A writer friend on Facebook asked a pointed question:  how do you deal with rejection? How do you deal with ‘no’s from people who do not believe in your work? How to handle the thorns of professional jealousy? The idea that people out there just do not like your contribution to the world and are not shy in saying so?

Ow.

Her question jolted me because I have been wrestling with this issue for the past two weeks, and not the sexy kind of wrestling with bulging muscles and oil, but the kind where you’re suddenly pinned hard and something in your shoulder pops and with pained surprise you realize, ‘I didn’t know I could hurt there.’

I had been warned aplenty, and even accepted, that this very day would come: a bad review in a very public space.

Last week it happened.

King Perry has enjoyed dozens of gorgeous, articulate, gushing reviews on various websites. Safe to say I have been officially dazzled and left speechless. But I finally racked up a 2 star review on amazon.com and it just fucking hurt. The reviewer didn’t like narrator, Vin, and hated the approach of the entire book. He or she gets to do that. I can’t say the reviewer was unfair or even particularly unkind…that person just really could not stand the book.

Ow.

Then, someone else chimed in and agreed.

Ow. Ow.

When I wrote a few paragraphs ago that I had accepted “this day would come,” I guess my acceptance included the mental picture that when this day arrived, I would read the offending review scanning the New York Times and eating grapefruit wedges with a tiny fork. My newly-hired editor/Italian massage therapist would offer a foot massage to help me deal with this bitter anguish, and I would accept his offer, saying, “Some people just don’t get it.”

Never mind the fact that I do not read the New York Times and I don’t own those tiny grapefruit forks.

But the biggest problem is that these people who didn’t like the book are not insensitive assholes. Nope. They just didn’t like it.

I considered writing replies to the review, snarky one-liners or heartfelt passages explaining my perspective. Every writer who warned me of this day’s arrival had also warned me in the verbal equivalent of all caps:  DON’T DO THAT. Do not write a reply. Do not get sucked in.

Yes, but now that the day was here and it hurt, I really, really wanted to write a response.

The problem with hurt is that there’s nowhere for it to go. You’re stuck with it. Anger feels like action. Sadness, well, I have a plan:  cry, eat, or do laundry. But hurt…hurt just sits there like a hot coal and you watch the sizzling, inert, orange glow. As my Facebook friend asked, “Any tips for maintaining hope and self-belief when faced with The Great Wall of No and keeping the Wolf of Professional Envy from the door?”

Turns out, I have a few ideas.

1. Have a best friend named Ann.

I immediately called my Ann. Together, we explored my hurt and this was key: we made it about me. Instead of ranting about the review or the exact words in the review or how X was unfair and they should never had said Y, etc., she helped me gently uncover the hurt behind the hurt, the thing that made this a glowing hot coal instead of just a lump of coal. How had the review slapped my ego? How did I let this review define me as a person?

You may not have an Ann (and I would prefer you not steal mine). But find the friend who will do more than say, “Oh, poor baby,” and invite that friend to ask you the tough questions: what ugly parts of yourself does this touch? How are you refusing empathy and kindness to this situation? What is it about you  and your expectations about the world that made this feel like an arrow to the heart?

I know from personal experience that the answers are often unflattering.

2. Get all Pollyannaish.

We tend to treat optimism and positivity as if it’s naivete, like we must shed ridiculous silver linings before someone else points out we should be miserable.

After she read the review, Ann emailed me and her subject line boldly proclaimed, “HOW WONDERFUL!” She gleefully explained how people were debating the book in a very public forum, so fully engaged with the characters that they developed a powerful dislike. She noted that the review didn’t say, “Badly written,” or “Untalented hack,” but rather focused 100% on who-the-hell-does-this-character-think-he-is?

She asked pointedly if this wasn’t exactly what I wanted in constructing a character, someone memorable enough to rant about, to love, to think about a week later? Yes, yes it was. Wasn’t this review, in fact, exactly what I wanted as a writer?

Sigh…yes.

It’s hard to love rejection.

I do not love flare ups of jealous for professional colleagues. And yet is this not part of the whole wonderful/shitty package of daring to boldly step into the circus tent marked ‘For Writers Only?’ It hurts, yes, and generally I am a fan of avoiding hurt.

But hey! After 20 years of writing in secret, I finally stepped into the big tent marked For Writers Only! Instead of bemoaning a few detractors, I have decided to find someone nearby to hug and whisper, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m finally here.”

3. Let the universe laugh at you.

As I began to feel actual gratitude for the pokes to my ego and what it revealed, I wrote an email to another friend trying to articulate this odd journey from pain to general hurt to acceptance to thankfulness. To better describe my initial reaction using as much drama as possible, I typed: ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

But as my fingers flew across the keyboard, auto-correct kept changing what I typed to: O wow O wow O wow O wow.

I love it.

O wow!

Most of the people I love like transforming themselves into better people. We try. Some days we’re successful and some days we’re not. I’ve heard these transformation challenges described as FGOs:  Fucking Growth Opportunities. Once we’ve reached the far side of a miserable life challenge and are finally gaining some perspective, we laugh (well, mutter/chuckle) about how the universe just handed us another crap-tastic FGO.

Nobody particularly wants the growth opportunity life presents. I wanted this challenge, not that one; that one is ugly. In the novel I published, Perry doesn’t like his FGO. Vin certainly doesn’t like his. And some days I don’t care for mine much either.

But the Sparkling Spirit that laughs through all of us says, “Hey. I just gave you an opportunity to say ‘O wow.’ Will you take it?”

Today, I say ‘O wow.’

I still don’t like that it’s not possible to prepare yourself for those shallow, stabby hurts. I don’t like that at all. I am still unprepared for the next one and maybe there is no way to prepare, just take a deep breathe and realize that doing what you love also offers pain.

