Jake’s Alchemy by G.G. Royale

September 8, 2010

Jake’s Alchemy by G.G. Royale is now available in eBook.

Jake Sanders has a few days off from his Peace Corps responsibilities to celebrate the holiday, so he heads to the beach, where he meets a handsome surfer, Desi, who invites Jake to a barbecue. He’s ready to have some fun and celebrate, but Jake has no idea how much happiness he’ll find in Desi.

Finding Forever by Lori C. Hawkins

September 8, 2010

Finding Forever by Lori C. Hawkins is now available in eBook.

Sparks fly when actor Alec Bannerman meets art historian Peter Leavesley at a London museum gala, but a series of clueless questions and vague answers leaves both men confused. Alec isn’t sure if Peter is gay, and Peter is wary of another relationship after a messy break-up.

The stalemate has Alec in emotional turmoil as he is pulled between wanting Peter and fearing the humiliation of rejection, while Peter is fighting specters from the past. If between fear and family they can finally find each other, can they also find forever after?

Genre: Contemporary

I’ve been interviewed by Jen at Romancing the Book

September 7, 2010

 

This week, there’s an interview and a contest of mine over at http://www.romancing-the-book.com/2010/09/interview-with-serena-yates.html. It’s mainly about what and why I write, but there’s also some information about my newest book with Dreamspinner Press, The Eye of Scota: Cináed.

A Review of Match Maker by Victor J. Banis

September 6, 2010

Hi Everyone,

Although Match Maker was officially released today (that makes it sound like it was doing hard time) I did receive one review from noted gay author, Victor J. Banis. Please enjoy his review below:

Match Maker by Alan Chin

Daniel and Jared are on the threshold of big success in the tennis world, when the powers that be discover they are lovers, and the roof caves in on them.

Four years later, Jared has found his solace in the bottle and Daniel works as a tennis pro at a country club, when he is asked to coach young Conner Lin. Conner is talented, Chinese -  and straight, with lots and lots of attitude.

So, is this what you’d call a tennis novel? Well, yes, and, no. There’s plenty of tennis, true, but in the author’s gifted hands, playing the game of tennis becomes a metaphor for playing the game of life. Match Maker is first and foremost a story about putting your life together – especially putting it back together when it’s been shattered. There’s plenty of tennis excitement, if that’s your thing, and if not, there is also courage, romance, violence – and plenty of occasions for tears. Warning: have some hankies on hand.

As a writer, Alan Chin is a Grand Slam champion. He’s at the top of his game here.

Victor J. Banis, author of Long Horns, Angel Land and Lola Dances.

Excerpt From Match Maker Chapters 1 & 2

September 6, 2010

Hi Everyone,

I thought some folks would like to kick the tires on Match Maker, which was just released today. So below I’ve posted the first two chapters as an introduction. They are short, and a quick read, so please enjoy.

Blurb:

In the four years since being forced off the professional tour for being gay, Daniel Bottega has taught tennis at a second-rate country club. He found a sanctuary to hide from an unkind world, while his lover, Jared Stoderling, fought a losing battle with alcohol addiction to cope with his disappointment of not playing on the pro circuit.

Now Daniel has another chance at the tour by coaching tennis prodigy Connor Lin to a Grand Slam championship win. He shares his chance with Jared by convincing him to return to the pro circuit as Connor’s doubles partner.

Competing on the world tour is challenging enough, but Daniel and Jared also face major media attention, political fallout from the pro association, and a shocking amount of hate that threatens Connor’s career in tennis, Jared’s love for Daniel, and Daniel’s very life

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Connor Lin’s eyes grew large as the ball bounced short of the service line and sailed into his strike zone. He drew his racket back while planting his body in perfect balance; his arm swung, shoulders rotated, and his racket arched up through the ball and continued into a follow-through. The ball seemed to shriek from the impact as it sped bullet-fast toward the sideline. It scorched a pale mark on the green court a half-inch from the white line. But once again, it was the half-inch on the far side of the line. The lineman’s hand flew up, and he yelled, “Out.”

Connor dropped his racket and blinked at the mark, obviously not quite believing that he had lost another game.

Sweat dripped from his nose and chin.

He glanced at the chair umpire, attempting to coerce an overrule, but the chair awarded the game to Connor’s opponent.

