Dann Hazel | Updates

HEADBANGERS' BALL LAUNCHES THE TANSY HOLLOW GAY ROMANCE SERIES

Dann Hazel — Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

TANSY HOLLOW — The Tansy Hollow Gay Romance Series officially debuted on Valentine’s Day 2026 with the release of Headbangers’ Ball, a steamy, emotionally charged MM romance introducing readers to a small town where music, passion, and second chances collide.

The novel follows Seth, a thrill-seeking young man who lives for intensity but refuses emotional attachment. Confident that relationships only complicate life, Seth keeps his encounters casual and his heart firmly guarded—until one reckless decision leads him to the infamous Headbangers’ Ball.

At the legendary event, Seth encounters a connection that challenges everything he believes about love, vulnerability, and trust. As attraction deepens and circumstances threaten to pull them apart, Seth must decide whether he will continue running from intimacy or finally risk fighting for something real.

Set in the fictional town of Tansy Hollow—a community shaped by its deep roots in heavy metal culture—Headbangers’ Ball blends erotic heat with emotional depth, exploring identity, longing, and the transformative power of unexpected love.

The novel marks the beginning of an interconnected romance series featuring new couples, recurring characters, and evolving storylines within the same richly developed setting.

Headbangers’ Ball is a 60,000-word happily-ever-after gay romance available now in ebook and paperback formats through major online retailers.

Media inquiries, interviews, and review requests:

Official Tansy Hollow Website

dann@originalpressllc.com

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Sample Audio Chapter One: THE WAY ALEX SEES ME

Dann Hazel — Thu, 22 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

THE WAY ALEX SEES ME releases on May 27, 2025. Hear a sample of the first chapter by following the link to YouTube.

https://youtu.be/8sqxk9YoLzwEmbedded Youtube video removed, see original post to watch.

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The Way Alex Sees Me--Excerpt

Dann Hazel — Thu, 8 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Chapter One: Even Boys Can Learn That

The summer ended uneventfully for me.

Right now, I’m standing outside my closet, looking in, trying to decide which clothes to pack. To be honest, the past year has forced me into huge, terrifying spaces into which I never thought I’d fit. Luckily, I grew into them and survived. Still, I find myself feeling scared from time to time.

And now, college, and an uncertain but exciting future, lie ahead of me.

I pull another shirt from my closet—my favorite, with the words No Fear emblazoned across the chest. I slide it into my garment bag. I’m still amazed that I was accepted at Wofford University, especially since my stats look better on my SAT than my high school transcript. Which makes me suspicious: Perhaps Wofford’s decision has more to do with my father’s influence than my academic performance.

Last February, my father and I paid a visit to the dean of admissions. She was a heavy, serious woman with short-cropped hair. She listened patiently to my father’s explanation of my roller-coaster ride through high school.

Then, in a skeptical, subdued voice, without even a glance at me, she said: “I’ll see what we can do.”

The decision was surprisingly fast. I’d held the letter, addressed to me, for a long time before opening it. Immediately after scanning its contents, I called Dad at work to tell him the good news. Though he congratulated me, there was a telling lack of surprise in his voice.

Several voices come from outside. I stop packing and cross my room to the only window, from which I stare into the yard. The three of them are gathered around the barbecue, cooking hamburgers, my favorite food—don’t judge; I have simple taste—for lunch in my honor. Weirdly, I feel a little nervous about the prospect, primarily because I know what’s happening. Another case of nerves when I'm forced to confront a situation I can’t second-guess. It’s time for leaving—a first—even though I feel that somehow, my life began just ten months ago. Still, I can hardly wait for the new chapter ahead of me. I’ve waited far too long for other things, like hitting the books and telling the truth, and the cost was always high.

I laugh out loud at a couple of jokes they don’t realize I can hear. At least these voices are real. At least I know where they’re coming from. In my short life, I’ve lived too long with ghosts.

