“Oh god, remember the time you…”

Thanks, but I’ll pass.

But after re-friending high school classmates on Facebook and getting to know them all over again, I discovered that they actually do know me damn well, better than I remembered. And I *was* fully me in high school – that was my most of my true personality shining through back then. But I had not found my inner glow or maybe just lacked confidence in that flicker of who I would eventually become.

Crap. I wish I would have realized this before my ten year reunion. I probably would have gone.

Maybe I have another chance.

Ever since publishing King Perry, my life has changed in a significant and wonderful way. I now have writer friends. I email them and complain about lack of time for writing. They email back. We end up having long email discussions on publishing, marketing, how we develop characters, comment on specific details in our book, share amazon.com news, and more.

I love it.

For many years my only writing friend has been the very awesome Jenna, and she’s been super busy with her burgeoning career. We do talk once in a while and have great conversations when we do catch up. Our last three-hour Skype session included me threatening her with a giant, silver, kitchen knife and her pretending to be choked by hands off-screen.

She gets me.

With new friends, I guest blog on their site, which is high school equivalent of catching up at a friend’s locker between classes. Through emails we chat about common friends we mutually admire, sharing each delicious stories of what we like about that person. On Facebook I’ve met dozens of these new friends, and each time we start commenting on each others’ posts, it’s the high school equivalent of lingering and chatting at your locker, walking away thinking, “I could really see myself being friends with this person.”

I met Jo first (clever, British writer), and then L.C. whose sparse prairie descriptions perfectly matched her cowboy leads. I loved critiquing Lou’s vampire story. Kari answers every business question I throw her, freely giving of her time as if chatting with me is her top priority. Anne and I have a million stories to share; we learn from each other.

I’ve met “upper classmen” in this high school of writers, folks who I emailed and said, “May I ask your advice?” They have said, “Sure. What’s up.” And though we do not automatically become best buds, I am grateful for this exchange and feel respected. We shake hands and pass through the hallway, and I end up thinking, ‘I could really see myself being friends with this person.’

Lance and his partner showed up at my book release party. Alix is a writer who I enjoy running into on Facebook. I have threatened to move into a shed in his backyard so we can hang out and he can make me mac & cheese.  Joyfully Jay is someone whose website I liked and wanted to meet. We did! She loved King Perry and we got to chatting. Again, if this were high school, at cafeteria lunch I would sit at her table or invite her to mine.

Last week, I met Fen and AJ and after one or two emails, I said to AJ: “Let’s be friends. Or friendly. I’m not asking for a commitment.” and now we’re friendly. He and Fen came over Sunday afternoon to talk shop (and drink sangria). Before my book was published I contacted a near-stranger, Lloyd, and said, “Will you talk to me about marketing.” He arranged a Skype session for the next day.

This October I’m going to my first writers’ conference:  GayRomLit.

Already, I feel like I’m attending a ten-year reunion where I will meet all my old/new friends. Like an actual high school reunion, we may not recognize each other as first (having only exchanged emails), but we’ll take a moment to be pleasantly surprised.

I will say, “Oh god, is that you, L.C?”

She will laugh and say something funny, and we will hug this big, excited hug. Or, I should say, I will try to hug her.She has the option to put out her hand and say, “Boundaries, mister.” But honestly, L.C., you should probably just give in and let me hug you. I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty good at it.

I can’t wait to catch up with these old friends.

But it could be challenging, too. I get nervous around big crowds.

My new friend Dawn and I have confessed our mutual fear of not knowing what to do and where to go.  We have agreed to hang out in the corner holding hands, which will make this awkwardness bearable. We may or may not hide behind a large, potted fern. There will be snarky giggling behind the fern, I know. I suspect we will attract the other people who don’t know what to do with themselves either, until we are a mighty force, laughing hard in the general vicinity of the hotel bar.

I find I’m even looking forward to the awkward parts.

It’s odd that I think of this conference as a reunion, but I do.

These are the people from high school who discovered weird kinks about themselves and learned they saw the world differently: women who spend time wondering what gay men think and do. Men, who as boys thought, ‘Oh shit, I’m gay. What should I think and do?’

And these people now dare to write their answers to those questions in fiction. These are probably high schoolers who never quite fit in. But we celebrate that now. That weird kink is now power and that not-fitting-in creates a vision for storytelling.

We now love that queer sparking light, wherever its sturdy glow comes from.

So thanks, new writer friends, for welcoming me, a freshman. That was cool.

I’ll see you guys in October for the GayRomLit reunion.

Until then, stop by my locker after class and say ‘hey.’

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.

Dear Friends, Beloved Coworkers,Cool Authors I Had Not Yet Met, Assorted Family Members, Canadians,  Book Clubians, Iowa Bear Guys and, well, Everybody.