Still, in anticipation of the next FGO, I think I had better go shopping for grapefruit forks.

 

 

 

When reading fiction, I like happy endings as much as the next guy.

Really.

I love it when the star-crossed lovers get together, the nefarious murderer is apprehended, and the plucky kids find a way to save their family home. I find tears in my eyes every time at the charming conclusion of the awesome sci-fi classic movie Galaxy Quest.

But when the story toboggans into a sloppy happy ending without any build-up or a deus ex machina gets dropped so hard on my head that I see stars, well, then I’m irritated. The characters get a happy ending and I end up pissy.

Case in point: The Road.

Throughout the apocalyptic future world constructed by Cormac McCarthy, the author spends 400 pages presenting a colorless hell hole: cannibals who keep pantries with live humans, women who get pregnant for the sole purpose of spit-roasting newborn flesh, thieves, killers, cut-throats…. Even the father in the story is an asshole, and his innocent son begs him to remember his own humanity.

It’s a little grim.

And in the last few pages as the father lay dying in the middle of the road (Hey, the book came out 6 years ago, so yeah, spoilers. Get over it), a kindly stranger emerges out of the gray, ashen landscape to offer to raise the about-to-be-orphaned son. The mysterious rescuer claims to have his own wife and daughter nearby and what’s one more in the family? Once Dying Dad knows his son will be cared for, he kicks. Son weeps. New Dad escorts the son away to his new happy family.

What the living fuck was that?

Seriously?

Throughout the entire book we didn’t meet a single decent person, not one. The impossibility of finding food drove people to insane inhuman behavior. And forty-five seconds before the father’s death, out of the fog waltzes stalwart Mike Brady eagerly accepting the challenge to feed another mouth.

Perhaps this happy ending could be tolerated if there had been one decent person in the book.

I read another general fiction book recently that was brutal and beautiful. The characterizations were great, the plot realistic, convincing. The financially-troubled protagonist was a 13-year-old girl doomed to her poverty, her family. But lucky for her, right at the end, a second-string character who disappeared from the novel 50 pages prior inexplicably writes an enormously fat check that allows her to go to college.

Again, chamomile tea at my side, afghan over my legs, I must yank off my wire-framed glasses, and ask, “WTF?”

I wonder.

Do you think reader demand forces authors to consider happy endings? Do they to it to increase sales? I have to believe Cormac McCarthy’s publisher said, “Dude. Human pantries? Yer killing us…and forget having any book sales.”

Or perhaps it’s an odd, misplaced mercy when the writer looked at the bleakness that he/she hath wrought and decides, “What the hell, I’ll throw in a little sugar.”

I must admit, I was originally afraid my publisher might read King Perry and insist on a traditional happy ending. I mean, there are no cannibal pantries or anything like that, but not everything gets wrapped up neat and tidy. One review on goodreads said:

“I can’t recall the last time I was so delighted and uplifted by a book that doesn’t have the traditional romance ending. This is coming out under Dreamspinner’s Bittersweet line because of that ending – but believe me, there’s nothing bitter about it. I was left with a huge smile on my face and joy in my heart.”

Sweet.

I was delighted that my publisher made no such request; the ending stands as I conceived. I was really glad for that. Sometimes life doesn’t wrap up neatly. And yes, sometimes it does, which makes those endings all the sweeter.

I think my favorite happy/unhappy ending comes from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. Dickens’ researchers explain that in the original draft, Pip meets Estelle many years after this childhood sweetheart crushed his heart. From her carriage, she shakes hands with him and he learns she has been abused and suffered, that she understands now what it is to have a broken heart.

Dickens’ pal, Wilke Collins, thought the ending was too sad and encouraged a rewrite.

In the published version, Pip and Estelle meet in the charred ruins of the estate where she played her cruel games under the supervision of Miss Havisham. Pip concludes the novel by saying, “I saw no shadow of another parting from her.” I love it. I see three possible conclusions:

Those who crave a happy ending see Pip and Estelle together at last.

The slightly more cynical might see Pip getting dumped again, but once again he doesn’t see it coming.

And for those who recently finished reading The Road and believe the absolutely worst about humanity, well, they realize that Estelle is merely tricking Pip to go into her human pantry.

I bet Pip tastes a lot like chicken.

The End.

 

 

 

While vacuuming tonight, I found a pile of dead ants. Like…60. While I’m mostly just glad they were dead and not crawling over me while I sleep, they were crumpled up, holding their little tummies with their middle arms. (Don’t you now feel bad for thinking  ‘ew, gross’ during the first sentence?)

This leads me to one inevitable conclusion:  mass suicide.

I’ve spent the evening wondering what they discussed in their last minutes together.

***

Ant 1: Hey guys, where’s the queen? Anyone seen her?

Ant 2: I touched her with my antenae this afternoon. She seemed fine.

Ant 3:  What’s that sound? Sounds like a mountain crashing? It’s coming from another room.

Ant 4:  I’ll go check it out.

Ant 5: I think I’m going to start going by Jack. I think Jack seems like a good name for an ant.

Ant 3:  Not cool, man.

Jack: Not cool, Jack.

Ant 1:  Anyone seen the queen recently?

Ant 3:  Don’t go individualizing, Ant 5. That is bad. Pretty soon we’ll get free will, then anarchy, then end of times. Ancient Mayan ants predicted that this was the year.

Jack:  Those Mayan ants were stoned on liquids obtained from tiny grains. I like the name Jack.

Ant 3:  No, no, it’s true. End of days and shit. Everybody panics, zombie ants come back and cut us in half with their scissor-like mandibles.

Ant 2:  Who says mandibles? WTF? We only have 250,000 brain cells. Where did you learn a word like that?