A shudder comes over me, and I quickly move away from the window to finish packing. I leave a few items of clothing in the closet for weekend visits, then move into my bathroom to gather my toiletries. I smile at the image of myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s a pleasing one, my face. One might even call it handsome and inviting—necessary qualities to make new friends at college. For a dark moment, I recall another face—a sad, angry one—that the mirror would have reflected once, when I was a lonely kid with mysterious secrets and forbidden questions. In school, other kids, I think, sensed my loneliness and for a long time, making friends seemed almost impossible.

But now? My face, tanned by the Lake Juniper sun, seems brighter. My auburn hair sparkles with speckles of red and blonde in the harsh bathroom light. My blue eyes are more intensely curious than ever. New life stirs below the surface, and as corny as it sounds, I can’t wait to see what discoveries lie ahead.

After completing the chore of packing, I peer through my bedroom window once again, this time at the park across the inlet on whose shore my father’s house is situated. A group of kids play a vigorous game of volleyball. Several young women lay on their backs, sunbathing, their swimsuit tops pushed down as far as they dare. Noisy children scurry along the lakeshore with plastic buckets and muddy shovels.

An impatient teen stands close to the lakeshore as he holds the payphone to his ear. The scene is a catalyst for a memory I will forever long to forget, when I made a call to my mother, filled with desperation and an urgent plea for her to save me from a frightening ghost taunting me.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I hear my mother’s voice. I try to listen, but the sounds are nowhere close to my threshold of hearing. I close my eyes and think, for only a moment, of Charleston, the city that was once my home. It was while living there, with my mother in that historic city, that I discovered my own history, part of which had been snipped away by parents who were only trying to protect me. A history that, once revealed, had driven out all the lies I’d been told for my own good, before the truth made its contribution to establishing something like an identity.

When I finally open my eyes, I am aware of a presence behind me. I turn around. I'm startled to see Frank, standing nervously in the doorway.

“Mom told me you’d called this morning,” Frank says, right away. He glances at the boxes waiting to be hauled away to Wofford. “So you’re heading out this afternoon?”

My feet feel frozen to the floor. Frank is the person I most want to say goodbye to. And yet, the person I'm most reluctant to leave. “My orientation starts tomorrow. After that, it’s on to registration, then classes.”

Frank steps into the room. He leans against the chest of drawers—an antique my mother gave me—then folds his arms across his stomach. “I don’t have to be in Winston-Salem until Labor Day.” He shrugs. “Just means I have to work at my shit summer job for three more weeks.” He grins then winks at me. “Working is a vastly overrated experience.”

I stare at the floor, worrying that I might cry. Or fall into his arms. I regret that conversation with Frank has become this difficult. This halting. “At least the money will come in handy.”

“Maybe.” Frank sounds as though he’s not fully convinced. I know money is not what he’s really thinking about right now. He glances toward a corner of the room, where I’ve propped my Alien Workshop skateboard. “You’re not packing your board?”

I feel myself blush. “I think I’ve finally outgrown it. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Used to be I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.” I touch the board then spin one of the wheels. Then, awkwardly, I stuff my hands into my pockets. “So it’s true? You’re really going to the University of North Carolina School of the Arts?”

Frank picks up a pen from the chest of drawers. He clicks it over and over again. “It was a big surprise. I didn’t think I had a snowball's chance in hell.”

I slide my hands out of my pockets, then rake the fingers of my right hand through my hair. It’s my way of making sure I don’t grab Frank and pull him into a tight embrace. “You’ll be close to a lot of people who share your interests.” I try to smile, but it’s hard. “It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

With a sense of finality, Frank replaces the pen, then stares sadly into my eyes. I meet his gaze. Melt into it. Feel a hot desire that I’d be a fool to try to rekindle. All the words we probably need to say to one another hover just out of reach.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?” Frank finally asks. “I mean, I wouldn’t want that.”

My eyes dart back to Frank. I know my expression looks as though I’m challenging him. I hope he understands how hurt I am. How hurt, even though I do understand that sometimes, plans fall apart, no matter how permanent they feel. “Why would I be upset?”

Frank takes another cautious step into the room, as though he, too, craves proximity. “I didn’t mean to mislead you, you know.”

I swallow an anger that surfaces unannounced. “I was disappointed. I’m not mad, but I thought we were going to Wofford together. I was looking forward to that.”

