I am reading a lovely little book, Your Brain on Altruism, which examines our impulse to aid and support one another. This noble urge arises in some of us (many of us) in the aftermath of disasters, when a reversion to amoral survival functioning might be more understandable.

The author, Nicole Karliss, is a health and science journalist who has had intimate and sometimes harrowing experience with California’s wildfires. As she covered one disaster after another, she was struck by the generosity of spirit that many of the fire’s victims displayed in the immediate wake of the devastation. A few turned their altruism into a vocation, because they found the sheer joy of making a meaningful contribution too fulfilling to put aside.

I dunno about wild fires–lucky me–but I know that at the horse barn, I have had a taste of group volunteering and to my shock, it has been wonderful. My basic attitude toward most groups is, they are troublesome at best and dangerous at worst. Groups make noise and commotion and intrude on one’s solitude. They go careening over the sides of cliffs on the strength of ideological inertia or because there’s a blue light special on plasma TVs in aisle four. When it comes to groups, for the most part, I’d rather not.

Clearly, I have some issues, or maybe some biases rooted in experience. In any case, at Loudoun Therapeutic Riding, one morning every week is devoted to an adaptive riding session for kids consigned to a local residential treatment facility (aka foster children). They have to earn the privilege of joining the equine program, but in truth it is a privilege to work with them. The volunteers who sign on know they are expected to make a continuing commitment, because these children have had enough of adults disappearing from their lives without notice.

So we show up, and whether staff is delayed by traffic or on hand early, we know what’s expected of us. Get out the mandala board, fill water bottles, assemble tack for the assigned horses, if there’s time we might do a pre-groom for any equines who indulged in a recent mud bath. The kids show up and we move into the next phase of the morning. We have protocols to follow unique to our program, along with inside jokes, informal routines, and a little check out ritual that can turn into an interesting postmortem,

Much of the work is something of a slog, but the bigger picture is a chance to make a real difference that I alone could not effect. A chance to develop relationships with stout-hearted people I would never have met otherwise. A chance to do collaborative problem-solving with a diverse and friendly gang who share at least some of my values. A chance to learn from others, some of whom have been at the horse game or the volunteer game or the dodgy-hip game for a very long and interesting time.

And then there’s the plain old sense of camaraderie.

I came across this wonderful experience of a group pulling together for a good cause much earlier in life–in college–but I thought that was maybe rose-colored hindsight on my part, a fluke of youth and optimism and the wonderful freedom of my pre-full-time employment years. But here I am again, enjoying a sense of community, purpose, and joy, and these are apparently very common experiences in group volunteer situations.

Have you enjoyed some overwhelmingly positive group experiences? What made them so special? What inspired you to give that group a try?

I am now the proud owner of two spendy little hearing aids that actually fit. This took some doing. When the nice man passed me over the first pair and showed me how to put them in, I told him immediately that they were uncomfortable.

“That’s like my glasses,” he said. “I hated the idea of wearing glasses and resisted and resisted, and at first, they were annoying. But now, I forget I’m wearing them.”

I’ve worn glasses since I was three years old. And part of me wanted to tell him, “This is different. I’m NOT saying the hearing aids are annoying or distracting, though they are both. I’m saying that wearing them hurts me.” Except I didn’t say that. I walked out of the shop with two smarting ears, determined not to be that whiny old bat who’s ungrateful for miraculous tech and can’t deal with an acclimation curve.

Four days later, I was a cussin’ old bat. The nice lady from the hearing aid shop front desk texted to see how things were going, and she got an earful. Both ears were seriously sore, to the point that I could not wear the dratted things at all. The scheduler got me back in there, pronto, and the same nice man explained that I had very small, twisty ear canals (the same ear canals I’d had the other six times he’d looked at them), and I needed smaller equipment.

Well, duh and a half, my dude. His cluelessness is not the point. The point is…

I know that beyond any scintilla of doubt, women’s pain is dismissed by medical professionals. If you’re a woman of color, it’s even worse. Women are frequently prescribed sedatives for the same painful symptoms in men that routinely merit analgesics. I’d told this guy I was uncomfortable and he went off on his little riff about getting used to wearing glasses. GAH.

Why did I wait for those people to call me? Why didn’t I A) straighten the man in the lab coat out on the spot, or B) call the shop 24 hours later and report a failed fitting? I know better. Any interaction with a medical professional has the potential to end with me in un-managed pain. And yet there I was, trying not to be whiny.

