Hello Delilah! Thank you so much for inviting me here today to discuss my latest release. Didn’t See You Coming is an LGBTQ young adult paranormal ghost story romance novel.
Phew.
That’s a lot to cram into a description, but I want to make certain to hit all the high points – gay teenagers, ghosts, a touch of romance.
I’ve never written a young adult novel before. I’ll be frank — I don’t read a ton of them either. But some have crossed my path, and I’ve snapped them up — several that were LGBTQ. I still wouldn’t have felt remotely qualified to write one.
Yet you’re thinking…but Gabbi, you did write one.
This all started back in April. My publisher, The Wild Rose Press, held an open chat where they discussed their new YA series. I almost didn’t attend the chat, but something said do it! So I went with my gut and attended the chat. When the concept of Pinedale High School in North Carolina was introduced, I was mildly interested. As the chat continued, though, I was hit with a thunderbolt. I needed to write a book. A book for the series. A book with LGBTQ characters. I hoped other authors would include gay kids in their books, but I realized we needed a book where the queer kids were the protagonists. My gut had directed me to that chat. That same gut said I had to write a book.
Since 2024 was the year of hell yes! I asked in the chat if they would be interested in a sweet LGBTQ story. I got an enthusiastic hell yes. At the same time, I was talking to Plot Whisperer in DMs who was waking up on the other side of the world. I started talking to her and she suggested a naked ghost.
I was like…huh?
Still, the publisher chat ended with a request we submit proposals. I spent a week working the details out in my mind and, through my editor, submitted a proposal.
And then I didn’t hear back.
I didn’t worry because I was literally up to my neck in a different book.
Then I got the proverbial “call.” The one all writers wait for.
Well, not quite. The president of the publisher, who is also the senior editor for the young adult line, emailed me and said, “How fast can you write this?”
I was like, “Fast…” (Because in the year of hell yes we agree to everything.) She said, “Do it.” She also placed a virtually impossible deadline before me.
But she saw, I believe, what I saw — the chance for authentic representation. The chance to show queer kids in a positive light.
A couple of weeks later, I was ready to write. I had my gay couple, my lesbian couple, my ghosts…and no effing clue what I was doing.
No worries, Plot Whisperer to the rescue. I gave her what I had — which was actually a lot more than I usually have — and together we crafted a solid plot. The problem? I had six point of view characters. Now, most authors will tell you that’s Herculean. Some would say impossible. Hell, some said to me that it wasn’t possible. I believed in this book, though, so I wrote it the way it was begging to be written. With six equal characters.
50k words in 17 days. While I was working. Just…insane.
Then came the brutal beta readers. I don’t normally have so many, but I needed honest opinions. And I got them. One suggested cutting a character entirely and said the epilogue didn’t work. One found certain aspects confusing. Brutal beta reader sort of took it apart and then helped me put it back together. Sensitivity reader taught me more about my blind spots. I write interracial romances, and I will always have someone read my work to ensure I’m getting it as right as I can.
Finally, I had my teenage beta reader. They got the final draft. I will say, when I approached their mom, a good friend, I didn’t know beta reader’s circumstances. That they’d changed their name and their pronouns. That they sort of identified as nonbinary. To say I felt privileged they were willing to help would be an understatement. But they were honest with me and made the book so much better. With their critical stamp of approval, I sent the book to my editor.
I also was required to send a synopsis. I begged my editor, for just this one time (okay, second, but who’s counting?) to not read the synopsis and to read the book cold. She didn’t know about the six POV characters. If she didn’t get the book, I knew massive edits would be required. She had veto power over the book — if it didn’t work, it wasn’t going to get published.
I’ll never forget I submitted it on July 4th. My editor is American, so I had no expectations. She answered my email that she had it and would get back to me within a week.
Thus began the wait.
Four hours later, her glowing email arrived. She loved it. Edits, to be sure, but she loved it.
Now, I will confide I had to fight to keep every F-bomb. And the book, aside from language, is genuinely sweet. It’s also the book of my heart. I wanted full representation — and I got it. Gay, bi, lesbian, and naked ghost. A multicultural story.