Connor lifted the flap of his shirt, mopped his face, and bent to pick up his racket.

Watching him from the bleachers, it occurred to me that he must have dreamed about this match for most of his teenaged life. He had begun the first game with all the charisma of a champion poised for a run at brilliance, but the match had mutated into his worst nightmare. No brilliance materialized. Point by point, his entire being shriveled. His confidence and composure evaporated.

There was nothing anyone could do to reverse his downward spiral. I felt his frustration, a searing tightness in my abdomen. I had experienced the same ordeal many times, and even though half a decade had passed since then, I knew precisely how he felt: like a man alone at thirty thousand feet without a parachute. He was playing a quarterfinal match on the show court of an ATP satellite tennis tournament, set within the twisted pine forest between Carmel and the craggy cliffs of Big Sur. Five hundred shrieking, stomping fans packed the bleachers, and the loudest of them was Connor’s father, who sat three rows below me in the players’ section.

Cold fear. It first appeared in Connor’s eyes when he must have realized that, without the help of divine intervention, he would lose to a sixteen-year-old whose groundstrokes resembled a caveman swinging a club. His fear visibly gave birth to hatred, seething, and finally, humiliation. What Connor’s eyes showed eventually revealed itself in his body language. He looked like a pro tennis player—lean, agile body, good legs, coffee-colored hair gathered into a ponytail and covered with a ball-cap turned back to front, and the prettiest almond-shaped eyes I’d ever seen—but his slumped shoulders and marred facial expressions gave him away. He was out of his league, and he knew it.

I mentally listed his technical problems with a practiced eye. He had a decent first serve, but a weak, loopy second serve that my aunt Betsy could wallop for a winner. And when serving a critical point, his toss fell an inch or so shorter than normal, making him hit down on the ball and dump his serve into the net. He scrambled from side to side with the fluid steps that produce great footwork, but he seemed unsure of himself anywhere in front of the baseline, and three volleys hacked into the net and a botched overhead told me why.

Other than that, all his troubles lay between his ears. His problems stemmed from impatience. Instead of working the rallies while waiting for a weak ball to attack, he tried to crush winners from a defensive position. He won enough points to keep him pulling the trigger, but he also sprayed enough balls long, wide, and into the net to lose every game.

Nevertheless, even with his obvious technical and mental issues, he was thrilling to watch. His grace, explosive speed, and physical beauty sent chills up my spine. I was not in love with him. How could I be? I had never even met him. But I loved watching him play.

Connor lost the first set with a bagel, and his father shrieked hysterically. At first, he directed his outburst at Connor, telling the boy how to play, then at the opponent, for not being good enough to be on the same court with his son. The chair umpire notified security on his walkie-talkie, and we all waited while two uniformed men escorted Connor’s father from the bleachers. He screamed obscenities all the way to the parking lot.

Connor sat through the whole scene crouched forward on his bench with a white towel draped over his head. I would have bet fifty bucks that tears were flowing under that towel, but I doubt I would have found any takers.

Connor’s game continued to disintegrate through the second set. After a heated argument with the chair umpire over a questionable line call, he turned to flip the bird at a heckling spectator and received a code of conduct warning for “visible” obscenity. Two games later, another out call had him tomahawking his racket and unleashing a screech. It was a sound of pure anguish. I could only shake my head and watch as that temperamental athlete, with the sublime groundstrokes of a top-ten player, suffered a mental meltdown in public view.

I longed to cradle him in my arms and explain that it was only a game, that it should be fun. I wanted him to know that he didn’t need to battle against the pressures that the world threw at him, but he was in no condition to listen to anybody, least of all a has-been like me.

In Connor’s last service game, while he waited for his opponent to step to the baseline, he glanced into the stands. We made eye contact for a dozen seconds, and he looked right through me, as if to say, “Fuck you, you know-it-all bastard. At least I’m down here, still in the fight. What the fuck are you doing?” I saw something flicker deep within those beautiful eyes, something more than defiant pride. Or maybe I just chose to see. Even though his emotions had run away with him, I saw his courage as clearly as if he were holding up his heart like a metal shield.

I sucked in my breath and held it until he looked away.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later, I ambled from the Windsor Country Club parking lot to the fastidious fleet of tennis courts carved into the hillside skirting San Francisco’s most exclusive golf course. Being the club’s tennis pro, I spent my days giving lessons to fortyish housewives and pre-teen children while their husbands and fathers played eighteen holes.