So I am humbled to find that I’m just another easily dismissed, hurting female–dismissed in this case, at least initially, by myself to some extent. I’m also hopeful that this very minor, easily addressed incident is instructive enough that I am not fooled again in a more serious context.

Have you been in the fool-me-once penalty box? Maybe even fool me twice but not three times? Have there been times when you had to admit, “I KNEW better!”

I’m sending out ARC files for the novella A Kiss for the Ages on Tuesday, June 10. If you don’t have a file by then, and you’d like one, email me at [email protected] and let me know which device you read on.

Buck and Grace, both of us about age 14

One of the programs at Loudoun Therapeutic Riding is called Silver Spurs. It involves bringing seniors out to the barn to enjoy time with the horses. Some of the participants are in wheelchairs, many don’t hear or see well, but they all appreciate the pleasure of time on the farm. This program has inspired me to change the prime directive given to my daughter.

Instead of finding me a nursing home that has cats when the fateful day arrives, she must find me one (with cats) that also has something like a Silver Spurs outing every so often.

I was reminded of that directive when I watched this video from Daniel Pink, in which he poses seven questions to help (young?) people find their purpose in life. One of the questions is, “What made you weird as a kid?” He’s asking after that childhood quirk or obsession that set us apart, made us lose track of time, and gave us great joy. Acing every spelling test, learning forty different tree leaves, or in my case, gobbling up everything remotely related to horses.

Delray and Grace,
both of us having fun (I hope)!

I wore saddle shoes because they were saddle shoes without having any notion where the name came from (talk about weird). I still remember my first lesson horse (Strawberry) who I rode when I was eight years old and spending a summer in Fort Collins, CO. My sister rode Sue, a pretty bay, and my brother rode Amber, the palomino (or maybe Tuffy, another bay). The first equine I owned was an old style Quarter Horse named Buck.

And all throughout my life, horses have been a good, big thing. When I hit the Slough of Despond in my mid-thirties, horses pulled me out of it. When my daughter and I had nothing else in common, we shared a love of horses. We still do!

Horses bring me joy. When I was a kid, books brought me joy too. I was always reading (easier to do when there’s no TV, and in later years, no TV on school nights). I was also outside in nature a very great deal, and much given to solitude because the only other girl near my age in that neighborhood–my sister–kinda got tired of playing Barbies with me by the time I hit elementary school (I was tired of her too, though even my Barbie was usually on a horse borrowed from my brother’s Johnny Quest).

I loved to bring my mom wildflower bouquets, and flowers still mean a lot to me (just ask the Bad Heirs). Flowers are so magical, with their bright colors, heady scents, and blend of tenaciousness (there are daffodil patches in my neighborhood that go back at least a century) and transience.

I am dwelling on these joys lately with some purpose, because early summer often sees my mood and energy take a dip. When I think about the joys that have worked for me all my life, I am reassured that the summertime blues can be dealt with (again), and that even the later stages of senescence can admit of much pleasure and delight.

What did you love to do as a kid that still brings you happiness now?

PS: Print edition of the novella A Kiss for the Ages is already on sale in anticipation of Amazon’s print price hike starting June 10.

I know a lady who has a one month old daughter and an eighteen month old son. She has her groceries delivered, though it costs a little more. No meltdowns in the produce section, no fussing with car seats in the pouring down rain. No having to pull over and produce a bottle or two lest the heavens be sundered by audible evidence of infantile hunger pangs.

Another friend reads a lot of library books but hasn’t been inside the actual library building since “before the pandemic.”

As a warp nine introvert, I need a lot of solitude. Being around people, even my favorite people in the whole world, saps my energy. And yet, solitude can become isolation, and that–for me–has downsides. When I don’t have to make small talk at the post office, when I no longer know the check-out staff at my fave grocery store by name, when the simple courtesy of holding the door for somebody carrying packages isn’t part of my day… I lose both a sense of connection to my local community and opportunities to casually accommodate that community.

If the postal clerk speaks with an accent, I have to exert myself to listen more carefully. If the checkout lady wants to maunder on about her son in Alaska, I expect myself to offer some empathy for a parent whose only child is so far away. If I let the door slam on somebody carrying too many packages, I will feel remorse for my obliviousness to a stranger’s situation. I must, in other words, accommodate agendas other than my own, and  do so as graciously as possible, because I need those people to be gracious toward me as well.