Ant 3: Wikipedia. We go there sometimes while the fat guy sleeps. Me and some of the other drones punch out keys. Did you know you can watch 30Rock online? But I am totally serious; there are signs of the end: first attack of the zombie ants, then the fat guy cleans house. Then –

Jack: Well, there you go. That will never happen.

Ant 3:  It could.

Jack: Look around. He eats in every room, drops crumbs everywhere, never cleans up. It’s heaven.

Ant 1:  Seriously, anyone seen the queen since, say, mid-afternoon? We had an appointment for her to devour my skull.

Ant 3:  That’s not a thing.

Ant 1: In some South American ant colonies –

Ant 4:  Hey everybody, I’m back. The fat guy is vacuuming.

Ants:  AUUUUUUUGH!

Zombie queen ant:  Brrraaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinsssssss…..

Ants:  AUUUUUUUUGH!

Ant 3: Shit, shit shit! I knew it! I knew it! Do we pray? Do we have faith in a god with six legs and mandibles?

Ant 2: I’ll get the Kool-aid.

Jack: Shit. I’ve got to get off this island!

Ant 6:  I’ll go with you. I have decided my name is Kate.

Jack:  You’re a girl?

Kate: Yes, my egg was fertilized in my pupal stage.

Jack: I’ve got a plan.

Kate:  I will do whatever you say. I trust you implicitly, Jack.

Ant 2: Hey everybody, Kool-aid! C”mon over and let me vomit into your mouth, which is how we adult ants share food.

Ant 3:  We are disgusting. Ant God, please have mercy on our disgusting shared vomit because we only have 250,000 brain cells and also, how do you feel about gays and abortion?

Zombie Queen Ant:  CHOMP. CHOMP. CHOMP.

Ants: AUUUUUUUGH!

Ant 1:  I’m not sure why I am freaking out. She was going to do that to me this evening anyway. I had an appointment.

Jack:  Kate, better get some of that vomitted Kool-aid. We’re going to the dark side of the island and who knows when we’ll get our next meal.

Kate:  You got it. I believe in you, Jack.

 

x_X

 

 

 

 

Knowing I am publishing a novel with love scenes between two men, a few supportive straight friends have approached me in the last month and gingerly asked, “Should I read it?”

As the author, my first response is, “Yes. Yes, you must. You should buy 23 copies and give one to your Aunt Lily so she can share it with her bicycle club and also your cousin Marty so you can discuss the Alcatraz scene when you see him at next Thanksgiving.” Craaaaaaazy sex in Alcatraz.

Of course, that answer is fueled by a desire to earn enough revenue to purchase a smallish island just off northern California’s coast, an island that’s completely isolated but where you can get Thai delivery and Chipotle. I do like Chicken Pad Thai.

But in my less selfish moments, I recognize this answer does not help my friends who actually desire a little guidance: should I read it?

I dunno.

Yes?

I read books all the time where straight people have sex. It doesn’t titillate me (usually), nor does it gross me out. Sex happens. I will find sex scenes inspiring when well-written or clever in some way, especially if the author conveys true intimacy and the transformational power of sharing your body.

I don’t usually make book reading decisions based on whether there will be sex that makes me uncomfortable. But I appreciate that some people do. It definitely could matter. If you get squeamish thinking of two men kissing, well, that could be your answer.

My friend Jenna wrote a novel a few years ago and I eagerly gifted copies to family and friends as Christmas presents. In January while on the phone with Jenna, I excitedly told her I had done so. There was a pause on her end of the phone.

“Have you read it?” she asked.

Gushing, I said, “Not yet, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

She said, “You gave this to your mom?”

“Yes.”

Jenna paused again. “There’s a scene where a Nazi rapes a German woman with his loaded gun.”

Oh.

Fuck.

I probably should have read Jenna’s book first.

But when I did read Those Who Save Us, I did not think to myself, ‘Wow, what a hot sex scene with a gun.’ Instead, I wondered about how many decent Germans endured horrifying brutality during WWII to protect their children, to survive the unfolding Nazi nightmare. The scene was necessary and brutal. I’ve seen dozens of book reviews and nobody says, “It’s about perverted sex.”

After I finished it, I had no regrets about sharing it with my mom or siblings. None. In fact, Mom loved it. (The book, not the gun fucking scene.) We eagerly chatted about our favorite parts and where we were most sad.

Should you read King Perry?

Hmmmm.

The closest I ever came to thinking, “I wish I had not shared this book” was the night I gathered at the home of one of the St. Paul Book Architects, a trio of women I hired to critique my manuscript before sending it to publishers. On the drive over, I kept thinking, “Why did I send this to three Minnesotan women in their late 50s? What was I thinking?”

I felt panic when one of the three women answered the door wearing an oxygen tubing in her nose. She smiled broadly and welcomed me. I cringed and thought, ‘Good job. You made someone’s grandma read a book full of gay sex.’

After pleasantries, the four of us settled in chairs and I braced myself for their awkward review. The woman with the oxygen tube looked at me and said, “Well, I guess we should get started.”

Inside me, a knife twisted, but I met her pleasant smile with my own, pretending nothing was wrong.

She cleared her throat. She said, “We loved it. It’s one of the best things we ever read.”

“No it’s not,” said her colleague. “It’s the best thing we’ve ever read.”

They loved it. We chatted for a full hour about their reactions, where they were hooked, lines that they loved. When I asked if they were disturbed by the sex scenes, they laughed.

“Honey,” one of them said, “Compared to the stuff we read? Your sex was tame. It’s beautifully written, but nothing shocking.”

I felt sad that I had projected my internalized homophobia onto them, sad I had made assumption about how open they were. I guess I haven’t fully upgraded from the operating system I grew up with; old programs surprise me every once in a while with their outdated opinions and unfair stereotypes about who hates The Gays. The world has changed but sometimes I forget.