Frank sighs heavily. “Those were my plans, too. That’s why I never even told you about the audition until the university called me. Getting in seemed like such a long shot.” He shrugs. “Really, Rusty. I had no idea I’d be accepted. Such a small percentage of applicants are.”

“I know it’s what you want. It’s what you’ve always wanted. You have to do what’s best.” I hesitate, then sit on my bed. I lean against my duffel bag and stretch my arms along the blue canvas. “Still, we’ll be so far apart. We’ll see each other even less than we do now.”

As though wary of my rejection, Frank walks across the room, then sits down—right beside me. “We can write. We can call.” Despite our physical closeness, the psychological distance between us stays the same. “Besides, it’s not like we’re on opposite coasts. The schools aren’t even that far from one another.”

I frown. I can’t help it. “For college students, two and a half hours is like being on different coasts. You know what I mean. We’ve been best friends—” My brain and my voice sever their connection. I brush my long hair behind my ears, then touch my earring, as though for reassurance. “Maybe it won’t be so hard. After all, the summer has been busy for both of us. We didn’t see each other very much.”

Frank bites his bottom lip. He seems to be fighting his sadness, but at the same time, he’s determined not to allow me to brush him off. I know, I can be cold sometimes, without meaning to be. “We were both working. When did we have time to spend together? It doesn’t mean I valued you less. Or that I cared for you less.”

My bottom lip begins to tremble. “Things used to be different. Things were easier after the ordeal we survived.”

Frank nods. “Of course they were. I think we grew closer as a result, don’t you? Being independent doesn’t mean we can’t be friends anymore. What difference will a little distance make?”

“Still, things just won’t be the same, will they?”

“But you have to admit, Rusty. We learned so much from the experience. Nothing can take that away. Not even the distance between two schools.”

I bow my head as I fold my hands in my lap. I think of that December night.

The night our friendship began.

The night that exposed all secrets.

“Frank?”

He looks up. My face is close to his now, and my expression probably seems both mysterious and plaintive. Frank knows how difficult it is for me to open up. To say what I really feel—though I've gotten better at it.

“We’ve been through so much shit together, Frank. We became so close. Much closer than friends.”

I choke up, as it is my wont to do when intense feelings enter the picture.

“In just a single night, we were forced to stand up for ourselves. The things that happened to us? They might take us years to fully absorb. No one could possibly relate to what we went through. No one else could ever understand feeling hated and despised to the extent we felt.”

Frank smiles at me. His shoulders relax. “I know what you’re saying, Rusty. I know exactly. We’ll always have a sublime connection. Or what my Mom would call spiritual.”

Frank rises to his feet and walks slowly to the door. I follow him. It cannot end like this. I won’t let it.

Once again, laughter comes from outside. Laughter that feels new to Dad’s house.

Deliberately, Frank pauses in the doorway. There is no protocol for a departure like ours. He turns to face me. Then, smiling, he extends a hand. For an awkward moment, I just stare at it even as I feel a vague sense of insult.

How can a mere handshake ever be enough?

Slowly, I take Frank’s hand and squeeze.

“Good luck, Rusty. I won’t forget you.”

I release Frank’s hand and swallow my tears. I think of the past, my past, when it was impossible to live in a world I could trust.

Now, I know I’m growing stronger. Now, I feel I’m growing closer to myself with each passing day. The faith I’d lost because of the lies is gradually returning.

I think of all the people in whom my faith has been restored.

My parents.

My friends.

Even myself.

And Frank is part of that world, no matter how far away he might be. No person, no object, not even time nor distance can ever take that away from me.

Easily, I open my arms to receive Frank. We cannot part as adversaries or as strangers now. Sometimes, an embrace is the only way to close the distance between two people.

Even boys can learn that—just as we had.

Long moments pass. Moments I don’t want to relinquish. We hold each other tightly. Then, surprised, I feel Frank’s lips against my cheeks. He disappears almost as fast as this kiss. I hear his car, the engine idling, then groaning, as Frank drives away, leaving me all alone in my room. I think of what we might have been to one another. I wonder how long we will remember each other, and how much time must pass before the sadness goes away.