That cool August morning dawned overcast, and gusty winds drove an occasional flurry of mist off the ocean (anywhere other than San Francisco, it would be called rain,) which is pretty much the cliché weather pattern for that part of the city during summer. As I strolled down the damp stone path, I noted with some satisfaction that the courts were dark from the mist, telling me that I would have a quiet morning to get organized before the ladies arrived for their lessons.

When I passed by Mr. Tottori, the head groundskeeper, he bowed and said in slow, precise English, “Hello, Mr. Bottega. A fine day.”

“Yes, Mr. Tottori,” I said, bowing equally as low. “Couldn’t be better.”

When I arrived at the clubhouse, I found the president of the club, Carrie Bennett, waiting for me on the covered terrace. She looked slim in her navy blue business suit, and she sported a fresh, boyish haircut with streaks of blonde that erased ten years from her face, making her look thirty again.

Having Carrie down there anytime before noon meant trouble. I smiled and waved a hand toward my office, but before I could utter a word, she lifted two paper cups and said, “Morning, Daniel. I brought us some coffee. Just the thing to warm us up on a summer’s day.”

I stared at the steaming coffee. In four years of working for her, that gesture was a first. Recovering, I led her into my office, where I had to clear a space on my desk for her to put the cups down.

The desk was crammed with neat stacks of tennis magazines, equipment catalogs, instructional literature, and such. It’s amazing how much time I spent pouring over those publications, but for a perfectionist like me, that’s what it takes to stay at the top of my sport.

At the edge of the desk sat two yellow plastic trays. One, labeled “Tournaments,” held entry forms for an upcoming club event. The second tray was labeled “Other” and held a faded employment application for a prestigious Santa Barbara tennis academy, a magazine advertisement entitled “ATP Instructors Needed,” and a newspaper article about a sixteen-year-old prodigy from Long Beach who was burning up the courts and ready to tackle the pro tour.

I settled my lanky body into a swivel desk-chair and took the coffee she offered, sipping, enjoying the rich bitterness. Over the cup’s rim, I watched her eyes scan the room as she relaxed into the chair beside my desk. The four walls were the color of tobacco spit, and the only window was rusted shut. A paddle-bladed ceiling fan wheeled above my desk, gliding around in slow rotations, but it moved too slowly to stir the air. It made a clock-tick sound with every rotation, announcing each second that passed. The stringing machine had a dozen stringless rackets waiting on the floor. The bulletin board on the wall posted the lesson schedule in different colored inks.

Her gaze settled on the six photos hanging on the wall behind me, framed pictures of me posing with McEnroe, Becker, Edberg, Courier, Sampras, and Agassi. Each one fading yellow with age.

I had moved from L.A. to San Francisco four years ago, and I took this job as my respite from an unkind world. I found comfort and safety within these dingy walls. Over the years I’d made it my own, with pictures, trophies, and a bookcase for my sports books and magazines. It was more comfortable than it looked.

“When you played on the tour,” Carrie said, pointing an index finger at the pictures, “you hobnobbed with these guys?”

“Sure, I met them all. Got to play with most of them.”

“You must have been good?”

Finally reduced to a must-have-been. I closed my eyes and listened to the tick, tick, ticking of the ceiling-fan. I opened my eyes again and glanced up to study its action. The movement had no beginning and no end; it just kept going in a circle—tick, tick, tick.

“What brings you down here, Carrie?”

She withdrew a pack of Winstons from her purse. When I shook my head, she tossed it back where it came from and, frowning, said, “Ever hear of a kid named Connor Lin?”

The name sounded familiar, and I had to reflect for a moment before the light went on. I nodded. “Saw him play in Carmel two weeks ago.”

“What did you think?”

“Terrific strokes and plenty of courage, but he’s soft upstairs.” I pointed to my head. “Can’t handle the pressure. His old man’s a real piece of work. In fact, I think dear ol’ dad is the root problem. Connor could be a top player if he’d dump his old man and hire a professional coach.”

Carrie’s lips spread into a wicked little grin. “I’m thrilled you said that, because you may be the remedy that Doc Bottega just prescribed.”

