sandstone cairn holding a wooden sign, painted white with green lettering, announcing this was the Ellis Ranch, founded 1906. The sign had needed repainting for a few years.
The red dirt road rose in a gentle climb and curved off to the left. A billow of dust swirled out behind my car even though I drove slowly. The dormers of the house eventually rose from behind a stand of massive rough-barked cottonwoods. Theyād been shielding the house from road traffic for a long time.
By the time Iād parked in front of the house, also painted white with green trim, Evan Landry was waiting for me on the deep veranda that ran the full length of the structure. The clock in my dash said two thirty.
I got out and closed the car door, glad to stand up. Warm, sweet, pine-scented air flowed over me like a welcoming gift. The house was big, and while it wasnāt exactly falling apart, it certainly hadnāt been kept up to its original standards.
Landry and I shook hands. āYou should park around back later, but thereās no rush,ā he said crisply, very much the employer in charge. Which he was. āIāll show you to your room first, then give you a quick tour around the main buildings.ā
I nodded and locked the car, leaving my things in it. City habit come to the country, maybe, but I was here to investigate a crime, most likely committed by someone who lived here. Better to be safe than sorry.
He led me into a room two stories high, easily twenty- five feet deep and at least as wide. After driving in the bright daylight, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Except for the daylight from the windows opening to the shaded veranda behind me, the only source of light came from the ceiling twenty feet up.
āWelcome to the ancestral seat,ā Landry said. He swept his arm in a sarcastic, grandiose gesture. āBehold its glory.ā
I did. It still had some. Above the dark wood paneling of the main floor, the tired yellow walls were dotted with antlered game trophies interspersed with a few large Western-themed paintings.
Three large carpets covered parts of the plank floor, creating sitting areas set with heavy, simple furniture. The carpet under my feet, a dark red Persian, had worn through in several places. I could imagine it had survived generations of boots traipsing across it before fraying. To my left, a giant fireplace with firewood laid but unlit, dominated one wall. The long mantel held the usual stuffāa plate held vertically for display, candlesticks, a brass tray dark with tarnish propped against the wainscoting, and a cluster of photos in pewter-colored frames.
Just beyond the fireplace, a wood-paneled hallway led somewhere. In line with it on the opposite side of the room, a matching hall led away in the other direction. From above each opposing lintel, a large cougar head snarled down at us with fangs bared. Beyond the hallways and off to the right, a wide staircase led upward, attended by its own rising procession of frames and plaques.
It had taken generations of successful Ellises to build this house. I guessed it had been finished post-WWII. Not really that old, but it smelled ancient and defeated. I opened my sensitivity a bit. Not a happy place. Full of… bitterness was the first word that came to me.
Landry pointed to the hall beyond the fireplace. āStanfordās office is just in there. Weāll check in with him later.ā
He marched across the room, leading me to an arch opposite the door weād come in. āThrough there on the left is the dining room and the kitchen. Youāll see those soon enough. And at the end of the hall, the back door opens to the barns and outbuildings. Thatās where weāre headed as soon as we get you settled.ā
He waved at the staircase. āAll our bedrooms are upstairs,ā he said. āYours, too.ā We headed up.
When we got to my room, I noticed my door had no lock, but it seemed impolite to point it out. As we exited, I again got a shadow of uncertainty about its security, and I couldnāt ignore my intuition twice.
āIām a little concerned about how safe my computer and records might be in here,ā I said. āWhat do you think?ā
Landry looked offended at first, but as I watched him think about it, I could tell the risk was real. āNo one would dare.ā He didnāt look as confident as he sounded.
āSomeone dared trash Sarahās business. You suspect someone who lives in this house, maybe even on this floor,ā I said. āItās not much of a stretch for me to imagine that whoever did it would be quite willing to come in here and take my notes or anything else that might cause a problem for them.ā
āLet me think about it,ā he said. āIn the meantime, make sure you hold on to everything you want to keep safe.ā
At the top of the stairs, he paused. āTo be honest, I hadnāt thought about that,ā he said, as close to an apology as Iād seen him get, ābut youāre right. We need to find you a solution. Iāll introduce you to Stanford now,ā he said brusquely. āI assume youāll want to interview him first.ā
āI think Iād prefer to interview your sister first and inspect the damage to the property while itās light. Then I think an interview with Ellis Sr. would be good. Does that timing work all right with him?ā
āYou still need to check in with Stanford first. Itās the way things are done.ā
We crossed the great room and headed down the hall past the fireplace.
āThis is his office,ā he said, knocking softly on the door. It was a surprisingly tentative knock from the in-charge Evan Landry Iād seen so far. From inside, a gruff, slightly raspy voice ordered us to enter.
Stanford Ellis Sr. sat at a giant roll-top desk, but he pushed away and swiveled to face us as we came in. He didnāt get up. Behind him, next to the desk stood a trestle table with stacks of files and loose papers. It didnāt look well organized.
Ellis was dressed in a worn work shirt, jeans, and boots. He looked the quintessential lean, tough, tall rancher, complete with square jaw and large, work-roughened hands. His eyes, however, were flat with despair. Frayed regret held him in a cloud. His aura hung dull and dense, odd for a man who had spent most of his life outdoors.
He looked first at Evan with what seemed to be irritation, and to my amazement, Evan cringed. His shoulders sagged, and his aura pulled in small. Was that a childhood response? Was he still afraid of Ellis in spite of his scorn and bravado? Something to think about.
When he was done silently putting Landry in his place, Ellis turned his attention to me, his leathery face impassive.
Evan cleared his throat. āThis is Russ Morgan, Stanford. Russ, Stanford Ellis.ā
I stepped forward and shook Ellisās hand, not surprised at the firm dry grip of authority.
āSo you think you can find out who tore up Sarahās greenhouse?ā
He was daring me to say yes, so I did. āYes, sir, I believe I can.ā
āGood. Iāve told everyone that I expect them to cooperate with you completely.ā It felt like he was dismissing me. āThey may not want to do that, but if they know whatās good for them, they will.ā He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
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Author Bio
Long ago, in a life very far from here and now, I was a minister. Now I live with my husband in Ft. Lauderdale, FL.
After so many years of struggling to live as others said I should, I regularly find myself astonished at the power and beauty of living as I must. The more uncompromising I have become in navigating by the stars that are mine to follow, the more wonderful my journey has become. The Universe has been kinder and more generous to me than I had ever dared hope, let alone ask.
Although it took what has seemed a long time to find the hearth of creativity and happiness that is authentic to me, I have no regrets about the turbulent journey I traveled to find it. Now I apply myself to the disciplines, wonder, adventures, challenges and pleasures of walking my path. My heart is full of its rewards.
Most of what I write is called fantasy, but itās the best way I know to tell my truth, the stories that are mine to tell. Everything I write turns in some way on the mystical inter-dependence of the visible and invisible worlds ā spirit and form. The forces of these dimensions seek each other more passionately than lovers, and where they join in a human heart they unchain the mystery of beauty.
That heart knows, then, what seemed to be spirit or form is never exclusively only itself, what it might be without the other. In that heart the dictates of neither realm dominate alone, but together create in tidal ebb and flow between them. This, I believe, is where real magic rises, where life catches fire, and where good stories find their enduring power.