Saints and Sinners

I’m excited to be part of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival this month. My partner and I are taking the train and I think we’re both looking forward to twenty hours of peace and solitude before the big celebration. It’s a good time for an appearance. Eating Life has had a nice uptick in sales lately, spurred, perhaps, by the news that my fifth book, Coming Around Again, will be published by Sapphire Books Publishing in fall of 2018.

I’ll be on two panels and will be giving a reading, so if you are anywhere near New Orleans, consider coming out for this LGBT centered portion of the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival.


A New Way to Commune with Readers

Beth Patreon Flier

My patreon platform is going well for the first week or so. I have four patrons so far and I have posted quite a bit of content that others won’t get to see – short stories that will only be posted on Patron, rough drafts with editing notes, cover reveals that others don’t get to see yet – even blurbs from current WIPs.  The engagement so far is fun…. the readers seem to enjoy the content and they like having a say in what I post.

This upcoming week, the patrons are getting a video-reading from my upcoming novel, Coming Around Again, release date fall of 2018.

There’s even a rumor I may post some of my poetry, heretofore only seen by myself and my cat.

And no one has to wear pants.



Excerpt from Eating Life

From my novel Eating Life. It’s one of my favorite moments because I think it is the exact moment Ben chooses to stay alive. ❤


Casey knew that nothing she said could ease his pain. She waited, occasionally putting her hand on his head or his shoulder. Finally, his sobs subsided and he started breathing more normally. Casey reached across him to the counter and grabbed the bag of chocolate chip cookies.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Ben.

He laughed a little. “Chocolate chip cookies to save the soul.”

Casey shrugged. “Look at me,” she said, smiling. “Obviously I turn to food for comfort.”

Ben snorted. “You look great. Don’t disparage yourself.”

“I’m not. I’m being honest. I do turn to food for comfort.”

Ben shoved a cookie into his mouth. “So do I,” he said around a mouthful of half-chewed cookie.

“Yeah, but you’re skinny,” Casey said. “When you have food issues and you’re skinny, people are sympathetic. When you have food issues and you’re fat, people are just disgusted.”

“Jerky people.”

Casey patted Ben on the head and smiled. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this, Ben. But I’m going to try to keep you alive.”

He reached into the bag of cookies and looked up at her. “These cookies are a good start.”




Casey woke up wrapped in her sleeping bag with Dakota stretched out at her side. As bad as his hips were getting, he could usually find a way to jump into her bed when he wanted comfort. She stretched thoroughly and got up to go outside. Dakota followed her out the door, immediately lifting his leg on the nearest tree. Sadly noting how his leg barely came off the ground anymore, Casey watched him make his rounds of the trees and bushes. Noticing a break in the trees, Casey stepped over some tangled vines and headed for a small clearing. When she stepped out of the trees, she found herself looking down over the edge of a cliff at the Pacific Ocean. She thought about Ben throwing himself over the side of the cliff. What did it take to end one’s own life? Sad as she had been at so many points in her life, she could only remember one time when she was low enough to consider ending it. It was during the worst of the days with Ally, after the emotional abuse had turned physical. It was after Casey had already cut Megan out of her life because Ally hated her. Those were days when it felt as if she would never feel happy again. Once she had gotten out of that alive, she knew she would never take life, or Megan, for granted again. Sure, there were still a million little moments of sadness over the years. Megan had stepped in on several of those occasions, walking her through the deepest of her heartaches. She closed her eyes, calling up the strong and beautiful features of her most cherished friend. Megan could build a rocking chair and cook a soufflé. She had just enough mechanical knowledge to avoid getting ripped off when her car broke down. She could build a campfire, and she looked great in a suit. Casey wondered if Megan was happy now, working for the advertising company and supporting a partner. Dakota came up beside her and she rested her palm on the top of his head. Together, they stared at the waves.

A branch snapping behind her startled her out of her thoughts.

“Morning, early riser,” Ben mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he came up beside her.

“Hey. This is an amazing view.”

“What are your plans for the day?”

Casey shrugged. “I thought I’d wrestle some coffee out of my old percolator. Once that’s done, I’m going to take everything out of the car and repack. Hopefully I can make some more space. I didn’t organize it when I left Sedona, just threw everything in and left what wouldn’t fit.”

Ben smiled. “You’re a wanderer. Little pieces of you are all over the country. What happens when you decide to settle down?”

“I don’t know.” Casey sighed. “Some days, I think it would be nice to have a permanent home. Then I get to a place where I think I’ll stay for a while and after a few weeks, I start to get anxious that I’m missing something somewhere else.”

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Ben said.

“With or without you?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” he answered.