How are you? I’m good thank you, I had a very nice Easter.

Listen, I wanted to drop you a note thanking you for coming to my book release party two weeks ago. Thank you. It meant a lot to me that you came.

Normally at this point in any thank you note, things get awkward because its decision time: how sloppy am I willing to get? Is this a polite thanks for dropping off blueberry pie or is this wow, I’ve been really wanting a Cuisinart, so thank you.

Or is this the type of thank you note where you explode everywhere, gushing  superlatives and as you mail it you wonder if you conveyed heartfelt thanks or did it come across as a veiled threat to stalk you if you’re any nicer to me.

Me, I always err on the side of stalking, so I am going to gush a little bit. But I won’t come to your house and look through binoculars into your living room. Don’t think about that. Don’t even bother to turn around right now, looking out your dark windows. For pete’s sake, there’s way too many of you and I’m too lazy.

But it’s important to let you know what you did for my heart.

I’ve been writing for over 20 years mostly in secret, or if not exactly secret, behind closed doors. I’ve never published anything. I didn’t think I could write very well, not the kind of writing other folks would want to read. Honestly, I don’t think it was a low self esteem problem.

I believe my problem is that I’ve read too much writing I love. I grew up snarfing down Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, and literature my father loved. My mom read to us at night. Naturally, I became an English major in college. To this day, I read for pleasure as much as time permits. My friend Chris writes for the Pioneer Press and the amount of beautiful sentences and wistfulness he imbues into movie reviews astonishes me. I’ve read poetry by friends that made my heart leap. After I finished The Known World by Edward P. Jones, I thought, “Well, screw writing as a hobby. This guy already nailed it.”

So, I know good writing.

For much of my closeted writing career, I simply wasn’t ready; I wasn’t there.

And hey, whether I am or am not there is quite debatable. But I’m ready to show the world what I’ve been doing on my back deck all those summer nights with low-burning candles and a glass of milk and another glass of wine. (Don’t judge me.)

So anyway, last week you guys ripped me apart.

Saturday night, during the nonstop madness of signing books for two and a half hours, I looked up and found myself surrounded by favorites: cold beer, joyful laughter, fat-frosted cake, balloons, onion rings, and the radiant smiles of dozens of great friends beaming at me, expressing, “You did it. Proud of you.” I cried a few times when I thought nobody was looking because it’s not possible to be loved this much, to survive staggering under the weight of such kindness as if each of you thugs were carrying a brick of solid love and you had no problem wrapping it in a pillow case and showing up at a bar called Grumpy’s.

Wow. That’s a little more violent than I had intended, but you get the message: I was dazed, dazzled, lambasted, shocked, disoriented, and then flabber and ghasted both at the same time. I had five dozens intense conversations over the evening, which was both heaven and hell, heaven to be delighted by every next person in line and then hell to end a new conversation scant minutes later.

I’m not sure, but I think I saw:

An ex-boyfriend with a shy, winning smile. He brought me a book on our first date.

An apartment building friend I knew 13 years ago when our paths crossed daily on dirty hallway carpeting.

My book club pals, whom I guess I should simply call ‘beloved friends’ because after 10 years of loving these people, I think we’ve moved beyond book club. Allison showed up despite an exhausting flight from Hawaii earlier that day. People the next day texted me to say, “Your book club friends are cool.”

My family, Mary and Heather, hugged me hard. With a smirk, Heather said, “Next time, your goddaughters would like you to write a children’s book so they can attend the party.”

We laughed together and then I told Heather, “Seriously, they can never read King Perry. Not even at 30.”

Too often the conversation ended with my brain pleading, Wait, don’t go! More to say! Don’t go — oh, hello, oh hello! How amazing to see you standing there, I didn’t know you were right there — thank you for coming!

When it was his turn, my quiet friend Erik raised his eyebrows at me to say, ‘way to go,’ and then followed it up by saying, “Way to go.”

I was touched that he decided to make a speech.

Especially since the night prior as he and his amazing girlfriend and I ended an evening of giggling together, I proposed a three-way. They were not shy in their rejection, which only spurred my greater advances. I promised to “do things” and I used air quotes, prompting all three of us to groan and turn away in disgust. In my final seduction, I unbelted, unzipped, and dropped my camo pants to the sidewalk saying, “This is what you’d be missing.” They remained firm in their resolve.

Actually, considering my behavior, Erik and Rosa, thank you for coming. Seriously.

My younger brother who lives in Chicago appeared at my side at one point in the evening, unannounced. He sipped beer from a frosty mug and nodded at me, saying, “Hey.”

I really should introduce him to Erik.

