After a lovely invitation by new friend Christopher Koehler, I cheerfully agreed to participate in a blog-it-forward type situation regarding my Next Big Thing. Last week, Christopher blogged about his Next Big Thing and he invited a few authors (like me) to write about my Next Big Thing one week after he did. We all answer the same set of questions.

So here goes! This is what has consumed my recent months…

What is the working title of your book?

King Mai

(This is the second book my series, The Lost and Founds.)

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I plotted the entire series before I had finished the first book, King Perry. I wanted the first book to illustrate the insanity and beauty of the west coast. (San Francisco). The second book (King Mai) would illustrate another flavor of kingship as demonstrated by the fine people in the Midwest, specifically DeKalb, Illinois. Each book highlights a different geography, a different flavor of love.

DeKalb is a fascinating town — a unique hybrid of university life and small town America, the perfect place to illustrate an entire blue-collar community of kings and queens urging local farmer Mai Kearns toward his destiny as the one true king. I came to love DeKalb during my college years, which is why it seemed natural to revisit that love and share it with others.

What genre does your book fall under?

Hmmmm…that has been the cause of some speculation and debate. I would argue it’s Gay Romance. King Weekend stories follow two men in love for a single weekend. Just because they don’t ride off in the sunset together, does that mean they didn’t feel love? They weren’t in love? I have heard others describe what I write as Gay Fiction or Gay Literature. Could be. I just like to tell a good story.

With kissing.

(And sex in corn fields.)

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

Vin Vanbly – Edward Norton. Norton’s got a very ‘ordinary’ face, but still handsome. He may have to gain a few pounds.

Mai Kearns – ?? I suppose to be 100% authentic, it would have to be a Thai actor, but two hot Asian-American actors come to mind (John Cho and Ken Leung). Since Mai gets angry about people confusing Chinese and Thai, I suppose I really need a Thai actor. Damn. I really want to meet Ken Leung.

What is a one sentence synopsis of your book?

Local farmer Mai Kearns has roughly 40 hours to solve a kingly treasure hunt that will drag him through every emotional hell he encountered growing up in this Midwestern university town, as he hopes to overcome the rage in his heart in time to save his parents’ doomed farm.

Whew! I did it. One sentence!

Will your book be self published, published by a small press, or represented by an agency?

I do not know the answer to this yet.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Six months. Another three months of revisions and editing. I am a slow, slow writer. I’m the crock pot of writers.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre.

Uh…nothing? I don’t know anything like this. As far as I know, there are no other books about ‘kinging.’ The only comparable book is the first in the series, King Perry.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

I don’t want to answer this question in detail or I may accidentally reveal spoilers. However, in short, I will say that this novel was inspired by the straight men in my life who befriend and love me.

What else about your book might interest the reader?

Fibonnaci Hopscotch, Butterfly Trees, Egyptian hieroglyphics, a visit to the Lost Kings headquarters, Corn Fest, King Jimbo the Bruiser, A Curious Army, secrets revealed about Vin Vanbly, an angry waitress named Coleen, and the movie Fargo.

There. Hope this clarifies everything.

Thank you for reading about my next big thing.

I invited a few people to participate in the Next Big Thing. So in roughly one week’s time, check out Aldous Mercer, Alix Bekins, and Michelle Kenoyer.

Didn’t you sometimes resent J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series?

She created this fantastic world that sucked us in and made us care about potions class, an old geezer named Dumbledore, and bewitched furniture. But then we had to wait two years for the next installment. Two years. C’mon, woman, give us a fix! I had always wished she provided a tasty tidbit between novels, like a Harry Potter short story.

I’m hoping to provide you with a tasty tidbit.

If you read my first novel, King Perry, thank you. Because it takes me a while to write the king stories at the quality level that makes me happy, I thought you might like a metaphorical snack while waiting for the next full-length novel. My goal is one book per year. If I can get faster than that, well, I will. But for now, let’s count on one book per year.

Roughly six months after the last book release (which hopefully is roughly six month before the next full novel), I will make chapters available from the sixth book in the series, King Daniel.

I know, I know.

You’re thinking,’ Uh…shouldn’t several books come between the first book and the sixth book?’ Yes, of course. But Vin Vanbly’s tale is odd and the telling of his stories must also also reflect this oddness. Just go with it! Part of the grand adventure.

At the end of this blog post you will find the first three chapters of King Daniel.

Why three chapters?

I think that will be clear after you read them. These chapters may answer some nagging questions raised in King Perry and provide a little more insight into the world of Found Kings. Of course, these chapters might possibly drive you insane with new mysteries wondering what happened to Vin in the year 2005 and where is he now? Hmmmm. Perhaps you should read at your own peril.

I hope you enjoy meeting Daniel and exploring the world of the Found Kings in 2013, the year this story takes place.

All my love,

Edmond

PDF file link: The Lost and Founds_Book 6_Chapters 1-3

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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.