So if you’re looking for me to answer should I read it, I can’t answer that for you. I’ve learned my lesson.

I will say this.

If you, dear friend, wrote a 600 page book about the history of urban manhole covers from 1879-1965, I would advocate it to all my friends who are history buffs. (Especially those who were manhole cover buffs.) I would try reading it, a few chapters at least, to sample your writing style and see if I could know you better through your writing. But seriously, why the fuck did you write a 600 page book about the history of manhole covers?

Never mind. We are all drawn to scribble our unique stories. Sometimes these stories have sex. Sometimes not.

Should you read King Perry?

You must decide. I won’t hate you or resent you if your answer is ‘no.’ I will love you without fail.

But I hope your answer is yes.

Private islands off the coast of California are super expensive.

 

My new publishing house has tasked me with writing my author biography.

I’m thrilled. Tickled, even. I’ve been eagerly waiting for the professional need to write this. Huzzah! My book is getting published! But as I sit before the soft glowing screen staring at my fingers hovering above the keyboard, ready to sum my relationship with writing in 200 words or less (and in third person), I find myself lost.

I’ve been experimenting with different approaches.

There’s the historical approach:

Edmond Manning has been writing for many years, but his first works of fiction were simply atrocious. Seriously. Should you have been unfortunate enough to encounter any of the over-exclamation-pointed drivel, you would not purchase this book you’re currently considering. Which you should. Purchase it, that is, because those over-exclamated days are long over!!

The out-and-out bragging approach:

Edmond spent years studying literary masterpieces and more recently attended the renown University of Iowa’s Writing Program. He spent years analyzing the craft from granular sentence construction to the loftiest thematic structures by European greats, all in service to realizing potent, melodic paragraphs designed to make you weep openly, laugh heartily, and then go purchase a silk handkerchief for the mere purpose of throwing it at his feet like a true Victorian homeboy.

I dunno. It’s only 73 words.

Also, it lies. “Years studying literary masterpieces” means I spent my lonely teenage years reading every Charles Dickens book I could devour in my bedroom. I only attended a one-week summer seminar through the University of Iowa’s Writing Program, available to anyone with a checkbook, where I listened to estate lawyers sick of their profession argue about whether “good abs” was a character-defining trait.

I need a different approach.

I’ve been writing fiction for 20+ years and for most of that time, never took writing seriously. I felt objective enough to realize my material was high-end mediocre, certainly not publishable. (Ann, my awesome friend and all-time cheerleader, often disagreed. She is wonderful.) While I definitely wanted my writing to be amazing and even entertained fantasies of around-the-block lines for my book signings, I can’t say that I developed a serious plan to make any of that happen. (However, I did practice my fruity, author signature.)

I took a writing class here and there. Wrote 100 pages. Realized it was kinda crap. Repeated.

My former neighbor, Jenna, had similar aspirations but much to my surprise, she actually did something about it: she pursued a Creative Writing master degree from a prestigious university, and then launched a writing career. I didn’t know you could do that — make yourself better and go after what you wanted. She did. I’ve read her fiction and she did it: she won.

I watched her growing success with a detached curiosity and wondered why I did not have that same drive, that internal passion that said, “I want this more than anything.”

I took another writing class. Wrote another 100 pages.

Through it all, I enjoyed myself. I liked finding unusual stories, mapping conversations, and creating unique approaches to characters. But I didn’t see myself as a writer, not really. Where was the passion? Where was the drive that Jenna had?

In 2008, I wrote a short story about something not terribly important to me but important to a closeted 20-year-old I met online. He was sad and alone. I remembered those days well and decided he needed inspiration, so I wrote him a story and published it on a free website. This was my “It Gets Better” project before Dan Savage’s amazing It Gets Better project became a reality. I decided to try a few literary tricks, fuck with the point of view, throw in some masculine archetypes, some Joseph Campbell shit, because why the fuck not? Who cared? It was just a writing exercise.

Because I wasn’t writing SERIOUS FICTION and had dropped all expectations (i.e. literary pretensions), a curious thing happened. The story flowed through me, relaxed and intentional. Decades of sweeping out mediocre sentences paid off, transforming my writing with surprising grace into a Cinderella story, a lyrical, ball-gown construction resulting in Beautiful Sentences. I had written Beautiful Sentences. And I really, really liked what I wrote.

So I wrote a little more.

Emails from readers began pouring in. First dozens, then hundreds. Men and women from Europe, Africa, and quite a few from the USA. People mailed me gifts. Through this experience, I found an amazing editor who said ‘You should get published,’ and made several incredible friendships. I was shocked by the impact these stories created and how individuals attempted to integrate the fiction into their reality.

I have tried to describe the 2008 writing phenomenon to friends as one of those romantic comedies where the protagonist suddenly realizes he’s been in love with his best friend all these years, and so he races to break up her wedding before she can utter the words, “I do.” I’m not sure I could run to the church without ending up wheezing and huffing, hunched over, but still, it fits.

I love writing fiction.

I feel lucky to be in love with my best friend, and a little foolish when I consider how long it took me to arrive here, but still, happy and dazed. (One of the first things I did was to call Jenna and say, “I get it now. I want this more than anything.”) I had a fear of dying without knowing how I could serve a greater purpose in the world, how I could offer my unique flavor of love to a world that has loved me more than I deserve. I really wanted to uncover my big gift, the thing where my soul and spirit locked together and everything inside me sang, “I’m home.”

How about this:

Edmond Manning has always been fascinated by fiction: how ordinary words could be sculpted into heartfelt emotions, how heartfelt emotions could leave an imprint inside you stronger than the real world. Mr. Manning never felt worthy to tread down these hallowed halls as an author until recently, when he accidentally stumbled into his own writer’s voice that fit like his favorite skull-print, fuzzy jammies. He finally realized that he didn’t have to write like Dickens or Maupin, two author heroes, and that perhaps his own insignificant writing was perfect just because it was his true voice, so he looked around the scrappy word kingdom that he created for himself and shouted, “I’M HOME!” He is now a writer.