To the extent screens preserve us from the inconvenience of in-person encounters in our various village squares, screens might also be making it easier for us to dehumanize, ignore, and resent one another. Screen addiction might make it very easy to divide us from people with whom we really have much in common. This has been one of my pet theories, at least, when confronted with one of my siblings foghorning about how technology keeps us all so wonderfully connected.

I read this issue of Dense Discovery and got some insight into how my sibling and I might both be right. The jist of the newsletter and the article it cites is: Screens make it possible to stay in touch with the people we’re already close to–friends and family–and to feel connected to genuine strangers (Taylor Swift, Benedict Cumberbatch), but screens cut out that middle orbital of neighbors, casual acquaintances, and “repetitive strangers,” like the checkout ladies and Tuesday morning library patrons.

That middle band of acquaintance is where we learn tolerance, and where we get a sense of belonging not to a family or a gym, but to a society. It’s where we turn for our next good friends, and where we sometimes must turn in emergencies. The middle ground matters, in other words, and we might well be losing it to screens.

So this is me, thinking about ways to put down the screens and go for a walk, shop in person, or visit the actual, wonderful library. Are there activities you could do on a screen but prefer to handle in person? Activities you will NEVER allow into the virtual realm?

PS: For those out weeding the geraniums, enjoying the fresh air, or planning that summer vacay… Lord Julian’s ninth mystery, A Gentleman of Questionable Judgment, has officially hit the shelves!

As I was growing up, my family did not take vacations. Logistics were an issue. How do you get nine people and all their luggage into one car? How do you stop World War III from breaking out in the way-back of the station wagon? Once the big kids peeled out of formation, we did spend some summers in San Diego while my dad took sabbatical leave at UCSD or Scripps.

Those excursions were my idea of purgatory. I suspect my sainted mother would echo my sentiment. You try driving for five days each way with all those kids….

My parents did not go out on date nights either. They entertained plenty, and accepted reciprocal invitations, but the idea of indulging in personal wish list activities for a few hours with a spouse… nah. And babysitting was not an issue by the time I came along. The older kids got stuck with that chore.

Why is this on my mind? Because I am happy to report that Lord Julian’s tenth tale, A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets, is complete in draft. Yay, yippee, yahoo, and gaudeamus igitur! This moment in the writing process, when the manuscript is complete in draft, is nonetheless always a little fraught for me. On the one hand, I feel great relief. I know once I have the first draft, I can make a book out of it. Phew!

But on the other hand… now what I am supposed to write? I am not an author who has stories ideas coming out my ears. Every time I stare at a blank screen, I fret that I’ve written my last book, and the house is not paid off. (I also want to see Alaska.) I need to come up with a really juicy premise immediately so I can get back to work!

That maybe, for a couple of weeks or so, I am NOT supposed to write, strikes me as preposterous. Writing is what I do. I am a writer. I love to write. The idea that I will create better books if I focus instead on my flower beds right now feels like blasphemy and darned risky. To suggest that I will come up with a really interesting pair of protagonists if I test ride some lease horses. (Did I just write that!?) feels absurd.

What is really absurd is not knowing how to take a break, Grace Ann.

I’m pretty good a micro-indulgences, like the perfect cup of tea, a bouquet of yard flowers, or  good book, but I have fallen out of the habit of travel to Scotland or Ireland, big writing retreats, or transcontinental road trips. The pandemic has something to do with my narrowed appetite for rejuvenation, but looking at my parents, I suspect the Depression, the Potato Famine and even the Siege of Derry (1689) might figure into the mix too. (Uncle Henry was a royalist.)

So I went flower shopping, and tonight I put in my whole bed of impatiens. It’s a start. The next big idea hasn’t come to me yet, but I still have the blue salvia, perennial lavender, rosemary, and sunflowers to go.

Who showed you that it’s good to take breaks, to go on the occasional frolic, to have fun on purpose? Or is the value of goofing off a premise you’re still testing?

I thought the songbirds were swerving my property because I have a lot of cats. Or maybe bird flu got here a while ago and we’re only just noticing it. Maybe I stopped hearing the birdies first thing in the day because migration patterns are changing due to light pollution and loss of habitat.