“I’d like to stay for a few days. The woods are my friend. But then I need to head out. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen Megan and I’m suddenly missing her like crazy.”

“Where does she live?”


“Memphis. I’ve never been,” Ben said.

“Want to go?”

“To Memphis?” Ben took a step back, laughing.

“Why not?” Casey shrugged. “Dakota likes you. Megan would probably adore you. What else do you have going on?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Well then.” She scritched Dakota behind the ears and turned to walk back toward the cabin. “I need some coffee. I’ll hang here for a couple of days and you can decide if you want to go with me to Memphis.”

“They make Krispy Kreme doughnuts there,” Ben said.

“Yeah. Warm off the line,” Casey laughed. “Dakota loves them.”

“Can we go to Graceland?”

Casey stopped, looking back over her shoulder. She stared at Ben, who looked back at her, expressionless.



“What the hell? One more overpriced tourist trap won’t kill me.”


Eating Life Cover



I’ve recently started using the crowd-powered content site Patreon. It’s a great way to offer content to readers and fans who want things that no one else will ever get!

Patreon offers a reward system. Sign up to pay a monthly fee and you get content from me that no one else gets to see – EVER.

Why would you do something like this?

  1. That content. Super awesome content. The best content of all-time. I mean, maybe.
  2. You’ll be a patron to an artist. (Writer.) Just like some old king.
  3. If I get enough patrons, I’ll just write and create content all the time and you’ll get even more awesome stuff.
  4. Not having to wear pants. (Okay, this one is really only for my benefit, but I know you want me to be happy and I’m happiest when I’m not wearing pants.) **For my UK friends, pants here = trousers. Don’t want to make this post PG13.

You can find my patreon page here 


And you can watch my welcome video right here. (Cheesy jokes come standard. Togas not included.)


The Winter Blahs

It always hits around mid-January, doesn’t it? The holidays are over, you’ve shoveled way more than you want to, you’ve debated moving somewhere warmer for the fifteenth time, and there’s nothing left to do but sit inside in seven layers and wait for spring.

I like to write during this time. I’m not going to be leaving the house much anyway, so I might as well make some productive use of my captivity. I wrote three books in 2017, and a great deal of that work happened in January and February. (And again late in the year in November.) In the spring, I like to be outside, and in the summer, there are conferences and road trips and camping. Winter is a good time to write.

Except  – it’s January 14th and I’ve only put about five thousand words down on paper. But I’m not beating myself up. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to not be hard on myself. I’m going to follow the same advice I give my students. Sit down and write for at least fifteen minutes a day. No matter what else happens, you can make time for fifteen minutes. You’ll be amazed at what you can do in fifteen minutes a day.

It’s my commitment to myself and my readers. Fifteen minutes a day. I may not write three books this year, but I will definitely write at least one.


2018 New Year’s Resolutions

Every year, I try to post my New Year’s resolutions – to commit to writing the things I hope to accomplish in the coming year. Last year, I think I came close to accomplishing most of what I set out to do.

This year, I resolve to be happy with my body just the way it is. I resolve to avoid dieting, to refuse to press myself into a patriarchal construct of accepted female appearance. This year, I’d like to continue to lovingly nourish my body with mostly plant-based foods, delicious teas, and perhaps a bit too much coffee. I resolve to continue to try new vegan recipes and to continue to delight in my own growth as a cook who can create delightful meals without stress.

This year I want to move my body more, stretch more, spend more time standing up from my desk. I want to dance without worrying what people are thinking about me. I want to touch my toes and stand on one foot and do a few minutes of yoga every day so my back doesn’t hurt after a long day of working.

I want to take Brutus out for more walks so, when the time comes that walks are no longer possible for him, we’ll know we made the most of the time he could enjoy the outdoors on his own four feet.

This year, I want to cherish my partner – I want to make sure she knows that I don’t take for granted how she loves and adores and desires me exactly the way I am. I want to make sure that she feels as special as she makes me feel. This year, I want to remember how hard it has been to spend so much time apart as we deal with immigration, and I want to appreciate how deeply we value the time together.  I resolve to appreciate the natural intimacy between us, and to continue to cultivate it as the years go by.

This year, I want to publish two of the three novels I wrote in 2017. I want to write one or two more. I want to win at least one short story contest. I’d like to submit to five anthologies in 2018.

I resolve to worry less about money while still working on upping my income. I’d like to get a job teaching creative writing. I want to sell more books. I resolve to not let the acquisition of things every become my focus, regardless of changes in income. This year, I promise to continue to give when I can, even when my finances are uncertain.

This year, I want to remember that it’s okay to feel lonely sometimes and that the best way to make friends is to reach out to friends. I want to encourage connections with old friends, and spend time with new. I want to send more paper letters, give away more books, spend more time video chatting with people I love, give hugs more freely.