Slowly, I set my cup on the desk. My unblinking eyes riveted on her. I hadn’t coached a big hitter in four years. They all trained in Southern California or Florida, and nobody remembered me—“fallen off the map” would have been a gross understatement. “He wants to train here? With me?”

Her grin blossomed into a smile. “They’re eating breakfast in the dining room. You should see that kid eat. What I wouldn’t give to be eighteen again.” She patted her waistline.

“Why me? A dozen coaches would hock their family jewels to train a kid with his potential.”

“The father wants to keep him close by, wants to help with the training. He thinks he’s the Chinese equivalent of Richard Williams.”

She explained that the father worked all night driving a forklift at a wholesale produce warehouse in Oakland. He trained Connor in the afternoons and slept when the boy was at school. The mother managed a Cantonese restaurant on Clement Street. They had sent Connor to the Huntington Beach Tennis Academy for three summers, but he had stopped improving after the first year, so they were now looking for some local one-on-one training. They apparently couldn’t afford a big-name training camp if he was not improving, no surprise there.

“Besides,” she continued, “the old man is hard-core Chinese. He wants an Asian coach, so you fit the bill. As for the Windsor Club, having an up-and-coming tennis star as a member would be a prestigious feather in our cap. We’re waiving the initiation fees and annual dues. We want this to work.”

For the first time ever, I was being offered a job because I’m half-Chinese, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. The situation seemed absurd, but I noticed a slight trembling in my hands. “You’re serious? You want me to train this kid?”

“Daniel, relax. Just give him a look-over. If you like what you see, we’ll work something out. If not, he walks.”

We strolled up the path to the clubhouse dining room. Memories bombarded my consciousness, some painful and some glorious, all jumbling into something that began to simmer. At the same time, a secret little dream I’d held inside for four long years, like a tightly woven cocoon, began to beat with new life.

Thanks for reading my work,

alan chin

Match Maker by Alan Chin is hot off the press today!

September 6, 2010

Hi Everyone,

My favorite fan, Fausto Unamzor,  made a video trailer for my newly-released novel, Match Maker, so I thought I’d share. This is the same sweetheart that made my other trailers.

Can gay love survive on the Pro Tennis Tour? See the video trailer: http://tinyurl.com/2ev95ds

Blurb:

In the four years since being forced off the professional tour for being gay, Daniel Bottega has taught tennis at a second-rate country club. He found a sanctuary to hide from an unkind world, while his lover, Jared Stoderling, fought a losing battle with alcohol addiction to cope with his disappointment of not playing on the pro circuit.

Now Daniel has another chance at the tour by coaching tennis prodigy Connor Lin to a Grand Slam championship win. He shares his chance with Jared by convincing him to return to the pro circuit as Connor’s doubles partner.

Competing on the world tour is challenging enough, but Daniel and Jared also face major media attention, political fallout from the pro association, and a shocking amount of hate that threatens Connor’s career in tennis, Jared’s love for Daniel, and Daniel’s very life.

Thanks

Alan Chin

Get a signed copy of Match Maker by Alan Chin

September 5, 2010

Want a signed, personalized copy of Match Maker by Alan Chin? Buy the book at our web site and leave your personalization request here on the blog. Alan will sign the book for you before we ship it!

Touch Me Gently Virtual Book Signing – Final Post

September 3, 2010

Well, I would like to thank those who came to request, comment, and read! It is most appreciated. Unfortunately at this time, there isn’t a winner to the 2nd contest, but I will leave it open and check back until someone posts the answers or it falls so far down the list that it doesn’t matter anymore. lol.

The first contest was won by Cherish Hughey. Congratulations. You named 10 couples from anime, movies and tv shows. If you’ll send me your email address, I will go ahead and email you the e-book as promised. ^_^

I think that the virtual book signing turned out very well. Better than I expected considering I’m new at Dreamspinner Press as well as a newly published author. I look forward to seeing some comments from others who couldn’t be here. And I hope that you’ve learned a lot about me during the last three hours that I’ve been posting.

I am also very open to hearing from anyone who has read or will read Touch Me Gently, so please do not hesitate to email me. jrloveless@gmail.com 

And once again to all my readers of Aarinfantasy, this book is dedicated to you for giving me the inspiration and motivation when I needed it the most. ^_^ Thank you so much. I will be accepting requests throughout the weekend for personalized copies so please submit your requests as you can.