That’s 118 words.

It could work.

After an unusual encounter in a San Francisco art gallery, a vacationing garage mechanic offers a local investment banker a mysterious invitation:   submit to me for 40 hours, and I will restore your kingship, help you become the man you were always meant to be.

Over one weekend in October, 1999, the banker endures exhausting physical, mental, and emotional challenges (a sleepover on Alcatraz, “bear walking” through a homeless shelter, and kidnapping a baby duck), trials which gradually bruise free his stunted heart.

In the astonishing climax, the banker is abandoned on a mountain top at midnight, and uses his newfound kingship to transform his devestating grief into primal, radiant love.

Below are a few chapters from my finished novel, King Perry. After the prologue, the entire novel takes place in 1999.

PERRY,

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED ON A KING WEEKEND.

FRIDAY, THREE DAYS FROM NOW, MEET ME ON PIER 33 AT 6:00 P.M. DON’T BE LATE. IF YOU SPEND THE NEXT 40 HOURS FOLLOWING MY EVERY COMMAND “” ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING “” YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE IN SURPRISING WAYS. COME AND MEET YOUR TRUE JOY.

THIS IS NOT AN S&M THING. YOU WILL NOT BE DRUGGED. YOU WILL NOT BE ABUSED. WE MAY EAT ONION RINGS IF I’M STILL CRAVING THEM BUT HONESTLY, I DON’T CONSIDER THAT ABUSE UNLESS THEY’RE COLD. BUT YOU MUST SUBMIT ALL WEEKEND; NO SUCH THING AS A TIME-OUT. PACK A SMALL WEEKEND BAG.

REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE, PERRY. REMEMBER THE KING.

VIN VANBLY

P.S. WEAR SOME SEXY UNDERWEAR; YOU HAVE A GREAT ASS.

“Thank you,” I say to the ponytailed caterer after she offers me wine. “Fancy party, huh?”

I almost want to explain I’m not hitting on her, I just want to see her smile. She does smile briefly, nodding with deference before stepping deeper into the gallery. Okay, not much reaction. I sip the red wine, swirl it in my plastic cup, creating little maroon waves of merlot. Merlot? Merlot? Can anybody hear “”

Nah, not so hilarious.

I’m more of a beer guy, but I like doing this, wandering around this art gallery as if I’m part of this town, as if this is an average Tuesday night for me.

Tonight’s party is groovy, a bash for lesser-name surrealists of the 1960s and ’70s. Painters who understood a doorknob could wear a green sparrow’s beak, and yeah, it works. With red and brown tiger stripes spilling out of a bathtub behind it, somehow it actually works.

The jagged colors, the juxtaposition of impossible realities, so similar to real life. Sometimes this world is hard for me to reconcile, its unfair sorrows and unexpected moments of brilliance. I love that surrealists tried to paint the reality they saw, this impossible world. I guess I like this one with the bathtub and the sparrow beak, The Trombone Symphony Drowns Alone. No trombones in sight. I guess they drowned.

Looking around, I’m not the only tourist pretending to be a San Franciscan, examining art.

We flock to this city of fog castles on hills, and we love it, serpentine roads and indomitable beauty cresting every hill. The thrill of standing here, walking these historic avenues, this adopted homeland for queers. Indomitable. Good word.

Instead of gawking and taking photos, we work hard to pretend that we live right around the corner and just popped out for a carton of low-fat milk. Maybe it’s only around the Castro where we gay tourists fake our residency. We have a certain swagger we hope communicates, “I belong. I have always belonged.”

This isn’t exclusively the pretentious queens, oh no. It’s the bears like me. The twinks. The leather daddies and the androgynous gigglers. The white collar gays with slick briefcases, and the business lesbians, openly cuddling at Market and Castro, waiting for the light to change. We’re so eager to slap on our labels and march behind our distinct parade banners, but inside we’re fundamentally the same: we all want to belong in the Homo Homeland, to find a corner of the world where we are each uniquely celebrated.

The gallery is filling up a little bit. It’s right on Castro and 19th, so plenty of passersby notice this shindig and pop in.I did. Well, I actually knew about this show prior to twenty minutes ago.

We’re not elbow-to-elbow crowded in here, but there are enough people getting buzzed to keep the ponytailed caterer and her two cohorts in demand. She seems nervous. She looks like an Amanda to me. I think Amanda the ponytailed caterer is new. She takes her refreshment responsibilities quite seriously, hesitating to nudge patrons lest she offend. Definitely new. Moved to San Francisco within the last four months? I should try to find out where she’s from.

Wandering around, twice I overhear the famous joke repeated: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?

Fish.

Gotta love the classics.

Fascinating to watch the small groupings forming and disbanding around me. I have already spotted two sets of guys carefully avoiding each other, former boyfriends or secret fuck buddies I cannot tell. In a raised voice, a cute twink discusses symbolism in front of an untitled piece with a yellow finger tree oozing sap. Cute Twink must work here. There’s someone in the small audience he’s trying to subtly impress. Oh yeah, that guy right there.

If I lived in a whodunit, I’d definitely be the second victim. When the killer slips out of the room during the blackout, I’d see it and be stupid enough to later announce over library cocktails, “Yeah, I saw it.” When the killer corners me in the pantry and stabs me in the neck I’d be like, “No wait, I won’t tell,” but too late! All that blood spurting over canned peaches and creamed corn, dripping off the plastic-lined pantry shelves”¦

Stop it.

Thoughts and images creep in like “”

No.