Naturally, I’m hoping readers love the book. My nonbinary beta reader asked me when I was going to write the next book for them. (Spoiler alert — possibly sooner than anyone expected.) This is a book I’m proud to share with people. This is a book I’m encouraging people to ask their library to order. I want this book in the hands of as many teenagers as possible. So kids won’t feel alone. So they’ll know they’re seen. That their stories matter.
Okay! That was a lot. From the book I never thought I’d write to today was an intense eight-month journey. That’s short in the world of traditional publishing. An entire team worked their asses off to make certain we would be the third book in this series and that I could bring representation. In the end, I’m grateful to have been given this opportunity. To the publisher, to my beta readers, to my editor — to everyone.
I also managed to get the book recorded on audio by the wonderful narrator Michael Ferraiuolo. He did such an amazing job and I’m hoping listeners get a real taste of my story.
Thank you, Delilah, for inviting me here today. I’m so grateful, as always, that you provide me with this opportunity to share my work. As a thank you, I’d like to award one lucky commenter with a prize. For a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, please let me know if you’ve read any young adult novels that stuck with you. Or what was your favorite book you read as you were growing up? Judy Blume was a favorite of mine (yes, I’m dating myself). Random will pick the winner. Thank you and good luck!
Didn’t See You Coming
Pinedale High—where every shade of love stands a ghost of a chance.
Holden and Peyton don’t expect much from senior year. He probably won’t manage to date any guys. She’ll still pine over Juliette, the beautiful and unattainable cheerleader. But when they step between class bullies and Oliver, a super-hot transfer student, their year starts to go off the rails.
As a star football player, Oliver hadn’t anticipated trouble. Turns out Pinedale High not only comes with bullies, but with new friends, plus the ghost of a Civil War soldier, and a shy naked guy in the library. Between the living and the dead, senior year is about to get interesting.
USA Today Bestselling author Gabbi Grey lives in beautiful British Columbia where her fur baby chin-poo keeps her safe from the nasty neighborhood squirrels. Working for the government by day, she spends her early mornings writing contemporary, gay, sweet, and dark erotic BDSM romances. While she firmly believes in happy endings, she also believes in making her characters suffer before finding their true love. She also writes m/f romances as Gabbi Black and Gabbi Powell.
In case you didn’t already know, I have new releases coming soon! Little Green Dreams arrives soon on December 12th (I moved the date up a week!); Malcolm on January 16th; and What Happens in Bozeman on February 20th! Malcolm is the next Montana Bounty Hunters: Dead Horse, MT, story, and What Happens in Bozeman is the next We Are Dead Horse, MT book. Little Green Dreams is a standalone title, for now. Depending on how readers enjoy it, there may be more stories that follow. Believe me, I have some ideas…
I hope you’re looking forward to them all and that you’ll take a moment to pre-order each one so you don’t miss them when they release! I promise there’s humor, sexiness, and small-town adventures in each.
The Gurdon Light
Central to my next release, Little Green Dreams, is a local phenomenon that occurs some 20-odd miles down the road from me called The Gurdon Light. The TV show Unsolved Mysteries even did an episode featuring the legend, which I mention in my story because it was a big deal back in the day that lent some legitimacy to the legend since they couldn’t find a scientific cause for the Light. And just so you know, I’ve seen it, too.
The Gurdon Light is Arkansas’s most famous legend. There’s a certain length of old, abandoned railroad track near Gurdon, Arkansas, where a mysterious light can be seen when you walk down the tracks. It’s a bright orb that appears to swing side to side. And it’s not shy. It appears often. Local universities have taken students out there to try to find the source of the Light, but they’ve pretty much ruled out things like swamp gas because the light doesn’t dissipate in the wind.
The legend the locals tie the Light to is a sad story. This is a snippet from the book where I explain the supposed origin of the Light:
“William McClain was a foreman working for the Missouri-Pacific railroad. Late one evening, he was finishing up when he was approached by one of his workers, Louis McBride. It was during the Depression…1931, as I recall. Times were hard, and Mr. McBride, although he had a job, wanted more hours because he needed money. The railroad had strict rules about how many hours a man could work, so Mr. McClain said he couldn’t give him any more. They got into an argument, and McBride raised his shovel and struck McClain in the head. Then he beat him to death with a spike maul—it’s a tool a railroad man uses, like a sledgehammer. It was an awful thing.”