Zipping through the crowd, my friend Stephen held the night together. When more than eight people showed up at the party’s beginning and I started getting wide-eyed by the prospect of talking to more than eight people, Stephen took charge. With no prior notion that he might have to help out, he made everything happen. Stephen sold every book, demanded $5 bills from the Grumpy’s bartender as needed, flirted outrageously with our server to keep drinks and appetizers flowing, and at one point he briefly appeared at my side with the giant cake and commanded me to “Smile.”

After a dizzying array of photo flashes, he darted through the crowd to cut and serve.

I don’t know what I would do without him, without his love. I didn’t even chat with him until the night was over and he was exhausted.

I spent four minutes with one of my best buddies from high school. I miss him.

I spent three minutes with a man who I see twice a year for chicken pad thai and cranberry cream cheese wontons. It’s never enough time. I love his big heart.

My friend Tony flew down from Canada. Shortly after he read an early copy of King Perry, he told me his king name. He had always known his true name but never thought he’d get the chance to say it aloud. My king, my king.

When I came out of the closet a few decades ago, there was no party, no joy. Relief, and yes, a new chapter of life. But no balloons, no cake. Maybe I should have rented a bar and thrown a bash. Because the night I came out as a writer, so many people showed up to love me, and through their joyful party chatter and beaming faces, they loved each other. All these amazing people.

I would like to thank you in advance.

When the day comes that I must close my eyes for the last time, if I get a few seconds to let life pass before my eyes, I am going to replay this night, this golden, sparkling night that you showered me with an insane amount of love, so much that I think you possibly broke me. In those final moments of life, you’ll be right there with me, but this time, we’ll have a lot more available time to hang out.

I hope that doesn’t sound too stalkery.

I get a little gushy in thank you notes.

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.

“Vin is an enigma, even having finished the book you are unsure who he really is or what his motivations are but you love him all the same. Watching Perry struggle to journey from lost to found it is hard to believe that the entire book takes place over the span of a single weekend. This book is packed with emotion, beauty, fantasy, realism and love.

“If I recommended one book to my friends this year it would be this one and I would hope it would touch them as deeply as it touched me.” – Susan, Goodreads.com

I see you’re looking to purchase an adventurous read that makes you laugh, makes you cry, and reminds you of growing up on a horse farm in Kentucky. Well, good for you. King Perry does not have anything to do with horse farming, but if you’d like to purchase a copy anyway, check out any of these links below.

Amazon.com link to purchasing via Kindle

Amazon.com link to purchase paperback (pre-order for the next day or two…)

Purchase eBook from Dreamspinner’s (publisher) website

Purchase paperback from Dreamspinner’s (publisher) website

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

When I lived in Duboce Triangle during 2008, I found a tree at the top of the park, one that commanded an impressive view of the mighty San Francisco, and like a conquistador, I claimed it as mine. I knew it wasn’t really mine because I would sometimes have to wait for some squatter to crawl out of its branches, undoubtedly claiming my tree as their own. GRRRrrrrrr.

Nevertheless, the tree and I had reached an understanding that we belonged to each other. Though I had decided I would not remain a full-time San Francisco resident, this one tree would be my sole claim on the fabled fog city. For a few months in 2008, I would sit in my tree and wonder about The Other Life, the life where I stayed.

I’m sure all of us have another life, a dozen other lives, where we wonder about our world if we had accepted a different marriage proposal, pursued that inspired and ridiculous dream of forest ranger in Hawaii, if we had said, “Yes,” to some life invitation instead of “No.” I’m not sure that these are always regrets, because even today I could reverse my decision and live in San Francisco, but that’s not what I want. I just want to wonder about The Other Life and how SF Edmond lives.

I think SF Edmond has a lover named Tyler and they argue about laundry and money. Tyler never shuts off the basement light after getting clothes out of the dryer and it bugs the shit out of me, but I have to accept that it’s just one of “his things.” But c’mon, man, turn off the fucking light. I also believe that resentment dissolves when Tyler strokes the back of my head while we’re watching TV and when he makes me lasagna because he knows it’s one of my favorites.

I wonder about this Other Life and if I am happy there, satisfied.

There’s a guilty pleasure in wondering about those roads not taken. Maybe the pleasure is actually dangerous, to live wondering if there’s a “grass is greener” life that was not selected. To spend too much time with these wonderings is to shit on this current life, to not witness its miracles and opportunities to grow something real.

In The Other Life I probably have a house payment, crappy job situations, fights with friends, and I’m guessing cancer, aging, and grief. But I bet The Other Life also has best friends and surprise birthday parties, too. Probably black licorice. Most definitely cheese fries.

I walked to Dolores Park last week to sit in my tree and visit SF Edmond. Gotta catch up on the news about Tyler and gigs I’ve played in clubs. (In The Other Life, I play the piano like a madman.) But when I arrived at my spot, my tree – my tree – was gone. The bastards cut it down. Even in The Other Life, shit happens.

So, I choose mine.