Be on vacation, Vin. Be here. Look around.

Cute Twink’s speech isn’t going well. His tone changes, taking on the slightest sneer. The man he wanted to win over has turned to share meaningful glances with a long-haired guy a few feet away. Including those two, I count five guys fake-studying but actually cruising. I can’t even count the number of tourists like myself, wandering, musing, pretending to belong. I love how faraway places sometimes feel like home.

One painter in particular strikes me as truly unique: Richard Mangin. Nobody’s crowding in to see his stuff, so I can take a little time up close. He’s no one particularly famous, but I’ve seen his name once or twice as an innovator. Payoff for being a book nerd.

The largest painting of the three, Siren Song, has really snagged my attention. A shapeless guy plays a cello in a funky green desert, and a pumpkin patch melts into gold in the lower right corner. I recognize that Dalí reference. The purple sky includes a dozen shades of violet, occasionally slashed by a crimson streak. In one corner of the sky, white dove wings fade through tarnished iron bars, wings on more on than our side than caged. Maybe a little cheesy, symbolically, but I still like it. He wanted to be crystal clear about his point. I wonder why? Or maybe, I’m just reading it wrong. Details in the painting hum to me, whisper things.

Oh. Someone’s watching me.

I study Siren Song and simultaneously check out my watcher. He’s handsome. A few years younger than me. Maybe 29 or 30? Short brown hair, a few locks carefully flopping over his forehead in one spot. Clean-shaven. Glasses. I bet he looks all sexy without them.But I like the glasses too.

Is that guy the painter? No, he’d be in his 60s or older by now.

He’s got those classic, sharp-planed features you’d see in a Sunday Sears ad, a father pretending to enjoy lawn furniture, showing off his wrinkle-free Dockers. Nice suit, customer-tailored, and dark-framed glasses. Hot. I like Clark Kents. I like very much, thank you. Peach shirt, shimmery peach tie. I think that guy from Millionaire is doing that look, Regis. Okay, this man’s definitely a step or two up from Sears. First impressions, Vin, let go.

He keeps a distance, never quite looking directly at me, yet I’m sure he’s watching. I drop my key ring so I can steal a glance at his shoes. Gucci, which means he’s got money. Is he”¦I dunno, a realtor? Or”¦I also pick up a certain unease, even from this far away. Nervous? Not really.

Huh.

No, not a realtor. A realtor would network around the expensive art, meeting potential clients. I would, if I were a realtor in San Francisco. I certainly wouldn’t stake out someone who looks like me. I bet I could be a San Francisco realtor. I’d hang out at art galleries and be like, “Hey, this painting reminds me of a charming two-bedroom condo I saw.” I wonder what neighborhood I’d work. Somewhere with a little sun. I could represent the Mission; I like bungalows.

Is he going to hit on me? No. Not getting that vibe; he’s not trying to attract my attention. He’s fairly subtle. Still, I should have noticed him sooner than I did.

I don’t think Lawn Furniture Guy works for this gallery, and so he’s not polishing his hard sell, coaxing a sale. I’ve been on the lookout for Cute Twink’s boss; this could be him. Art gallery owners sometimes keep a low profile at these things so they can mingle anonymously, get a feel for the crowd’s authentic reaction.

I’m betting Lawn Furniture Guy wants to say something to me and is working up the nerve. I’ll give him a few minutes. I like LFG. No, don’t make him an acronym. Don’t do it.

I study Mangin’s medium-sized canvas with my back to Lawn Furniture Guy until I’m sure he’s staring, and then I spin back toward Siren Song. From my peripheral vision, I catch him jerking in surprise.

Busted.

Ms. Ponytailed Caterer offers me another drink and I accept. She’s so demure, almost apologetic. In a few more months she’ll be seasoned and more callous. I’m not getting a Midwest vibe from her. Ask her something. No. Let her do her job. She doesn’t want to chat; you already tried.

I stand in front of Siren Song, waiting for my watcher to get over here, and in the meantime I puzzle at the multi-purpled sky. He’d better make up his mind soon or I’ll miss my ride. In the sky across from the prison bars, I can’t help but wonder if “”

A firm voice at my side says, “You a big fan of the surrealists?”

“No,” I say, smiling wide. “That’s my initial in the sky. V.”

“Oh. Actually, I think those are “””

“I know, I know,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “I’m Vin Vanbly, so it caught my eye. With two V’s.”

Though it’s awkward with my wine glass, I make two peace symbols with my fingers and then bring them together, index fingers touching as I sometimes do when I’m goofy with my name. People relax around me when they think I’m stupid. His face halts its surprise as he tries hard to suppress any further reaction.

“The painting is cool,” I say, turning towards him and jabbing my thumb casually over my shoulder for emphasis, “and I was just grooving on my initials in the sky. I like the wings and bars part on the other side, too. Very symbolic.”

“Hi Vin,” he says, recovering quickly. “My name is Perry.”

I raise my plastic cup. “Good wine.”

He eyes flinch but he recovers immediately. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I fix cars. I don’t know a ton about surreal art.”

I launch a few questions about the city, the mighty San Francisco. He answers politely at first, then a little friendlier. He’s actually warming up, not being a dick. Good for you, Perry. And while I’m definitely playing a little blond, I’m not being a complete idiot, so we have a couple nice moments together, chuckling at a comment the other has made. Let’s see what happens when the game changes.

“I can totally see the cello guy representing the Surrealist Manifesto’s concept of absurd humor.”

Perry’s eyes jerk again without his head moving and he says, “I thought you were a garage mechanic.”

“I am.”

“Didn’t you just say you knew nothing about art?”

“I said I didn’t know a ton. I read a few books.”

He pauses and then says, “How many mechanics know the Surrealist Manifesto?”

“How many mechanics do you know?”