Ever since Mr. McClain’s murder, the light appears on the tracks. Locals say it’s the railroad lantern he carried.
So, that’s the legend I piggybacked my book on. Although, I have a very different explanation for the phenomenon because, hey, I’m a storyteller and that’s what I do—I make stuff up. 🙂
Watch this very short episode from a local newscast, interviewing someone who has seen the Light.
Contest
For a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, tell me about a legend from your “neck of the woods!”
My daughter found the image, and I love it! And yes, it doesn’t look like any other cover I have, and I guess that’s the point. This story isn’t about an ex-military man keen to protect a woman. It’s about a reporter going after a story, who happens to fall for a small-town girl who’s trying to protect her crazy mother. And it’s a setting and a legend I’m well-familiar with while I’m poking fun at it and twisting it all out of recognition. So, while you might think this cover makes it look like it’s out of the 1950s or 60s, it’s quirky enough to suit the story.
I’m busy working on a book this NaNoWriMo! It’s one I’ve been wanting to write for forever. Seriously. I shaped the opening of the story back in 2002—twenty-one years ago, and those first chapters were sent to many, many writer’s contests, and gained awards, but something happened that pushed this project to the back of the line—I got published. And then I got published again, and again, and again.
I learned what I could write that would sell, and every time I saw Little Green Dreams in my “Future Projects” folder, I’d sigh because I knew (know) it would be a hard sale.
So, why now? I love this story for a whole lot of reasons I’ll try to explain here.
#1 — It’s the only story I’ve set in Arkansas, where I currently live, and where I spent my high school and college years.
#2 — My father, who passed in 2019, led me down the train tracks in his hometown of Gurdon, Arkansas, so that I could get “the lay of the land” when I wrote about the Gurdon Light. He was delighted I thought the legend was “worthy” of a book.
#3 — Many of the characters I write about in the story are modelled after real people I’ve met. If you read the story, you may think I’ve written some over-the-top characters, but yes, they’re that funny and odd.
#4 — It’s a story that’s hard to pin into one genre. It’s contemporary, a romantic comedy, and it’s both a sci-fi and paranormal tale. So, there!
Despite all the reasons I know I should concentrate on something you’ll be eager to read, I’m stubbornly, finally, writing this story—a strange little homage to my roots and my dad.
Little Green Dreams
Still no official cover, but I’m working on it!
Sometimes, Joe Franchetti hates his job at the National Informer, especially when he’s sent on assignment to cover a story involving aliens from another world. When he is sent to investigate the story of a woman in rural Arkansas who claims her husband was abducted by aliens, he vows to debunk her story, no matter how much the truth might hurt her attractive daughter.
Sandra Billingsley has a problem. Her stepfather is missing, and her mother is the prime suspect in his disappearance. In addition to protecting her eccentric mother from a possible murder investigation, now she must contend with a national tabloid reporter set on exposing her mother as a murderess or a madwoman.
While the investigation turns up more suspects and the local townspeople scheme to profit from the “alien invasion”, Joe and Sandra work together to unravel the mystery, knowing their attraction is doomed to end in pain when the truth is revealed.
I’m a huge fan of Sci-Fi movies and TV. My favorites include ALL THE STAR TREKS, Arrival, Aliens, Farscape, and Firefly.
For a chance to win your choice of story from among my backlisted books, tell me which science fictions movies or television shows you would recommend!
This month on May 26th, my mother turned 92. As I thought about an African-American woman I wanted to honor in my post this month, Catherine Louise Williams Taylor Phillips came to my mind.
Lately, I’ve been asking her questions from a book/journal called My Mother’s Life: Mom I Want To Know Everything About You. I speak to her every morning and after our check-in ritual, I ask her if she’s ready for the question of the day. She says yes, answers what she can recall then shares anecdotes that have nothing to do with the question. That’s my momma.