But this week, I got a pair of hearing aids, and… the birds are still here! They are still singing, they are still out in the trees by the stream, greeting the day. I cried about halfway to the barn ,just because I could once again hear the birdies, and because they never left me after all. Their little arias are so good for my mood, and such an affirmation that we haven’t screwed up the planet beyond all recall just yet. What do you know, there are birdies singing at the horse barn too. I never knew…

The hearing aids are an adjustment–they make my own voice louder, so I’m tending to speak too softly. I’ll get over that, and I’ll learn which settings work best for which environments. They are uncomfortable, but I’m assured the discomfort fades with regular use. I might need child-sized devices, which we can sort out if necessary.

My hearing loss is following the most common pattern–the higher frequencies and the speech frequencies are hit the worst. I can still hear the washer and dryer, can still hear all the lawn mowers, even at a great distance (just my luck). I no longer detect the stream babbling when I sit on my porch in the evening. I cannot distinguish conversational speech clearly against a noisy background either, and that’s a life skill I still need. I also need to be able to think, and there is a scary-straight line correlation between loss of hearing and cognitive decline.

Recent studies posit that up to 32% of dementia cases could be prevented if those of us with poor hearing had the devices we needed to address the problem.

Untreated hearing loss means we lose the link between a sound and its meaning. In the nanoseconds while we’re sorting possibilities (“Did she say death and taxes or debt and taxes?”) we miss what else is being said, as well as context for what has been said already. Then we stop going out to lunch with friends, because we get tired of having to say, “I didn’t catch that. I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I missed what you said about your dog…” So we isolate ourselves socially, and cognition takes yet another hit. Untreated hearing loss is also linked to a much higher risk of depression, and you can just imagine your brain cells moaning over that news…

I need every possible neuron on the job at full strength for as long as possible, so I betook myself to the audiologist.

I bash for-greed medicine all the time, and these hearing aids were very, very expensive. But they work reasonably well, they are not obvious to the casual observer, and they gave me back the time of the singing birds and the music of my little rural stream. I am beyond grateful that I could afford them (for now), and every time I step outside–to take out the trash, to fetch the groceries from the car–I hear the birds singing, and I have a reason to stop and simply rejoice.

In the midst of these trying days, what gives you even the smallest reason to rejoice?

PS: I sent out the first batch of Advanced Reader Copies for A Gentleman of Questionable Judgment. I still have some open slots, so if you’d like an ARC file, just email me at [email protected] and let me know what device you read on.

As an undergraduate at Penn State, I became involved with the campus newspaper, The Daily Collegian. Our newsroom was housed in the Carnegie Building, a venerable old relic from the early 1900s. I never gave much thought to the building’s name, figured it had something to do with Andrew Carnegie, who was a Rich Guy who lived Back When.

I did know that Carnegie Building had been the university’s first free-standing library building, and it seemed appropriate that the School of Communications should inherit Carnegie Building (the largest school of communications in the country, who knew?).

Fast forward a few decades and I’ve just finished a biography of Andrew Carnegie, who was, in his day… the richest man in the world, richer by far than the oligarchs we have underfoot these days. He was the son of a Scottish weaver put out of work by technical advances in loom design. The family emigrated to Pittsburgh in 1848, where they had friends and relatives already established in the United States.

Carnegie rose to great wealth through a combination of luck (tons and tons of luck), charm, genuine business smarts, and sheer ruthlessness. His schtick was making steel, and he happened into that business at a time when America was building infrastructure at a phenomenal rate. Railways, bridges, skyscrapers, military vessels… all required tons and tons of steel, and Carnegie cornered the market, largely because eastern European immigrants were willing to work under hideous conditions rather than starve. Then too, he benefited enormously from protectionist tariffs levied to keep the American steel industry from having to compete with established suppliers overseas.

The Sherman Anti-trust Act owes much to men like Carnegie who colluded endlessly to enrich themselves and one another at the expense of their employees and customers.

But at the age of thirty-seven, Carnegie stepped away from active business. He turned over his companies to managers, he started looking for a buyer for what would become his U.S. Steel stock (John Pierpont Morgan took the bait many years later), and he began giving away enormous sums of money. He made it his public mission to give away staggering sums, funding all manner of public and academic libraries, technical schools, university posts, museums, and “Hero Funds,” to support the survivors of those who’d lost their lives trying to save others.