“Rusty?”

My father’s voice comes from the bottom of the stairs. It’s the same kind but commanding voice I love to hear.

“Come on down, Son. Lunch is ready.”

I brush my disheveled hair from my eyes. Mom likes to see it neat. It’s the least I can do, since she never bitched when I decided to wear it long.

I stack my luggage outside the bedroom, in the hall. My father’s voice lingers in my short-term memory. It is clear and strong as he calls for me once more.

“Sorry, Dad. I’m on my way.”

My father’s voice, no longer a stranger’s, as it once was.

Then, after that time, I heard the same voice calling from the darkness.

Slowly, the world opened wide and began to make sense to me.

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Flurry, the American Eskimo Dog: Writer's Assistant

Dann Hazel — Wed, 16 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A few novels back, I decided, largely based on our loving relationship with Flurry, to include a canine member of the family in some of my gay romance books. In My Own Private Biscuit, there’s Demon, the Siberian Husky, who helps a character deal with the breakup of his marriage. Then, in Lonely Diner, Diamond, the American Eskimo pup (yes, inspired by Flurry), is an integral part of a gay family. And in my latest, Dusty’s Snack Shack, Benji, a Saint Bernard, is Dusty’s “best friend” who helps him through several “bad romances” before he finds the right guy. What I’ve discovered is that the inclusion of a canine companion helps to “humanize” the characters in the novel quickly.

Because, as we dog lovers know, how a dog regards—and interacts with—a person often provides insight about that person’s character. If Demon, Diamond, or Benji loves someone in the novel, then we should love them, too! (At least, that’s my theory, and I stand by it.)

Additionally, every story needs to connect with readers, whose satisfaction should be utmost in the author’s mind. If a reader is a fellow dog lover, well, the connection often comes quite easily.

Because, after all, we dog lovers are a “rabidly” dedicated group.

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AVAILABLE NOW: DUSTY'S SNACK SHACK

Dann Hazel — Fri, 21 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

DUSTY'S SNACK SHACK: BOOK ONE OF SHORT ORDERS GAY ROMANCE SERIES

Excerpt from Chapter

Six:

Ken touched Dusty’s knee. “Well, we don’t know one another very well. So you’re at a distinct disadvantage.” He sighed. “But I’m not really up for a movie, if you don’t mind. Background music? Maybe so. But you know what I’d really like to do?”

Dusty smiled. “Tell me. Please.”

“I’d like to check out a room in your lovely home that I haven’t yet seen.”

“Like?” Dusty teased.

“Your bedroom.”

Benji followed them into Dusty’s bedroom. Right away, the two men fell into one another’s arms. They began to kiss ravenously. Benji quickly grew bored when he realized Dusty and Ken were focused on one another. After all, he'd seen this episode before with other men he didn't like nearly as much as he liked Ken. He barked one short goodbye, then left the room.

“What’s Benji’s problem?” Ken asked as he took a breath.

“Jealousy and boredom. If he’s not the center of attention, he gets a little moody.” Dusty paused. “Listen.”

“What is that sound?”

“He’s taking out his frustration on a pizzle stick.” Dusty laughed at the harsh crunching sound coming from the living room. “He’s chewing the hell out of it.” Dusty shrugged. “That’s the way he de-stresses when things don’t go according to plans—I mean, his plans.”

Still dressed, the two men fell onto Dusty’s immaculately made bed. The kissing continued. Then, they began fondling one another beneath their clothes. The taste of wine lingered heavily. With each man’s mouth on the other’s, the wine they’d already consumed amplified the eroticism of their deep kisses.

Ken slid a hand beneath Dusty’s tee-shirt and caressed his famous chest. He pressed his stomach gently, noting the muscular ripples. Ken’s breathing grew heavier, more labored, as though he was struggling for oxygen. Then, Ken’s hand moved to Dusty’s nipples and teased them to the hardness of gumdrops.

“Don’t you think it’s getting a little hot in here?” Ken asked playfully.

“It’s beyond bearable. Should I adjust the thermostat?”