I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the turn of the 20th-centuryth century song “M-O-T-H- E- R (M Is For The Million Things She Gave Me).” Here’s a vintage recording if you want to give a listen. It’s a schmaltzy ditty that touches my heart because of the mother I was fortunate to have. So today, I want to celebrate a few of the million things my mother gave me.
My mom was born on May 26, 1930 and was sent to live down South with her grandmother when she was a few months old. She shared with me that she didn’t even know there was a depression and regales me with stories of being the spoiled red-haired fox her uncles chided and chastised.
When Alex Haley’s Roots was televised, she wondered what the big deal was then proceeded to tell me about the Pitt family that owned her grandparents. When I let her know I’d decided to pursue a Masters degree two years after graduating from college and having worked in the big bad world of advertising, it was only then she shared that she had been hoping I would go back to school. She even declared, “Why who knows? You may want to go on and get a PhD.” That was the first time I realized my mother wished things for me, but by her restraint showed she respected that what I wanted when and if I wanted it was what was important.
In things small and large, she made it plain—not only to me but to my sister as well—that we were to be who we wanted to be. We weren’t put on this earth to live up to anyone’s expectations. She recalled a time my sister came to her with a picture she had drawn and said, “I couldn’t do it as good as Anna.” To which my mother assured her she wasn’t supposed to do it as good as Anna. She was supposed to do it as good as Muriel. When I felt unconfident or about to settle for less than what I was worth, I recalled her telling me with great vehemence, “You can scrub toilets before you kiss anybody’s ass.” She doesn’t remember saying this but I do, and I will always be grateful for the confidence those words instilled.
As a minister, I’ve helped families in which the relationship between mothers, daughters and sons was strained and far from loving. They can’t sing without reservation as I can the last line of the song I shared above but thanks to the love I have from my mom, I’ve found ways to help honor their struggles and woes.
The last line of M-O-T-H-E-R goes, “Put them all together they spell MOTHER. A word that means the world to me.” I will forever be grateful to my mother who means the world to me. For a chance at a $10 Amazon gift card, share in the comments about someone who was a mother to you or perhaps you have mothered.
HauntedSerenade – by Anna M. Taylor
All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived haunted by the curse of Poor Butterfly: women still longing for but deserted by the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, Anora fled Harlem for Brooklyn, not only severing her ties with her mother Angela, but also ending her relationship with Winston Emerson, her lover and the father of her child.
Six years later, Anora comes home to make peace, but an unseen evil manifests itself during the homecoming and targets not only Anora, but her little girl Cammie.
With nowhere to run, Anora must confront the evil now trying to destroy her life. She vows to protect her daughter at all costs, but if that protection can only be found with Winston back in her life, how will Anora protect her heart?
Excerpt from Haunted Serenade…
In September 15, 1963, the one year anniversary of my aunt Diana’s death, four young girls in Birmingham, Alabama died when their church was bombed for its involvement in the Civil Rights movement.
My mother called that evening and inquired after my health and the health of my daughter Cammie – the granddaughter she vowed never to acknowledge.
Fear, anger and sorrow sounded in her voice. Mine too. We mourned those girls, their families and the sister/aunt we both loved. In that spoken grief, I silently mourned what had died between my mother and me.
The following month she called again, this time inviting me to bring Cammie to dinner. Like some sulky child, I felt tempted to ask what took her so long. Instead, I swallowed my hurt and came home.
Some years ago I read a book by Paula Giddings entitled When and Where I Enter: The Impact of Black Women on Race and Sex in America. The stories I read about women who made history from Ida B. Wells to Shirley Chisholm inspired me then and inspire me still. But the book had an unexpected outcome on me. At least unexpected by me, but I suspect not by the author.
Giddings’s title made me stop and think about where and when I enter history as well. School has trained us to think of history as something made by others, but you and I make history in small and large ways every day. As a minister, I have worked with at least a hundred churches and their ministers and lay people seeking how to share their faith and resources with their communities. As part of a community organizing group, I helped address issues of inequality in the communities in which I lived and worked.
As I look back on the last year and a half, I am filled with awe and pride by the creative ways neighbors have helped one another get through the tragedy of this pandemic. These acts of kindness—both random and intentional—will be included in books written about this time. Those who acted will be cited by name just as Giddings’s book names women like Anna Julia Cooper and Mary McLeod Bethune, who chose to challenge the racism and sexism of their day.
