Prism Book Alliance® would like to thank Ally Blue for stopping by today on the 2016 GRL Author Spotlight Tour. Please give them a warm welcome.
Dead Bunnies Don’t Hop
Hi y’all! I’m Ally Blue, and I’m thrilled to be here on Prism as part of the pre-GRL blog tour. Big thanks Brandilyn for having me here today, and for hosting so many of the GRL authors on this tour.
I had a seriously hard time deciding what to write for this blog. Should I talk about my new book coming out in December? Yeah, I could. But I’m gonna be squeeing all over the internet tubes about that in the next few months and y’all are going to get sick of hearing it probably. (No Small Parts, coming December 19th from Riptide Publishing! Yay!) Well, what about talking about how excited I am for GRL? We’re all super excited for GRL, right? Of course we are! I’ve already started getting some of my stuff together because I’m a giant dork and I cannot wait for the conference. But I decided not to make that the subject of my post, because I didn’t think anyone wanted to read several paragraphs of me virtually Muppet-flailing.
So here’s my weird, last minute—hopefully fun—idea. Every time I go someplace, whether it’s a conference or a vacation or whatever, I get infected with plot bunnies. Some of them have become books. For instance, my novel Willow Bend was kickstarted by a run-down old house I saw by the side of the road on the way to Hilton Head one summer. That book ended up helping me work through some of feelings about my mother’s death. Most of the time, though, for whatever reason, my travel plot bunnies end up languishing on my hard drive. Here are a few of the ones I’ve never used. In some cases, it’s probably obvious why not.
- The Enthusiastically Terrible Dancer. Many years ago, some friends and I were at a conference in New Orleans. I can’t remember which one because I’m old. We went out one night (as one does) and went to this bar on Bourbon Street called The Beach. It was a fun place. In the crowd on the dance floor was this really cute guy in a suit and sneakers, having the absolute time of his life. He was the worst dancer EVER, kind of like Elaine on the episode of Seinfeld, but he was so cute and having so much fun, we all agreed he needed to be in a story. But I never did that. One day, maybe.
- Twink Central. The first Romance Writers of America national conference I went to was in Washington, DC. The hotel was beautiful, with lots of terrific restaurants and diners nearby. One was on the corner around the block from the hotel. I don’t remember the actual name of it, but Jet Mykles and I decided the correct name should be Twink Central because there were so many adorable young men wandering past on the sidewalk. Neither of us could even get through a whole sentence without interrupting ourselves to say “Two o’clock” or whatever to tell each other where the next cutie was. And one of us—okay, me—said we should write a book about a hospital staffed by adorable young men and call it Twink Central. Yeah, we’re terrible people. Or, well, I am. This is why that book didn’t get written.
- The Don and his Bocci Boys. This is a weird one. For like three years in a row, when my family and I went for our yearly beach week, there was this older man there—best guess, mid-60s to early 70s—who always had three good-looking young men hanging around with him. The older man was always lounging in his chair smoking a cigar and drinking a beer, while the young men were always, always, playing Bocci ball, laughing, patting each other on the back. Occasionally they’d take a break and all sit around The Don’s chair. I called him The Don in my head because he looked like a Mafia boss to me. I don’t know what the hell was up with the pretty boys. Okay, realistically, they were probably all family. But just looking at it from an outsider’s point of view, it seemed odd. Or maybe it was just me. Yeah, probably it was just me.
- The Spooky Starfish. Hilton Head has starfish symbols all over the place. On the bike paths, done in rattan sculpture, in jewelry, literally everywhere. I’ve decided it must represent some sort of evil death cult. What else could it be, right? One day I’m really, truly gonna write a rollicking paranormal adventure about the Cult of the Starfish.
Well, there you go. Some of my best—or maybe just stupidest—unused plot bunnies born from my travels. What about y’all? Anyone have any stories stirring in your brain? Even walking down the street can be pretty inspiring sometimes. Share! And I hope I’ll see y’all in Kansas City!
About the Author
Ally Blue is acknowledged by the world at large (or at least by her heroes, who tend to suffer a lot) as the Popess of Gay Angst. She has a great big suggestively-shaped hat and rides in a bullet-proof Plexiglas bubble in Christmas parades. Her harem of manwhores does double duty as bodyguards and inspirational entertainment. Her favorite band is Radiohead, her favorite color is lime green and her favorite way to waste a perfectly good Saturday is to watch all three extended version LOTR movies in a row. Her ultimate dream is to one day ditch the evil day job and support the family on manlove alone. She is not a hippie or a brain surgeon, no matter what her kids’ friends say.
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