Author Spotlight: Jeanne Barrack

A few weeks ago I was a guest on Jeanne Barrack's nifty blog, The Sweet Flag. Now it's my pleasure to return the favor. Jeanne is here today to talk about her novel The Sweet Flag (appropriate for Veteran's Day) and her predilection for Antonio Banderas.

The Sweet Flag is currently available from Loose Id. Here's a blurb:

Brandon Keats is a paranormal investigator, specializing in Civil War phenomena. As a gay man, he's searched for years for evidence of gay paranormal activity. When he finally finds what he believes to be an example of this, he decides to confront the ghost of a homosexual Civil War soldier at the grave where he's been sighted.

Ron Tayvail has guarded the grave of Matthew Hardesty for years. When he learns of Brandon's interest in the legend of "The Vigilant Soldier", he's determined to dissuade him from any deeper investigation. He didn't realize that he'd fall in love with the fellow on first sight. And yearn to become his lover. For always.

Don't miss the excerpt from The Sweet Flag, behind the link at the bottom of the post.

Why do you write?

Because if I don't I get a headache. All those ideas inside my noggin would explode if I didn't pop the cork every now and then. And as for those characters wandering around bumping into each other and clamoring for attention…if you don't give them something to do they tend to annoy you and poke you at the oddest hours of the day.

What is your favorite guilty pleasure?

Watching the show “Flipping Out”. It's about this spoiled, egotistical flipper (person who buys property/houses; remodels, redesigns and then sells them at a profit) and his problems. I don't know why I like the show, but I get this weird kick watching it.  

How did you start writing?

Writing for publication began when my mother passed away suddenly and I was downsized. I had time on my hands and a full-fledged story that came to me in a dream. Yep, a dream. I wrote the story in about six months and then did the contest route with it until my husband said to stop dorking around and submit it for publication. I did.

What was one of your favorite books as a kid?

I loved all of the Louisa May Alcott books. And my favorite was actually “Little Men”, the sequel to “Little Women”.

Who is your favorite character, and why?

I love all my gals and guys but I think if I had to pick one character it would probably be deMonde from The Sweet Flag. He's very much at ease with who he is and he is so darn sexy. I think he's one of my more complex characters. Plus, he sings and for me, as a vocalist, I really relate to him.

Do you now write, or have you ever written, fanfic? If so, what fandoms, pairings, etc?

 I used to write fanfic but not for the typical fandom. I wrote fanfic based on the films of Antonio Banderas! With so many different movies in his career, both American and Spanish and in just about every genre including gay films, we had a small but dedicated group who wrote what happened after the movie ended or put the character in a different setting or just took the sexy Banderas and had him become involved with the writer.

So, for instance I wrote about appearing on Broadway in a version of Evita. He starred with Madonna in the film “Evita” and played the part of Che. Banderas starred in the revival of the musical “Nine” several years ago and has a great singing voice.  

What kind of impact do you hope your work will have on readers?

That they'll close the book and want to further explore the world I introduced them to.

Kirk, or Spock?

Spock, during the mating season.  

Please click the link below for an excerpt from The Sweet Flag in which DeMonde finally begins the story that led to the legend of the “The Vigilant Soldier”

Ron lay on his side facing me, not touching. I looked back at him, unwilling to hear the next phase of Hardesty and deMonde's story. The closer we'd come to the end of their lives together, the sooner I'd have to leave. He'd have nothing more I'd need to know. I'd have no excuse to stay with him.
I wanted an excuse. I needed one. He wouldn't believe that I was falling in love with him. I could hardly believe it myself. It had to be the fault of the tonic.

Didn't it?

He curled his fingers as though trying not to reach out to me, looked down at the mattress, and then spoke.

“He did it for deMonde.”

“What?”

“Joined the army, joined the fight for freedom. He feared if the South won, there wouldn't be even the slightest possibility of their relationship, their love, continuing. If it ever became known that deMonde was of mixed blood, a Jew and a Negro, they'd find the tallest tree and string him up. It was dangerous to pass yourself off as white, and Jews were often stigmatized. Matthew's close association with deMonde could restrict or bar him from polite society, but Matthew believed fervently that the freedom the North touted would truly mean freedom for all.” Ron blew out his breath. “They fought bitterly, DeMonde so much wiser in the way he viewed the fervor that swept the young country. It came to a crux the day Matthew stormed from the house and didn't return until late that evening.

