Marshall Thornton's Blog
September 16, 2020
Why I Will Not Be Entering the Lambda Awards This Year
“Lambda Literary nurtures and advocates for LGBTQ writers, elevating the impact of their words to create community, preserve our legacies, and affirm the value of our stories and our lives.”
This year, Lambda Literary has decided that there will no longer be separate Gay Mystery and Lesbian Mystery categories and there will instead be a single LGBTQ mystery category. Their claim is that they have “expanded the category.” That is absurd since they have, in fact, limited the amount of exposure available to LGBTQ mystery writers. Historically, there have been two winners and between ten and sixteen finalists. Now there will be one winner and five to eight finalists. Simple math tells you they have not expanded the category. In today’s world we need to call their statement what it is: a lie.
If Lambda Literary’s true goal were to increase the amount of exposure available to BTQ mystery writers, they have failed. To increase that exposure, they should have created either one group category for them or separate B, T and Q categories, similar to what they have done in Fiction, Poetry and Non-Fiction. By asking B, T and Q mysteries to compete in a category that will likely start out at sixty-seventy entries actually decreases the amount of exposure they and all LGBTQ mystery writers will get.
Certainly, any award is political, and for that reason should not be given too much credence. The criteria for what makes a “best” book often changes from year to year and from award committee to award committee. Having been a finalist for the Lambda Award eleven times in two different categories, and winning three of those times, I have given the criteria some thought. These are the things a committee may (or may not) consider: literary merit, how well a book fits the genre (both elements in the case of an award like best gay mystery) and, overall career of the writer. Unfortunately, the LGBTQ mystery committee will now, in addition, have to consider the category of the award itself. Have too many lesbian mysteries won in the last few years? Too many gay mysteries? Not enough Q? If there are no Bi mysteries for five years does the first to enter automatically win? Lambda Literary has succeeded in making this award more political and therefore devalued it.
All of this is particularly disheartening at a time when major publishing continues to completely ignore the majority LGBTQ mysteries. I’m currently reading Ann Cleve’s The Long Call which features a gay protagonist. The back cover is full of endorsements from other big mystery writers. Not one of them is a gay mystery writer. The reason for that is that there are no big gay mystery writers. They’re not allowed. The only writers allowed by big publishing to take on gay mystery are people like Ann Cleves and James Patterson—both presumably heterosexual. Clearly, this is not the time for Lambda Literary to diminish the value of LGBTQ mysteries.
Indeed, in looking at their award list it seems that Lambda Literary treats all genre work in this shabby manner – except romance which for some reason is still allowed its separate categories. Certainly, this is justifiable if there are simply too few entries to justify separate categories but as I’ve stated, that is not true of mystery which, I believe, always equals romance in number of entries.
You’ll note that I’ve begun with the Lambda Literary mission statement. A move like this runs completely counter to this statement. It does not nurture nor advocate for LGBTQ mystery writers, it does not elevate the impact of our words, it does not create community—in fact will likely prove to be divisive, or preserve our legacies, nor does it affirm the value of our stories or our lives. For those reasons I will not be submitting to the Lambda Awards this year.
This year, Lambda Literary has decided that there will no longer be separate Gay Mystery and Lesbian Mystery categories and there will instead be a single LGBTQ mystery category. Their claim is that they have “expanded the category.” That is absurd since they have, in fact, limited the amount of exposure available to LGBTQ mystery writers. Historically, there have been two winners and between ten and sixteen finalists. Now there will be one winner and five to eight finalists. Simple math tells you they have not expanded the category. In today’s world we need to call their statement what it is: a lie.
If Lambda Literary’s true goal were to increase the amount of exposure available to BTQ mystery writers, they have failed. To increase that exposure, they should have created either one group category for them or separate B, T and Q categories, similar to what they have done in Fiction, Poetry and Non-Fiction. By asking B, T and Q mysteries to compete in a category that will likely start out at sixty-seventy entries actually decreases the amount of exposure they and all LGBTQ mystery writers will get.
Certainly, any award is political, and for that reason should not be given too much credence. The criteria for what makes a “best” book often changes from year to year and from award committee to award committee. Having been a finalist for the Lambda Award eleven times in two different categories, and winning three of those times, I have given the criteria some thought. These are the things a committee may (or may not) consider: literary merit, how well a book fits the genre (both elements in the case of an award like best gay mystery) and, overall career of the writer. Unfortunately, the LGBTQ mystery committee will now, in addition, have to consider the category of the award itself. Have too many lesbian mysteries won in the last few years? Too many gay mysteries? Not enough Q? If there are no Bi mysteries for five years does the first to enter automatically win? Lambda Literary has succeeded in making this award more political and therefore devalued it.