However, there are many more who will remain unnamed but whose acts will have touched hearts and minds and spirits, enabling everyone to be encouraged during this difficult time. The smile you share with a stranger from a distance or a phone call you make to someone who is homebound create ripples of goodness that touch the universe in many pay-it-forward ways we may never know. I wonder if this isn’t why history has always had my heart.
My initial idea for this post was to share unsung Black history events that took place in June, events that aren’t getting the attention June 19th—Juneteenth—is getting. Juneteenth commemorates June 19, 1865, when in Galveston Bay, Texas, the Union army announced the official end of slavery to more than two hundred and fifty thousand enslaved people. There’s a move to make Juneteenth a national holiday but is anyone commemorating June 17, 1775 when Peter Salem and Salem Poor were commended for their service at the Battle of Bunker Hill? As I made my list of such lesser-known events for this post, I realized even Peter Salem and Salem Poor had their names recorded in a place where I could find them and their deeds. Inspired by the title of Giddings’ book, I switched gears and decided to make this post a place where you and I could share when and where we enter history. That way someday someone can come across this post and read about where and when you entered history.
So for a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift card, but more importantly to be remembered for posterity, share a moment in your life when you made an impact on the history we call everyday life.
Haunted Serenade
All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived as “Poor Butterflies”: women still longing for but deserted by the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, Anora fled Harlem for Brooklyn, severing her ties with her mother, Angela, and with the man who broke her heart, Winston Emerson, the father of her child.
Six years later, she comes back to Harlem to make peace, but a malignant spirit manifests itself during the homecoming, targeting her mother, her aunt, Winston, and their little girl. Determined to stop the evil now trying to destroy all she loves, Anora must finally turn to Winston for help. But will their efforts be too little too late?
On September 15, 1963, the one-year anniversary of my aunt Diana’s death, four young girls in Birmingham, Alabama died when their church was bombed for its involvement in the Civil Rights movement.
My mother called that evening and inquired after my health and the health of my daughter Cammie—the granddaughter she vowed never to acknowledge. Fear, anger and sorrow sounded in her voice. Mine too. We mourned those girls, their families and the sister/aunt we both loved. In that spoken grief, I silently mourned what had died between my mother and me.
The following month she called again, this time inviting me to bring Cammie to dinner. Like some sulky child, I felt tempted to ask what took her so long. Instead, I swallowed my hurt and came home.
Cammie squeezed my fingers and stared at 13 141st Street with a wide-eyed wonder only six-year-olds possess.
“Wow. Grammie has a real house.”
I don’t know what excited her more: the prospect of meeting her maternal grandmother or visiting a real house. Single-family homes with front stoops, porches and backyards were things she saw only on television. We lived in a Brooklyn housing project with eight apartments to every floor and eight floors in every building.
All last night she ooo’d and ah’d over the photo of Number Thirteen my mother had sent her. Too wound up to sleep, her pudgy little body tossed and turned like a happy puppy on the double bed we shared. She shook me awake each time a new possibility occurred to her. Did her Grammie really own the whole house? Could she have a room of her own when she spent the night? Could she have a puppy there? No cats or dogs were allowed in the projects. How many staircases were inside the house? Did it have a doorbell she could ring?
The sound of her excitement cleaved my heart. She showed no signs of discontent with our life, yet the smile she wore as she slept told me my daughter had desires of which I was unaware.
I never make New Year’s resolutions. They only turn out to be promises I never keep. But being fortunate enough to survive the hell that was 2020, I’ve decided it’s time to change my ways. I have resolved to share what I’m calling “Aspirational songs for the heart” on my Twitter and FB accounts every day.
My resolution started back on August 2nd, when I began posting “Democracy Reset” quotes to keep my spirits up as we here in the US headed toward the November election. I alternated between words from men and women of all races and all nations, words like Eleanor Roosevelt’s, “It seems to me that the least a citizen can do is to vote” to present-day quotes like John Lewis’, “Democracy is not a state. It is an act, and each generation must do its part to help build what we called the Beloved Community, a nation and world society at peace with itself.”