He also became an outspoken and tireless advocate for peace, using his social stature to presume on six different presidents more or less at will. He became an object of ridicule in old age, because men like Teddy Roosevelt regarded peace advocacy as so much impractical ranting from clueless dreamers. This did not stop Roosevelt from asking Carnegie for huge sums to fund a year long big game “research” hunt, and Carnegie came through.

This book did not sit well with me, in part because Carnegie was so contradictory. Maybe fiction writing and reading–or the news trying to impersonate entertainment?– has conditioned me to look for characters who fit into simple functional roles–protagonist, sidekick, mentor, antagonist. But I was also struck by the fact that this one small man (5 foot 3) was worth much more than any of our present day oligarchs in constant dollars, and he chose to use his wealth to found more than 1700 libraries in North America alone. One of his charitable foundations was responsible for the grant that resulted in Sesame Street and the Children’s Television Workshop.

His influence is nigh incalculable, as both a philanthropist, and as an example of a capitalist who could justify taking lives (ten workers were killed when strikebreakers were brought in to the Homestead Mill) for the sake of… money?

In any case, I found Carnegie’s tale important both for the good he did and the evil he perpetrated, but his story isn’t well known. If we included his Gospel of Wealth in our economics curricula (essentially, Rabbie Burns socialism under the guise of noblesse oblige), would we be where we are? Would we be in a worse place yet?

The book made me think and question some of my assumptions, and that’s a good thing. What important life stories have you come across that either inspired or troubled you?

PS: Look who finally got a cover!

I have plowed my way into what I call a compression phase, when the to-do’s pile up, the unforeseen must-do’s crowd in, and it’s an especially good idea (and hard) to stay organized. I knew I was ramping up efforts in the certified therapeutic riding instructor direction, and I knew I had teaching-how-to-write gigs in early April and late May. (I am not at all sure how I ended up with book releases back to back in April and May, though. Very puzzling.)

I did not know yard guy and I would part ways, and that I’d have to acquire, learn how to wrangle, and build into the schedule use of, a riding mower, blower, and weed whacker (all electric because I said so). This will doubtless change how I look at my flower gardening this year (perennials, here I come), but the weeds will come along in fine style no matter what I do. I own a very fertile two acres.

And then allergy season turned into, “Caught you a virus, sister,” season. Then the internet service provider (the one available where I live) crapped out and we have no word when service will be restored. Thank the heavenly powers for the ability to hotspot from my iPhone.

All of which is to say, things are busy, and except for the bug I caught, busy in a pretty good way. I’m doing the stuff I love to do (writing first thing most days; the occasional lunch with writing, horsing, or life buddies; ending each day with good reading). The yard work is something I used to do and can enjoy again, now that I have the right tools. The instructor certification process has taught me a lot and put me in the company of wonderful horses and great people.

BUT as I make my to-do lists every night, I’m feeling a little daunted. Those lists are long, and they are getting that hyper-detailed, don’t-forget-anything quality that suggests anxiety and overwhelm. Boo, hiss, wurra, wurra on anxiety and overwhelm. Those monsters tend to be very bad for the writing, I must not let them rule the day.

So I started making another list, and in the grand tradition this one has five things on it. This is my “For You,” list. I put on it small gestures and moments I can build into the day that send the message: You’re fine. There’s time for you to take care of yourself. No need to push any harder.

Stuff like: Linger in the shower for an extra couple minutes. Pick a bouquet of yard flowers for the bathroom. Have one of those cups of tea just sitting on the porch steps talking to the cats. Stop at the battlefield overlook on your way home from lunch and just breathe for a few minutes. Post something that encourages another writer (because when we are kind, WE feel empowered, and well we should).

I might not hit everything on the For You list, but even looking for the places in my day where I can pull over and pause makes the rest of my activity feel less like an obstacle course to be completed, day after day.

What are a few little moments you could add to your day if it feels like the to-do list is stealing your confidence and peace?

To earn the therapeutic riding instructor certification I’m pursuing takes a lot of steps. One requirement is for volunteer hours at a certified therapeutic riding facility, another is student teaching hours. You must also spend time demonstrating your knowledge of horse care for both well and unwell horses. A first aid certification figures early in the process as does a test of professional standards applicable to the discipline.

The list is long and complicated, and one of the items near the end is a video of you “demonstration teaching” a particular riding pattern.