This year, I resolve to turn over the pages of my calendar at the beginning of the month, rather than looking up at it in December and realizing it is still on May.

Finally, no matter what else happens, I resolve to remember that I deserve this.

Happy New Year, friends.


What is giving up?

I sold 91 copies of my most recent novel, Eating Life. 91 copies of a book that took two years to write, countless hours of rewriting, several pass-through revisions with an editor, and, figuratively, a lot of blood and sweat. (The tears were sometimes literal.)

91 copies of what I consider my best work yet.

91 copies of the book that made the most rabid fan of my first novel, Man Enough, the person who read my next two books and said, “Excellent, but no Man Enough,” finally, finally say, “And now I have a new favorite Beth Burnett book.” And it got excellent reviews. Read them for yourself here. And if you have read this book and haven’t reviewed it yet, why not?

91 copies. Enough money to pay the electric bill. For one month.

I know I don’t know how to market. I know I don’t do enough for my books to give them an audience. I know I’m not out there pounding the pavement looking for bookstores that will sponsor readings or repeatedly asking my library to carry my books. I don’t like it, it makes me anxious. I know sitting around hoping someone will set up an event for me and tell me to be there is not going to sell books. I get that.

But I have to admit that I really wish there was someone that did that.

The thing is, I fell in love with Eating Life. I fell in love with the characters. I thought one of them, Ben Stagg, was one of the best characters I have ever invented. So much so that he is going to come back in another book. I love him and the rest and I wanted everyone else to love them, too.

91 copies and I’m finally beginning to wonder if maybe this is not supposed to be my career. I know money isn’t the whole point, but it is part of the point. And it’s a special kind of sadness that comes when my alter ego, who writes short and easy little erotica stories on Amazon, makes more money from those little hour-from-start-to-finish stories than I do on the novels I’ve worked so hard on. Long ago, when I was complaining to a friend about my books not selling as well as I wanted, she said, “Write for yourself, not for an audience.”

Well, if that’s the case, why bother publishing? If the goal is to just write what you love and not let it matter whether or not anyone is reading it, why share it at all?

I’m still writing. I finished an excellent YA fantasy during NaNoWriMo. I have a completed lesbian love story that just needs some revision. And I have a women’s fiction book that is, in my opinion, funnier than much of the bestselling women’s fiction I’ve read.

I still love writing. But I don’t have the heart to deal with everything that comes after. I can’t seem to make myself  research publishers and agents or send out query letters. I think I just need to take a break from it all. Not from writing – from writing for reasons other than to just write.

I’d love to know how other writers deal with this. What do you do when you don’t sell? How do you reconcile marketing versus writing versus deciding to just go get a day job? When do you decide to stop seeing writing as your dream and relegate it back to a hobby?



Many years before The Love Sucks Club was even on my radar, before I had even entertained the idea of writing any novels at all, I wrote a short story called “Dreams.” It started in high school, with a short story about a woman who told her dreams to her partner every morning when she woke up. The main character was Jennifer and my teacher found it fascinating – as did I – it stayed in my head for almost twenty years until I wrote the following story.

A few years after writing this story, a conversation with my best friend Aj led to the idea of The Love Sucks Club and Jennifer popped into my mind again. Something about her appealed to me and though I didn’t see her having her own book, I wasn’t quite ready to put her in the bottom of the dead ideas pile. I pulled it out, polished it off, and opened a novel with it. Jennifer from this story became Esmé in The Love Sucks Club and the narrator became Dana.

I found this story again tonight while going through the old “fragments and short stories never published” folder and decided to bring it out to show how sometimes the writing process really can take over twenty years from start to finish.



       It all comes down to this. Her body under mine is slim, yet soft. Her wet bikini leaves smears of water on my clothes. I push salty strands of hair out of her face and as I press my mouth against hers, I think, “This is the moment in which my entire life changes forever.”

Jennifer looked a bit like a teenage boy. She was slim and long. Her legs seemed to bend at strange angles when she sat and somehow, she always seemed in danger of knocking something over with her elbows. Jennifer’s deep brown hair, longish over the face, short everywhere else, stuck up in impossible pieces all over her head. Yet, there was something so female about her, something in the curve of her jaw, or the length of her neck, or the perfect shape of her ears.

I saw Jennifer for the first time at a beach bar on Strand St. I was sitting alone with my notebook, nursing a beer. I heard the men in the bar muttering to themselves, but I didn’t pay much attention. On an island as small as this, any new girl is a reason for a press release. I continued to scribble dream worlds in my notebook. I fancy myself a writer, some cross between Robert A. Heinlein without the nipple fixation and Robert B. Parker without the testosterone.