All of this is particularly disheartening at a time when major publishing continues to completely ignore the majority LGBTQ mysteries. I’m currently reading Ann Cleve’s The Long Call which features a gay protagonist. The back cover is full of endorsements from other big mystery writers. Not one of them is a gay mystery writer. The reason for that is that there are no big gay mystery writers. They’re not allowed. The only writers allowed by big publishing to take on gay mystery are people like Ann Cleves and James Patterson—both presumably heterosexual. Clearly, this is not the time for Lambda Literary to diminish the value of LGBTQ mysteries.
Indeed, in looking at their award list it seems that Lambda Literary treats all genre work in this shabby manner – except romance which for some reason is still allowed its separate categories. Certainly, this is justifiable if there are simply too few entries to justify separate categories but as I’ve stated, that is not true of mystery which, I believe, always equals romance in number of entries.
You’ll note that I’ve begun with the Lambda Literary mission statement. A move like this runs completely counter to this statement. It does not nurture nor advocate for LGBTQ mystery writers, it does not elevate the impact of our words, it does not create community—in fact will likely prove to be divisive, or preserve our legacies, nor does it affirm the value of our stories or our lives. For those reasons I will not be submitting to the Lambda Awards this year.
February 23, 2017
Writing Satire in the Age of Trump
Originally published at Lambda Literary.
Back in 2010, I published The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood, which was basically the silliest, sexiest book I could think up. It also included a hefty dose of satire, both political and cultural. Over the years fans have asked if I was going to write a sequel. For a long time, I answered maybe. I had originally planned to write two more of the books, the second set in Las Vegas for which I had notes, and the third to be set in Washington. Other projects kept taking precedence and eventually I began answering the question of a sequel with no. Then last summer, I was asked the question again and I said, “No” but then reflected and added, “Unless, of course, Trump wins. Then I may have to.” Of course, I thought this was incredibly unlikely and forgot all about it.
Then, the election happened. Like a lot of the country I was truly shocked and in the subsequent weeks depressed. In fact, I had trouble writing anything since I was so focused on the disaster that had just happened. Until, I remembered that conversation and thought, “Why not? Why not write another Praline book?” and so I began working on Praline Goes to Washington, or the Erotic Misdeeds of a Newly Native Californian in our Nation’s Capitol.
Satire is the art of making comedy by heightening reality to the level of absurdity, in the process exposing the hypocrisy and imagined intentions of individuals or types of individuals. That’s my definition. Miriam Webster’s definition is simpler and, at the same time, less clear: “a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn.” What I found interesting about writing a satire contemporaneously to the events I was satirizing is that, in this case, Trump and his new administration would either match or exceed the over-the-top heightened reality I was creating. A couple of times, after I’d written something I thought completely absurd it would appear on the news.
In the new book, instead of getting into the whole Russia thing I brought back the tiny (and fictional) principality of Malvania. Helmut Dump’s wife, Melanoma, is Malvanian and so Malvania spreads a lot of fake news to help his campaign. When I wrote that, I knew that Russia has likely involved in the hacking of the DNC and the subsequent distribution to Wikileaks. That they were also involved in spreading fake news stories did not come to light (or at least to my attention) until well after I had had Malvania do exactly that.
Another weird and incredibly disturbing coincidence is that in my book, Helmut Dump is quoted as saying, “Don’t listen to what I say, listen to what I mean.” Later, Dump’s assistant Keely Angst in an interview says, “You shouldn’t listen to what Mr. Dump says. You should listen to what I say he says. And I’m telling you the president-elect did not say any of the things you heard him say.” Both of these moments are eerily similar to something Kellyanne Conway said when she accused the media, “You always want to go by what’s come out of his mouth rather than look at what’s in his heart.”
Some of my friends have worried that I might face legal action over the book. Satire is protected speech under the first amendment. No president in our history has gone un-satirized. It comes with the territory. There is a libel case that the Trumps are pursuing, but it’s in England where the libel laws are looser (and more to Trump’s liking) and the case is about the reporting of events that may or may not have happened as true. Satire is not journalism. None of what I’ve written is true or presented as true. I don’t have any information that we’re not all reading in the news every day.