With the advent of then-President-elect Biden’s win, I switched to songs of all types and from all sources that I labeled, “Aspirational songs for the heart until noon Inauguration Day January 20th.” I enjoyed anew the messages of songs like Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “The House I Live In,” the Beatles’ “I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends,” and Chris Williamson’s “Song of the Soul.” Even Broadway favorites like Grand Hotel’s “Let’s Raise A Glass” and Rent’s “Seasons of Love” got into the act.
In December, I switched to hymns and carols that focused on the birth of Jesus, the event Christians like myself use to remind ourselves to be hopeful as we do justice, love mercy and walk humbly before God (Micah 6:8). By the time I reached December 31st and had posted “O Come All Ye Faithful,” I knew I would return to posting songs of aspiration and encouragement as I looked forward to Inauguration Day. My song for January 1st was Sam Cooke’s “Change is Gonna Come.” It was then I made my new New Year’s resolution. I wouldn’t stop on January 21st but would keep posting inspirational and aspirational songs for the heart and spirit for the rest of the year. The unfortunate events of January 6th in Washington D.C. made it all too clear how easy the human spirit can be turned to do wrong when its focus has been warped.
My songs may seem like a drop in the ocean or a ripple against a tide of negativity and uncertainty, but it’s a start. Finding ways to say yes each and every time no keeps jumping in your face is what keeps the moral arc of the universe bending toward justice. Music has always done that for me, and I hope it helps those who read my social media posts to do the same.
My goal is to post 365 different songs, so for a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift card, suggest a song or two that lifts your heart that I can share.
Happy New Year.
Haunted Serenade
All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived as “Poor Butterflies:” women still longing for – but deserted by – the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, she fled Harlem for Brooklyn, severing ties with both her mother and with the man who broke her heart, Winston Emerson, the father of her child.
Six years later, Anora returns to make peace, but a malignant spirit manifests itself during the homecoming, targeting her mother, her aunt, Winston and their little girl. Determined to stop the evil now trying to destroy all she loves, Anora must finally turn to Winston for help. But will their efforts be too little too late?
Excerpt from Haunted Serenade…
“I never understood how you and Elizabeth could stay here after Diana…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. My mother didn’t finish my sentence for me. Apparently, she couldn’t say the word either.
Suicide.
We waited in the shared silence, unable more than unwilling to offer terms of peace.
“A person can will themselves to die,” my mother said. Her gaze drifted to the album cover in my hands. “It’s not so hard where unforgiving spirits reign.”
My gut clenched. “Do you really believe you’re dying, Ma?”
“According to my doctor, I’m sound as a dollar. But when you’ve got more days behind you than in front of you, that’s not saying much.” She directed her gaze to me. “That’s why Cammie is so important. She’s the future. I feel better just having been in her presence a little while.”
“I should have known.” I gripped the album cover with fingers trembling with anger and disappointment. “All that display of affection…you’re only using her to make you feel better.”
“No, Anora.” My mother came over and grabbed my arm with an earnestness that surprised me. “It’s not like that. I—I want the ghosts keeping us apart to die. Don’t you?”
I wanted it so much it hurt. I grimaced but nodded.
“Cammie took one look at this house and asked if it was haunted.”
My mother snorted. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
“Exactly what I thought.” I returned the album cover to its resting place.
Resting place.
The term troubled my mind. Can the spirit of anyone who dies the way my aunt died ever rest?
The question went unanswered, interrupted by my daughter’s screams.
Okay! That was a lot. From the book I never thought I’d write to today was an intense eight-month journey. That’s short in the world of traditional publishing. An entire team worked their asses off to make certain we would be the third book in this series and that I could bring representation. In the end, I’m grateful to have been given this opportunity. To the publisher, to my beta readers, to my editor — to everyone.
I’m busy working on a book this NaNoWriMo! It’s one I’ve been wanting to write for forever. Seriously. I shaped the opening of the story back in 2002—twenty-one years ago, and those first chapters were sent to many, many writer’s contests, and gained awards, but something happened that pushed this project to the back of the line—I got published. And then I got published again, and again, and again.