Perry extends a cautious smile, deciding whether I’m teasing or getting angry. I keep my face pleasant and blank, interested to see where he takes this.

“None,” he says at last. “Sorry.”

“No sweat. I read a lot. I brought six books with me on vacation. You read much?”

“Financial journals, mostly. I’m an investment banker.”

His eye contact changes after this, like he’s no longer searching for a way out. I believe I’ve been upgraded from Dumb Tourist to Person of Interest.

We chat about the exciting life of an investment banker, and the also exciting life of a garage mechanic. We both like Thai food, he recommends a good spot in SOMA, and over slightly more friendly smiles, we find additional common ground. He has a home email account, which not everyone does. I share my AOL website address and he says, “I’ve been meaning to sign up.”

I nod at his shoes. “Gucci.”

“A garage mechanic who knows surrealism and fashion. Clearly, I need to meet more mechanics.”

“We’re into show tunes, too. Put a bunch of bear mechanics near a piano, and watch out. Gay or straight, it doesn’t even matter.”

He smiles. “Show tunes, huh? You also a big Madonna fan?”

A willowy man younger than the two of us appears abruptly at our side and nods toward the painting. “Is this about Vietnam?”

Perry hesitates before he speaks but then says, “I don’t think so. It’s around that time, but a few years later.”

Wait, what was that?

The man inspects the painting closer, dragging a lock of long blond hair behind his right ear, for Perry’s benefit. Perry pretends not to notice and leans in to whisper to me that he’s not a big fan of surrealists.

What was that thing on his face?

Our interloper, finding no suitable reaction from Perry, saunters away.

“That guy was hitting on you, Perry.”

smiles and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Please. That whole ‘isn’t this Vietnam?’ He didn’t give a crap about the painting.”

“Trust me. In this town, everyone hits on everyone and it doesn’t even count as flirting. It’s like saying hello.”

Is it possible that Perry couldn’t see it?

“Look at that one,” I suggest with a nod. “Mother’s Day gift.”

Perry says, “Arbor Day.”

“Doesn’t your mom like trees?”

“I think she preferred her trees with less spurting blood.”

Past tense. Is his mom dead? Check that out.

I say, “It’s sap.”

“The branches are fingers and they’re bleeding down the trunk.”

I exhale a groan and turn away. “Geat, now I’m queasy.”

I shoot a barrage of questions his way about absurd topics: grade school memories, favorite soup, safe San Francisco neighborhoods for night walking, giving him the chance to trot out his best stories, the ones that show, “this is the real me.” I drill for additional information as subtly as I can, wanting to understand his connection to these three paintings. I could ask him directly, but this is more fun.

I shake my head in disgust in response to his latest answer. “I can’t believe you don’t like them.”

“They’re disgusting.”

“They’re magically delicious.”

“Those marshmallows are like eating Styrofoam.”

“Which is why they’re magically delicious.”

When I ask him a few questions about work, he takes off his glasses to rub his right eye socket. Is that a stress thing? Or is it the gallery that stresses him out? I suddenly have a theory about Perry.

I point my wine cup at a painting across the room. “Look at that one. Are those onion rings smothered in cheese? ‘Cause right now, I’d buy it; I came in expecting chips and salsa at the very least. Your city is fucking cheap on the nibblies.”

He tilts his chin upward for a split second and laughs.

Got it.

I know who he is.

“Were onion rings even around in the 1960s?” he asks.

“They’ve been around since the 1930s. But nobody is really sure who invented them. They just showed up in a newspaper column in 1934.”

“Good lord, why would anyone know that?”

“Impress people at cocktail parties. I bet you know the good ring spots in San Francisco.”

Perry names spots around the Castro.

I look away in exaggerated disgust. “Amateur.”

I now understand his interest in these Richard Mangin paintings. Well, it’s a guess. But I make good guesses. I don’t think I’ll bring it up. Let’s see where this goes.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Vin?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you Irish?” he asks. “You’re pretty fair. Of course, you could be German.”

“Maybe. Or Nordic. My birth records were kinda spotty, and I grew up in foster families, so I’m one of those weird people who don’t really know their ethnicity.”

“Oh,” Perry’s face falls. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s part of who I am. I think I look German, actually, you know? Blond, pale, big square head like a block? Who knows, though, maybe I’m a blond Russian.”

“You’re built like a big German dude,” he says. “Which is nice. Big chest and all. I bet you’re hairy.”

I guess Perry has decided to go for it. I look around the gallery with pretend distraction, unbuttoning my top two buttons, scratching my strawberry-brown curls. I’m a bear, by the gay world’s definition: stocky and hairy, the only two requirements for membership. And I just heard someone on AOL use the term otter, so maybe we’re evolving into a ‘woodland creatures’ group. Not really sure what to make of that.

My face is fairly undistinguished except I have a goatee. I’m not hideous and I’m not Lawn Furniture handsome, which nobody is, now that Perry has a name. So, Vin, let’s just let that one go. Perry. Make the shape of a pear with the word: Peeeeaaaarrrrry. Oh, I like that.

He sips his wine and shakes his head, chuckling. “I’m not usually this forward. I had two vodka cranberries before I came here. You’re terrible, by the way, like the opening scene in a porno.”

I make my voice deep and rumbly as I say, “Fuck yeah, buddy…oh yeah…”

Perry snickers. “That’s why you thought that guy was hitting on me. Because you’re hitting on me.”

“Maybe. You like it?”

The corners of his mouth curve upwards. “Maybe. What’s with the lumberjack outfit? You headed to the Eagle after this?”

“I was camping in Marin County. You like camping?”

“When it’s in the middle of nowhere, sure. But you do realize that San Francisco has hotels.”

“Speak to me of this concept, this hotels.”