In the twenty minutes allotted for this exercise, you as the instructor are supposed to hit about a 100 points of riding pedagogy. How exactly do we cue the horse to shift from standing still to walking? Walking to trotting? Trotting back to walking?

Blah, blah, blah, and the video cannot be edited in any manner. You either nail this video, or you are denied permission to take the final tests. No pressure.

I am very fortunate that another barn friend is working toward certification at the same time I am. We were airing our frustrations recently–this process is demanding–and he asked me, “So what will you get our demonstration rider by way of a thank you gift?”

Huh? “Erm… I’ll have to give that some thought.” [Our demonstration rider deserves the very best Gran Prix jumper on the planet.)

My friend went off on a flight about gift baskets, gift certificates, maybe both, and of course the videographer deserves a thank you too. For her he had another bushel of keen thank you ideas.

I felt kinda slapped up side the head. He was thinking of thank yous, I was thinking of my next heartfelt bellyache. At another point in our discussions, he mentioned that he’d bought a bottle of champagne to open when he completed all of his pre-final test requirements.

Not for when he earned the certification, which he will do, but for when he was staring down the barrel of the final exam.

“What if you flunk?” I asked, because about a third of the people taking the test do flunk, and every one of those good souls completed all the preliminary rigamarole I’m still grinding away at.

“I’ve flunked so many tests in my life. I’ll take the stinkin’ thing again if I have to. They let you do that.”

My friend has cultivated something beyond a growth mindset. He has that, certainly, but he’s also looking for opportunities to be appreciative and grateful, looking for reasons to celebrate. Looking for solutions rather than focusing on problems and decks that feel stacked.

He has been an inspiration to me, in that we are both trying to solve a problem–how do I get this certification?–but his process is more joyous, grateful, and optimistic than mine. That might be partly personality, but it’s also an attitude that can be cultivated.

This is me, going shopping for some bubbly!

Have you ever been honkin’ along, just doing your usual, when somebody brings you up short with the example they set or the outlook they adopt?

PS: The (formerly) Elusive Earl is now available in print, from the web store, and from the usual retail suspects!

I forget where I came across this idea, but it has been on my mind lately: We are wired to value what we suffer for. This aspect of human psychology is at least in part behind hazing, boot camp, most fitness programs, freshman weeder courses, and the practice of sending young people on evangelical missions. If you spend 18-24 months having doors slammed in your face, living on a shoestring, homesick, and subjected to rigid social strictures, you are set up to conclude that the inspiration for all those miseries must be a pretty worthy part of life.

A pernicious corollary is the notion of no pain/no gain.

In my life, I can certainly see the “if I’m suffering for this cause, it must be worthy” mechanism at work in parenting. Nothing wrung me out emotionally, physically, or financially, like being a single mom. I don’t think I have another slog like that in me, not for any motivation on this earth… except maybe my grand kids? I got caught up in the same rip tide, though, with child welfare lawyering.

That is largely miserable work. An occasional child would be adopted into a good situation where even the birth parents regarded the outcome as optimal all concerned, but the opposite scenario–abuse in foster homes, children’s lives ending tragically, social workers betraying trust, judges making stupid decisions for stupid reasons–was too often the case. But I stayed at my oar for 25 years, thinking that it was “important” work, and I knew how to do it, so I should spare others from having to take it on.

What has been puzzling me lately is that this dynamic–if I’m suffering for it, it must be a worthy relationship/institution/cause–typically pops up in precisely the areas where maintaining some objective judgment, or keeping a healthy boundary, is particularly important. We suffer for family, for the company that employs us, for the church that never seems to have enough volunteers or money, no matter what its bank balance is or how many seemingly not-so-busy people attend services.

On the one hand, I can see where this retrofitting of meaning onto suffering saves us from feeling stupid and betrayed, but on the other hand, when we are being foolish and being betrayed, we need to see pointless or unjust suffering for exactly what it is.

Have you ever talked yourself into sticking with a painful situation because “the work/relationship/cause is important,” only to heave yourself free eventually, and realize you should have walked much sooner?

I’ve sent out my ARCs for The Elusive Earl, and he’s already on sale in the web store  and in print (Friday he’ll be available from the retail sites), but give me a couple weeks, and I’ll be putting together the ARC file for A Gentleman of Questionable Judgment!