Ken laughed at Dusty’s cattiness. Instead of touching the thermostat, they assisted one another in removing their clothes down to their underwear. Both men took excellent care of their bodies. Their skin, smooth and warm, felt taut over their frames. Their faces were rough with stubble and caught in the rapturous anticipation of sexual gratification. Their expressions appeared vulnerable and removed from mundane reality. Their palms freely glided over each other's body, presented like a willing sacrifice.

Dusty’s palm moved to Ken’s crotch. He pressed gently against the hard mystery concealed by his briefs. His breathing accelerated. Then, his hand crept beneath the elastic band and curled its fingers around Ken’s shaft.

Ken moaned with pleasure.

“I think it’s time to get rid of this underwear.”

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Staying “Positive” in a Time of Turbulence

Dann Hazel — Tue, 4 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

WARNING: This blog may come across as a “stream-of-consciousness” self-indulgent piece at times, but it represents some of the issues I’ve been grappling with over the past few months.

As a white individual who enjoys certain socio-cultural privileges, I am also a member of a marginalized group. Specifically, I am a gay man. I recognized my “difference” as far back as elementary school, though I couldn’t put a name to it then. I’d internalized a lot of bullshit until I was around 30, when I knew, for the sake of my own survival, I had no choice but to grab hold of authenticity. Once that happened, I began to recognize the intersection of my sexuality with other dimensions of marginalization, which I think (and hope) heightened my capacity for empathy.

I won’t tiptoe around it. I never wanted Donald Trump anywhere near the White House. Despite what I suspect is the accuracy of any number of things he’s been called, he always came across to me as opportunistic, undisciplined and vain which, in my opinion, are shitty leadership qualities. That subjective assessment is aside from my own personal threat response because of his social views. (In Florida, which has a very large population of LGBTQ+ individuals, Governor DeSantis sets off that response, too. Don’t tell him because it would only feed his insatiable need for self-importance.) As an educator for more years than I care to count right now, I almost always felt a battle between a need for self-affirmation and a need for self-protection. And here in Florida (as well as other states), queer teachers and professors--as well as educators who are allies--are back in the same circumstances that my professional peers and I faced back in the dark ages (which, unfortunately, are not that long ago).

What does this screed have to do with gay romance? From a personal perspective, I’m lucky to have been able to retire from education just a year before the anti-woke, anti-grooming, anti-research-based definition of gender (and whatever the fuck else) arguments heated up to be a threat to my livelihood. Then, following retirement a couple of years ago, I was able to devote my time to doing what has always been a dream of mine—to write. Specifically, to write about LGBTQ+ lives in fiction with the full support and encouragement of my husband. When he’s working, Flurry, our precious and precocious dog, keeps me company.

To my chagrin (and embarrassment, if I am to be honest), several of my relatives are Trump supporters. Which makes me crazy, especially those who love me, support my marriage, and seem to have a live-and-let-live approach to their existence. Then, not long ago, I saw a short post on social media: “Thank God!” (beneath a relative’s caption to a photo of Donald Trump as he took the oath of office). I ask myself—often—how can they support a political stance that would do harm to a member of their family? I can’t come to grips with it. I doubt I ever can.

However, I like to think that queer fiction—writing it, reading it, enjoying it—is itself a subversive act. A way to stay engaged in the struggle in which we find ourselves now. Of course, it’s a good idea to look for other ways to nudge our culture toward a kind of unity which embraces humanity in all of its wonderful diversity. Lenny Bruce summed it up in one of his stand-up comedy acts: “We’re all the same schmuck!” I wish all of us could rise above tribalistic thinking to embrace just that kind of sentiment. The act of it doesn’t hurt. And there’s a kind of healing in the effort as well.

Peace. Love. Romance.

Dann

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SOME LIKE IT HAUTE: THE FIRST THREE COURSES

Dann Hazel — Mon, 6 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

After the excesses of the holidays, do you still need a little gay romance in your life?

Here's an affordable way to enjoy three of them in one package.

The first three books in the "Some Like It Haute" Gay Romance Series are on sale beginning January 7 until January 14 as an ebook bundle on Amazon. Regular price is $4.99; sale price is $1.99 for the one-week book promotion.