He insists on checking my biceps to see if I chop wood, but we both recognize and appreciate the sexy excuse to be extra close, to touch in public. I have some muscle, but it doesn’t show. Well, maybe biceps show a little bulge. I can run two city blocks, but after about three blocks I end up wheezing, hands on my knees.

Who am I kidding: when was the last time I ran two city blocks?

“You look like Paul Bunyan without the axe.”

“Good guess. I’m from Minnesota. Sort of.”

We talk about the movie Fargo, which he loved, and the Minnesota accent, which I love, and I confess my origins as a transplant from Chicago’s south side. He asks about Minnesota winters, as everyone must. I explain the transitional beauty of a snow-melting day in April, and he dismisses it instantly. A few times now he has rolled his eyes at me in playful judgment: camping, my clothes, a few minor details around travel spots. He would not listen to my attempt to describe Detroit’s unique charm. There should be a word for an attitude between snob and unconscious, describing someone who doesn’t realize how strongly he holds his own opinions.

I slosh the wine a little, and his eyes dart nervously to the canvases, making sure I’m not close enough to do any damage. That’s an owner’s attitude. He owns these paintings.

Single.

He slips that little detail into conversation, overly casual, and then rubs his right eye socket again. He’s not poor and he’s not rich, I gather, from the local restaurants he recommends. But let’s find out. Only in San Francisco is it considered polite conversation to ask,”How much is your rent?” so I extend the local courtesy and inquire.

His blue eyes flash in sexy appreciation of our conversation.

Wow, is he handsome. He’s one of those summer people who remain tan year-round, not by artificial means, but because the sun touched him a long time ago and said, “You’re on my team.”

Perry is fun to hang out with, and definitely sexy, but that doesn’t guarantee I will find the spark I seek. Chances are we’ll chat for a while and then I’ll take off. I don’t fuck casually and I’m not great at small talk unless I’m hunting for that spark, like now.

But I can probe a bit longer, see if there’s a possibility, kindling for a bonfire I might try to ignite. If nothing comes of this, I will have enjoyed chatting with the handsome investment banker in a San Francisco gallery. That in itself is pretty sweet.

More people enter the gallery, and as others nudge by, the two of us jostle for position. Our chests graze together as someone squeezes by and we bare naughty grins. I want to believe that we were both imagining each other naked. Well, I am. I bet he has a great ass. How do I get him to turn around? I gotta see that butt.

The shifting crowd becomes suddenly too much for Amanda, the Ponytailed Caterer, who falters right behind Perry, her tray of wine glasses dipping disastrously for a split second, three of them sliding to the floor right at Perry’s back.

“Sorry,” Perry says, raising his voice. “Sorry! I did that. I bumped her. Sorry.”

Almost no time passed before his reaction. She shoots him a grateful look so quick and sly that it’s gone right away. For everyone else she wears an impassive expression, clearly bearing no ill will toward the man who everyone believes, professionally humiliated her.

No paintings are damaged, no Pradas irrevocably stained. The consensus is clear that it wasn’t her fault. People gaze at him coolly and he nods in meek apology. She mops up the floor with napkins and then disappears into a corner to restock. He’s so busy accepting chastisement from the patrons that he doesn’t even notice her two white-aproned coworkers fixing on him with undisguised anger.

“Sorry,” he says to the Cute Twink, who also bears an unpleasant expression.

The commotion has ended; the wine scrubbed from the scene. People turn away, gossiping about him, everyone eager for a topic besides the art. I can’t help but notice Perry and I have a few extra feet of space around us, no one eager to be implicated by proximity.

Perry turns to me and says, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

I wait a few seconds before speaking. “Why did you do that?”

“I stepped “””

“No, you didn’t.” I nod to the space behind him. “Seriously. Why?”

He blushes for real now. “I used to be a caterer when I moved here. It was my third job, my weekend job, in addition to my day job and evening job. Competition for the good catering gigs is savage.”

Perry adopts an exaggerated, serious face. “You’ll never pour merlot in this town again, kid.”

I nod and take this in.

Compassion.

Compassion toward someone who can do nothing for him, someone who offers nothing in return. He’ll never see her again, but his response was immediate. They’ll never even exchange names.

The spark.

Keep him talking. “What was it like to be a caterer?”

Don’t get ahead of yourself; run the checklist.

Personality. He’s unconsciously snobbish and spontaneously compassionate. He’s got humor and humility. But damn, he’s also way uptight. He evolved his first impression of me, moving beyond his initial judgments. Chemistry. Fuck yeah, I’d suck his dick and I think it’s pretty mutual. Issues. He still hasn’t volunteered his connection to the paintings. I think that’s big. I’ve got an idea to test this. I’m thinking somewhere between nine and twelve. Need to establish timelines; I can’t do the math this quickly. 70-what? Skip it; come back to it later.Emotions. Other than his being a little affected, I think he’s pretty solid. But he couldn’t recognize a suitor. Why is his heart so shut down?

Who is this man, this handsome investment banker with a stunted heart?

My own heart pounds.

King him. King Perry.

Okay, that’s it; message received. Let’s fucking do this.

I wait for Perry to wind down his latest catering anecdote and then ask, “Are you ready to get kinged?”

He glances around the gallery with a mischievous smile.

“Not sure. Which painting are we talking about now?”

Well, here goes. I’m having my very first book reading the night before Thanksgiving.
http://www.intermediaarts.org/literary/calendar#glbt

With the assistance of a devoted, fantastic editor, and amazing internet friends who served as awesome beta readers, I have finished a novel which has meant a great deal to me. I had no idea writing could be such a hmmm… “community” event. I told my editor, Rhyss, that I had never thought that writing could be a team sport, but there you go.

This coming Wednesday, I’ll read a selection from my finished novel, hopefully soon-to-be-published.

Know a good literary agent?