I didn’t look up again until a few droplets of water across my page interrupted my thoughts. I blinked against the glare which was outlining the most striking woman I had ever seen. I don’t think I thought she was beautiful, or even hot, not then, but she left me stunned. Her mouth was full and smiling, and her face completely open. Her eyes, hazel, with flecks of gold were full of amusement and vitality. I just looked at her, my face impassive.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer.”

I nod. Look pointedly down at my notebook and back up at her.

“The guys at the bar told me not to talk to you.”

“They were probably right,” I answered, looking back down at my notes.

“They said you believe that your dreams tell the future.”

I ignored her and  sat, trying to write, trying to think of anything that could take my attention, while she stood there for several moments. I could feel her eyes on the top of my head and I fought against every impulse in my body that was telling me to look up. Finally, I heard her leaving. I waited a few minutes, then got up and left. They know me here, I spend enough time at this table, drinking their booze and eating their overpriced fried food to warrant a tab that I pay on a monthly basis. There are advantages to being the local celebrity.

Three days later, I took my morning coffee onto the deck and Jennifer was sitting on a lounge chair. I glared at her.

“You’re on private property.”

“I asked the bartender where you live. She said I couldn’t miss it. She was right. It’s beautiful up here, do you live alone?”

“I live alone because I prefer to be alone, “ I snapped. “What do you want?”

“I read Annabelle’s Lies,” she said quietly. “I had a dream that we met and fell in love.”

I sat down, and passed a hand over my eyes. Annabelle’s Lies. I didn’t want to be reminded of Annabelle or her lies. I glanced at Jennifer, resisting the urge to straighten the hair that was blowing across her face.

Several hours later, Jennifer was still occupying my space, drinking my booze and rummaging in my refrigerator. She moved constantly, opening and closing books, looking at my artwork, touching the glass frames. Her hands were always in motion, she had a frenetic energy that kept me in a constant state of anticipation. Everything she said, everything she did seemed like a prelude to something else. My head was spinning.

Five days later, she hadn’t left. I took her back to her hotel to get her clothes. I took her to K-mart, the island’s only store to stock up on bathroom supplies and makeup and postcards. She cleaned my kitchen and cooked for me. I didn’t eat fried bar food for five whole days.

During the day, we went to secluded beaches and snorkeled and swam. On shore, she fed me fruit and wine from her picnic basket, while I rubbed her pale skin with suntan lotion. She jet-skied while I watched.  She went diving. She jumped off of a cliff. She learned how to kite surf and parasail and skydive, and I paced obsessively on the shore, sure she was never coming back. At night, I made love to her on the porch, under the stars and let her gently mock my awkward fumbling.

“It’s been three years,” I muttered. “And there was no one before Annabelle.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I know.”

Every morning, she made me tell her my dreams, sure that there was meaning in every one. She quoted to me from my novel, in which I wrote about my dream of the Old Man and the Sea. I was a young boy, and I sat in a boat, and the old man wanted to tell me something, but I could never understand what it was. After Annabelle died, I finally figured it out, but it was too late. I talked about the old man, but I wouldn’t talk about Annabelle. I wouldn’t talk about those dreams. I talked about all of the others, though. Jennifer loved to hear about my dreams, and I elaborated on them, weaving her into my tales of lucid dreaming, precognition, and fairy tale worlds.

Five days.  This morning, I refused to tell Jennifer about my dream. I didn’t want her to leave the house today, but she insisted we go out and be among people. Jennifer didn’t want me to be a hermit, she didn’t want the others to hate me, to tell the tourists not to talk to me. She wanted to go snorkeling, she wanted to be in the water. Jennifer insisted. It is important to remember that Jennifer insisted.

It all comes down to this. Her body under mine is slim, yet soft. Her wet bikini leaves smears of water on my clothes. I push salty strands of hair out of her face and as I press my mouth against hers, I think, “this is the moment in which my entire life changes forever.” I breathe hard into her mouth, then switch my hands to her sternum. I fall into the rhythm of the CPR. Push, push, push, breathe, repeat. The familiarity weighs on my shoulder. I breathe into her mouth over and over, until the ambulance shows up and the EMTs take over. This is it, this is the pattern of my life.

I don’t think I will dream tonight.

Conference Call

The incredible Bella Books and GCLS anthology Conference Call is a delightful collection of short stories by some of the best writers in lesbian fiction. The proceeds go to the Golden Crown Literary Society, an organization designed to promote, education, and recognize lesbian literature.


I contributed an intense story about an affair – written in first person collective which puts the reader in the audience with the rest of the conference goers. And that is just one among many. It is worth a read.