If you have any questions regarding anything I posted about myself or Kaden or the book, feel free to email me as well. I won’t mind answering them.

Have a fantastic night, all!

Touch Me Gently Author Ramblings

September 3, 2010

And finally, before we close out with the final post detailing out the winners of the contests and saying good night, some ramblings of my inner muse and how I came to where I am releasing my first book today!

I never intended on submitting Touch Me Gently because I didn’t feel it was polished enough for publication. However, a friend of mine, who I am extremely grateful to, kept pushing me and demanding that I submit it. Finally, out of sheer frustration that she has no idea that she caused (though she may now if she reads this), I sent it in to Dreamspinner Press. I never expected them to request the remainder of the story, but they did! I was excited and amazed. Nothing could ever describe what went through me that day when I sent the rest of the story to DSP. Of course, I was on pins and needles waiting for an answer.

The day I received the email confirming that they did indeed want it is probably the best day of my life. I know people throw that phrase out there haphazardly, but for me this is the first time I’ve used it. I’ve been writing since I was in middle school. I won a couple of awards, and continued to write throughout high school. After high school, life came blazing in and I started working full time. It took charge of my life. Writing was set to the back burner for a few years. Then some events in my life sent my world literally careening off its track. It sent me running for cover. I discovered a specific type of anime called YAOI. I became obsessed with it, looking for as much as I could get my hands on. That is when I discovered a website all about YAOI; discussion threads, downloads, etc.  I even found a section for fan-fiction and original fiction. After reading some of the stories submitted by others, I decided to try my hand at writing again.

For four years, I did absolutely nothing but write. Story after story after story. I posted to the website almost every day, new pieces of each story I was working on. It became my world, and the safe haven I needed to heal just a little bit at a time. Writing is not something I can choose not to do now. It’s like a compulsion to put my fingers on a keyboard. If I don’t write every day, it hurts. Some days I don’t have a choice on being able to write. Those are the days I find it hard to get through. Anyone who is a writer because it is in their blood, their soul, knows what I am talking about. Not quite unlike a drug as well, you suffer when you can’t tell the story of your characters, their world and their lives. When my muse puts that dang piece of duct tape over his mouth and not even a chainsaw can budge it, I feel like my best friend just died. He’s always there, but just out of reach. He’s stubborn, I tell ya! Sometimes even when you manage to pull that tape off he still refuses to speak, to whisper words in your ear.

Touch Me Gently Virtual Book Signing Cont…3

September 3, 2010

Some of the things I learned while writing about Kaden:

Usually when someone suffers through abuse of any kind, be it emotional, physical or sexual, their self confidence and their self worth eventually becomes non-existent. They feel that nothing they do is good enough, or that they deserve what is happening to them. It has taken me several years to reach the point I have. I spent the majority of my childhood and formative teenage years unable to look people in the face, staring at the ground when I walked, never talking to people or actually living. Even now I war with myself internally when I’m feeling depressed or overwhelmed. But I know that I have come a long way since I wrote Touch Me Gently. It sparked something inside of me seeing Kaden overcome the adversities his life dealt to him. Despite the fact that he is only a character in a story, there are many people in this world like him. People who’ve lived through things that would destroy some, but they keep going and striving to be who they were meant to be. As I wrote, it humbled me and forced me to lift my head up just a little bit higher every day.

Touch Me Gently was completed in May of 2006, but it still took me time to reach the point where I could actually enter a store, a restaurant, any place crowded with people alone or look around at the others that were there. And I’m sure some may not be able to understand how a simple story could actually help. Just know that writing is powerful. It can touch people in a way that a voice can’t. All I can do is pray that it touches my readers and shows them that there is always hope, always a light at the end of the tunnel, and always someone waiting for you, you just have to find them.

I haven’t found my Logan yet, but I know someday I will and I can hardly wait. I just hope that he can handle me, LOL. Logan was the flip side of Kaden. Confident, sweet, gentle. He doesn’t back away from Kaden’s problems, but rather faces them head on and has the strength to remain at Kaden’s side. Some may say he ‘switched teams’ a bit fast, but I think it more comes down to being about love and affection rather than gender. I also believe that everyone has a little bit of a bi-side in them, whether anyone can/will admit it or not.