Of course, if you're a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, the book bundle is FREE.

Click here for my Amazon page devoted to the bundle.

A GREAT DISH. A GREAT MAN. PURE BLISS.

With Some Like It Haute: The First Three Courses, feast on the first three novels in the Some Like It Haute! Gay Romance Series.

ROOM FOR DESSERT:

For almost ten years, Sebastian and Matt live happily together as romantic partners.

Then, Bobby enters the picture and Matt’s infidelity tears Sebastian’s world apart. For a long time, Sebastian has no appetite for a second course of romance.

That is, until Aladdin casts his unexpected spell during drinks at a tapas and cocktails bar.

Sebastian hasn't bargained for how sweet a second round of love can be!

Then, tragedy sends Matt back into Sebastian’s life, begging for a second chance.

Hungry for love, Sebastian faces an impossible choice.

Should he pick Matt, the man who betrayed him?

Or Aladdin, the troubled man whose family roils in a scathing public scandal?

MY OWN PRIVATE BISCUIT:

Toby enjoys success beyond his wildest dreams. He is not only a damn fine musician, but also the first chair trumpeter with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.

In the Big Apple, he earns a good living doing what he loves the most. Yet, he suffers from a nagging emptiness. The Manhattan lifestyle is great, but his romantic life consists mostly of Grindr hookups.

A summer Tour of the South finds Toby in Asheville, North Carolina—his childhood home and the home of a certain high school crush. Thomas Bischoff—or as all his friends call him, Biscuit.

Abruptly, he stumbles on the news that Biscuit is married! The revelation hits Toby like a hammer.

Later, he makes another discovery: Biscuit's married life isn't going well. Might there be a glimmer of hope? And how can hope translate into action when there are 700 miles between them?

Even if things can work out between them, how can they blend two lives separated by a dozen years and their own extra baggage?

LONELY DINER:

One man plays it straight.

Another grieves over a lost lover.

Clearly meant for each other, Lance, an Air Force computer engineer, and Ryan, a former submariner in the Navy and now a military college professor, are conflicted gay men blinded by painful wounds of their past decisions.

A younger Ryan Ball decides he can be happy only by conforming to social expectations. What does he do? He decides he must have a wife and kids. Though he acknowledges to himself that he can never be straight, he is convinced that, with effort and determination, he can play the necessary roles.

At thirty-one, Lance Dingle falls for his best friend and roommate, Randy, a stunt pilot who agrees to a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Then, tragedy strikes. Lance finds himself alone and lonely, living with memories of Randy and an ever-expanding list of “what-might-have-beens.”

Callie Yenti, a transwoman and drag performer extraordinaire, enters the picture. She owns Lonely Diner and possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the heart.

Even the complicated hearts of her two stubborn friends, Lance and Ryan.

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What's Next on Snack Shack's Menu?

Dann Hazel — Mon, 4 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Dann here, checking in from my writing lair where I've sequestered myself for the past few weeks so I can get Dusty's Beachin’ Good Snack Shack drafted. (Of course, I will always take a break when Flurry, my American Eskimo dog, needs a little loving. Oh, and hubby, too.) 😊

The first draft to the novel, which belongs to a brand new series called Short Orders, is almost finished. Next, I segue to my favorite part of the writing process—revisions! That’s when the novel attains its heart and soul—and corrections. Like making sure Dusty’s eyes are the same color on page 100 as they were on page 50.

I’m excited about Snack Shack. It’s lighter than the darker romances I’ve written. Without the more controversial subject matter, I can focus on the hot, sexy stud (who almost never wears a shirt) at the helm of a busy snack shop on the Strip in Myrtle Beach. He's mostly unfazed by the frequent requests for hookups, dates—and even marriage proposals. He rejects them all with the savoir-faire one would expect from a titled aristocrat. Oh, the irony! After all, he's a beach rat hawking ice cream, pastries and candy at the beach!

But I admire Dusty—and not just because he’s mine. He has high expectations and won't settle for anything (much) less than perfection—especially when it comes to romance. That’s why there are quite a few heartbroken guys along the Grand Strand.