“DeMonde spent the hours convincing himself that Matthew just needed time alone. That he'd come to his senses. He paced his bedroom hoping that he was right. He had no stomach for food or drink and found himself praying to whatever God would listen that Matthew wouldn't throw his life away.”

Ron raised his eyes, a sheen of tears clinging to them. Even if I hadn't known the outcome, it would have been easy to guess. I wanted to hold him, but I wasn't sure if he'd push me away or if my touch would send him over the edge.

“DeMonde knew as soon as Matthew entered his room that his fears had been realized. He merely asked him, 'When?'

“Matthew's response was to the point, 'Soon.'

“Time enough to give their housekeeper her congè for a few weeks without the worry of keeping their guard up. Time enough to indulge in making love in every room of their home and in every way possible. Time enough to exhaust deMonde's efforts to sway his lover from his foolishness. Time enough for deMonde to convince the military that, as a Frenchman, he wished to join his American brethren in their fight for liberté, egalité, et fraternité and, greasing the right palms, join Matthew as a junior officer.” Ron paused and took a breath. “Thankfully, things were not so by the book as they are these days, yes?”

I nodded. Military regulations were far more chaotic back then. Entire towns, counties, groups joined up as volunteers and elected their own officers. This laissez-faire attitude would have made deMonde and Hardesty's situation a little easier.

“They had vowed they would never be apart, and despite the war, they kept that vow.” He paused. “At least, they did their best to keep that vow.”

He stopped abruptly, shook his head, and then tried to speak. He wrenched out each word as though it tore out his heart.

“They went through two years of campaigning. Two years of battles and skirmishes. DeMonde always at Matthew's back. They found that if they were discreet, they could be together in every way. They shared a tent and made love quietly. It helped that both were without fear on the battlefield, and Matthew's men admired his bravery. Often around the campfires, deMonde would sing for the men, everything from popular parlor songs of the day to operatic arias. They applauded them all, stamping their feet and whistling. The sound of his voice comforted the soldiers on both sides of the fray. Memories of home grew brighter listening to him, and often he'd sing requests from the wounded men, whether hymns or love songs. They proved their worth, these two men, and no one cared if they were more than Damon and Pythias to each other.”

He poured a glass of the tonic and sipped it, offering some to me that I turned down. I wanted to focus on his words and not on his voice.

“The Gettysburg Campaign began on a hellish day in June and continued far past the third of July. Everyone saw the irony of fighting on the day that marked America's freedom from England. The men were dispirited. They had lost so many battles. The Union Army had had so many commanders, and each one seemed worse than the previous ones. Meade took over that month with little hope of changing the course of the War. And now they faced Robert E. Lee, the greatest Confederate general. You know how bloody the battle was, but miraculously, Matthew and deMonde came through with only minor wounds.” Ron gulped and cleared his throat before he spoke again.

“Keeping up the advantage, Meade followed Lee as the Confederates retreated into Virginia. They fought at Williamsport and Boonsboro in Maryland, regrouping; the Union troops always close on the heels of the Southerners. The men were eager to pursue them, their spirits high from the victory.”
Ron's voice grew more hoarse as he spoke, emotion ripped through him as he struggled to get the next words out. I didn't need to be a mind reader to see how much it cost him to continue.

“The battle of Wapping Heights was a footnote in the War. It began at dawn on the twenty-third of July as the Union soldiers attempted to cut off the Confederates at Front Royal, Virginia, by guiding them to Manassas Gap, an opening too narrow for a speedy retreat. The day was hot and dusty; the wool uniforms clung to the men and scratched the tender skin of the young flag bearer that deMonde had taken under his wing. The youth loved music and often played the harmonica as accompaniment to deMonde's more frivolous songs. He gave the boy his handkerchief to cover the uniform's stiff collar and reminded him that he'd want it back after the battle.”

Ron gasped out a laugh and flung himself on his back, clutching his stomach as if he'd taken a knife to his gut. Laughter changed to anguish, and I reached out to comfort him. He seized my hand and hauled me into his arms. He gripped my hair and ground his lips against mine, bruising my mouth and abrading my skin against his five o'clock shadow. He wrenched his face away and whispered fiercely, “No more. Not now. I cannot. Later. Please. Later.”

I rocked him in my arms and didn't give a damn if he never told me what happened next.