My critique group loves FIREHOUSE.
Tony calls it stunning; a work of monumental beauty revealing the fragility of love inside lonely brick firehouses. Gerald, who sees auras, thinks that I've tinged my romances with an olive aura of despair and lonelytude and turned it into an alien-shrimp weapon for political reasons. Itsa. Rage. Rage against. That is Gerald's bigtime compliment. Billy Samms thinks FIREHOUSE deserves the Pulitzer.
Betsy had a vision about FIREHOUSE. She doesn't explain her visions, not since the abduction. Except when she gets high and giggles and details the dozen aspects of alien bodily violations and her concerns that Paula Abdul is a communist.
The only thing Ronnie Jeremy Junior our ginger boy hates is the name. Hates it and thinks the title should be changed to Red Rod Rising. Polly, who sometimes can't understand multi-syllabic words, says it sounds like that O'Reilly book--A Steaming Puddle of Hot Fresh Man-Juice and My Dung Heap. To tell the truth, I think Polly was touched by the fever as a child and nips the Muscatel. Manuel Grippe, a squid, distributed Valium to calm down Ronnie and Polly. Drugs redefin the novel's aura real good.
Shelly my wife, says FIREHOUSE reads like "Hey Baby, I got my big fire hose and I’m goin' to do ya right, just like those aliens did to Betsy's body," and she says that with a smile. We argued all last week; good book, bad title. We all love a great story. You all will love it too. It speaks eloquently of love; lost, gained and unrequited.