And speaking of the news, oh-my-God. Every day it becomes more and more bizarre. I have to say it’s a challenge to write satire when those you’re satirizing keep becoming increasingly over-the-top themselves. Suddenly, the most absurd things I could think of are part of the news cycle. And every day it becomes more and more apparent that the people leading our country are more dangerous than any caricature I, or anyone else, could write. I wish that none of this was true. I wish they we still lived in a time when Chevy Chase’s big joke about Gerald Ford was that he was clumsy, or when we joked about Jimmy Carter’s Southern accent and what he might be lusting about in his heart. Gradually, we’ve moved into a time when we have to joke about politicians who are mean, corrupt, ill-prepared, traitorous and dangerously erratic. That can be a hard thing to make jokes about. But I think we have to. No matter how bad things get, laughter will lighten our load.
And finally, I know that some people might say that satire doesn’t serve a purpose, that it’s nothing more than preaching to the choir. It’s true that I don’t expect a lot of people who voted for Donald Trump to pick up my book and miraculously change their minds. But the thing is, I think the choir does need to be preached to, at least occasionally, if only to remember why they’re singing.
Back in 2010, I published The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood, which was basically the silliest, sexiest book I could think up. It also included a hefty dose of satire, both political and cultural. Over the years fans have asked if I was going to write a sequel. For a long time, I answered maybe. I had originally planned to write two more of the books, the second set in Las Vegas for which I had notes, and the third to be set in Washington. Other projects kept taking precedence and eventually I began answering the question of a sequel with no. Then last summer, I was asked the question again and I said, “No” but then reflected and added, “Unless, of course, Trump wins. Then I may have to.” Of course, I thought this was incredibly unlikely and forgot all about it.
Then, the election happened. Like a lot of the country I was truly shocked and in the subsequent weeks depressed. In fact, I had trouble writing anything since I was so focused on the disaster that had just happened. Until, I remembered that conversation and thought, “Why not? Why not write another Praline book?” and so I began working on Praline Goes to Washington, or the Erotic Misdeeds of a Newly Native Californian in our Nation’s Capitol.
Satire is the art of making comedy by heightening reality to the level of absurdity, in the process exposing the hypocrisy and imagined intentions of individuals or types of individuals. That’s my definition. Miriam Webster’s definition is simpler and, at the same time, less clear: “a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn.” What I found interesting about writing a satire contemporaneously to the events I was satirizing is that, in this case, Trump and his new administration would either match or exceed the over-the-top heightened reality I was creating. A couple of times, after I’d written something I thought completely absurd it would appear on the news.
In the new book, instead of getting into the whole Russia thing I brought back the tiny (and fictional) principality of Malvania. Helmut Dump’s wife, Melanoma, is Malvanian and so Malvania spreads a lot of fake news to help his campaign. When I wrote that, I knew that Russia has likely involved in the hacking of the DNC and the subsequent distribution to Wikileaks. That they were also involved in spreading fake news stories did not come to light (or at least to my attention) until well after I had had Malvania do exactly that.
Another weird and incredibly disturbing coincidence is that in my book, Helmut Dump is quoted as saying, “Don’t listen to what I say, listen to what I mean.” Later, Dump’s assistant Keely Angst in an interview says, “You shouldn’t listen to what Mr. Dump says. You should listen to what I say he says. And I’m telling you the president-elect did not say any of the things you heard him say.” Both of these moments are eerily similar to something Kellyanne Conway said when she accused the media, “You always want to go by what’s come out of his mouth rather than look at what’s in his heart.”
Some of my friends have worried that I might face legal action over the book. Satire is protected speech under the first amendment. No president in our history has gone un-satirized. It comes with the territory. There is a libel case that the Trumps are pursuing, but it’s in England where the libel laws are looser (and more to Trump’s liking) and the case is about the reporting of events that may or may not have happened as true. Satire is not journalism. None of what I’ve written is true or presented as true. I don’t have any information that we’re not all reading in the news every day.