Then, Ken shows up at the Snack Shack with his college buddies, looking for something sweet after he and his friends—ahem, overindulged. Funny thing is, Ken has no interest in Dusty. Ken thinks Dusty is a little bit “tacky.” Who serves customers ice cream wearing a hair covering but no shirt? And while Dusty thinks Ken is a little “bougee,” he still can't look away.

So, the games begin. Dusty chases Ken until finally, the tide turns.

I intend for this one to be a fun romp through the pitfalls of dating in one's 20s. It's difficult to navigate the unknown terrain and you never know who’s on top.

I'll keep you posted as the book continues to evolve.

Until its release, please check out Armed and Ready for Love, the first of my Aphrodite in Disguise Dark Gay Romance series. Its release date is November 6, 2024.

Until next time, hugs and kisses.

Dann

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Snacking in Myrtle Beach

Dann Hazel — Wed, 23 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Dann here. I'm currently knee-deep in my new novel, tentatively entitled DUSTY'S BEACHIN' GOOD SNACK SHACK.

It's my first foray into the world of "shorter fiction," which is to say the word count will be close to 50,000. It's a "kissing cousin" to my Some Like It Haute! Gay Romance Series. This series is called Savory Short Orders. The idea is that, for the reader who likes to finish a novel in a matter of hours rather than days, these books provide a more streamlined plot and a smaller cast of characters.

I decided to set this effort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I grew up in the upstate of SC. During my youth my family vacationed at Myrtle Beach quite often. In fact, for several years, it was our go-to vacation destination. My parents were already familiar with the place, and planning "activities" for the kids was as easy as renting a cheap room close to the beach.

As an older vacationer, I came to regard Myrtle Beach as a little tacky--and yet still, I loved going there! Go figure. Probably the best thing was seeing all the unique travelers who were attracted to the place. I mean, even in something as mainstream as Waccamaw Pottery, wild and crazy people would show up in droves. But in Myrtle Beach, some of the zaniest people I've ever met showed up, year after year.

It was upon this premise that I created my main character.

Dusty is a guy who runs a snack shop at the entrance to the Myrtle Beach Boardwalk. It's a candy/ice cream/pastry shop, and his business attire, consists of swim trunks. He has quite a chest that attracts many people to his shop. In other words, he's a bit of a hottie. His customers are always expressing "interest." Interest which Dusty (usually) politely rebuffs.

You see, Dusty isn't looking for a good TIME. Instead, he's holding out for a good LIFE with the man of his dreams. Few of these vacationers are dating material.

But it's all good. He's young. He's got time.

Until Ken drops by the shop. Ken's a rich kid from Virginia, staying a week at the Grand Strand with some friends who outvoted him on where they'd go for spring break. For Dusty, it's like love at first sight. But it doesn't matter. Willie remains uninterested in a scruffy beach bum in a cheesy tourist trap of a community.

Needless to say, Dusty's Beachin' Good Snack Shack is an HEA, though there are a few roadblocks along the way.

I hope to have a sample passage ready to show off soon.

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ARMED AND READY FOR LOVE--First Book of Brand New Series, Aphrodite in Disguise

Dann Hazel — Wed, 23 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Jonathan Wren survives growing up in the South amid extreme homophobia and the ravages of a pandemic. When he meets a charismatic young man in a gay bathhouse, he falls in love, despite his best friend’s warning that looking for love in a bathhouse is a fool’s game.

Several years pass after realizing his friend was right. True love remains as elusive in Jonathan’s life as snow in Miami.

Until he meets Ryan during a trip to Savannah.

But even then, there are obstacles in his way.

Jonathan struggles with his own self-loathing, partially brought on by Andre Fast’s rejection of him. Andre was a childhood friend who, after gaining fame and fortune, delivers condemnation and hatred toward gay men.

Jonathan wonders how he can ever attain his “happily ever after.”

Armed and Ready for Love is a dark gay romance, a story of the sadness of love lost, the betrayal of old friends, the torment of obsession and the frustrations of searching for the right man.

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