And speaking of the news, oh-my-God. Every day it becomes more and more bizarre. I have to say it’s a challenge to write satire when those you’re satirizing keep becoming increasingly over-the-top themselves. Suddenly, the most absurd things I could think of are part of the news cycle. And every day it becomes more and more apparent that the people leading our country are more dangerous than any caricature I, or anyone else, could write. I wish that none of this was true. I wish they we still lived in a time when Chevy Chase’s big joke about Gerald Ford was that he was clumsy, or when we joked about Jimmy Carter’s Southern accent and what he might be lusting about in his heart. Gradually, we’ve moved into a time when we have to joke about politicians who are mean, corrupt, ill-prepared, traitorous and dangerously erratic. That can be a hard thing to make jokes about. But I think we have to. No matter how bad things get, laughter will lighten our load.
And finally, I know that some people might say that satire doesn’t serve a purpose, that it’s nothing more than preaching to the choir. It’s true that I don’t expect a lot of people who voted for Donald Trump to pick up my book and miraculously change their minds. But the thing is, I think the choir does need to be preached to, at least occasionally, if only to remember why they’re singing.
January 20, 2017
Excerpt from Praline Goes to Washington
As the limousine pulled up in front of Dump Tower, they couldn’t see much, except the hundreds of protesters across the street, the dozens of Secret Service staunchly guarding the entrance to the hotel, and the Washington, D.C., police out in force. Yolanda opened her purse and took out a pair of large, fashion-forward sunglasses for herself, and a pair of sunglasses each for Jason and Praline.
“Oh, are we going incognito?” Praline asked.
“Of course not, Pumpernickel, I love the paparazzi. No, these are to guard against the glare from the tower. The silver glaze used on the windows causes such a strong reflection that retinas have been detached.”
“He’s been sued over that a couple thousand times,” Jason said bitterly.
“Mr. Dump has never successfully been sued,” Yolanda said, defending her benefactor. “I read that on the Internet.”
“Except it’s not true, he’s lost dozens of court cases.”
“Really? Well that seems just so wrong,” complained Yolanda. “If I click on something I expect it to be true.”
Praline slipped on his sunglasses and could barely see anything. He couldn’t help but agree with Yolanda, though. Things you clicked on should be true. And most of the things that Praline clicked on were true. They were also mainly links to porn. And porn was always true. Wait, was it, though? It certainly looked like guys were having sex…though they could be using CGI. And, of course, when they said they were straight they were being completely honest—oh, maybe porn wasn’t quite as true as he’d thought.
Then Praline had to stop thinking about the nature of truth and reality and porn because they were getting out of the limousine and struggling with Yolanda’s luggage.
As they headed across the sidewalk to Dump Tower, a newsboy—well, newsman, news old man, possibly old alcoholic man—stood in front of the building giving out free copies of The National Inquisitor. Praline took one, of course. His mama loved The National Inquisitor and had also taught him it was rude to turn down free things.
“What are you doing? You don’t want that awful paper,” Jason said.
“But it’s free.”
“It’s also nothing but lies.”
Praline glanced at the front page. There was one of the best pictures of Helmut Dump he’d ever seen. He was so attractive it didn’t even look like him. The headline read DUMP ALREADY BEST PREZ EVER!
The sub-headlines were:
- Wins the War on Christmas!
- Exposes Climate Change as HVAC industry plot to raise prices!
- Sells Air Force One! Promises to take public trans!
- Foils terrorist plot to blow up White House!
“Are you sure Mr. Dump is all that bad?” Praline asked Jason. “Look, it says he foiled a terrorist attack all on his own.”
“Did you read the article or just the headline?”
“What could it say in the article that it didn’t say in the headline?”
“If you read the article it’s going to say that he’s suggested changing the address of the White house to make it harder for terrorists to find it.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“Except it doesn’t change where the White House has always been. Just because you give it a street address that’s two blocks away doesn’t mean terrorists won’t find it.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’d have trouble finding an address if I went to another country to blow something up.”
“Praline, it’s a big, white house. It’s not hard to find.”
Praline gasped. “They should paint it blue and change the address.”
Jason was still rolling his eyes when they were abruptly stopped by a couple of perky, teenage pollsters holding clipboards. “Would you mind very much answering a few questions?”
“We don’t really have—” Yolanda said.
“Excellent. Starting with you sir,” the first girl said to Jason. “On a scale of one to five, how do you feel about President-Elect Dump? Do you super-duper love him? Really-really like him? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“I despise the man,”’ Jason growled. “Why isn’t strongly disapprove on option on your survey?”
“Because we want to accurately reflect how much Mr. Dump is liked. Why would we count people who dislike him?” To the other pollster, she said, “Put him down as nonresponsive. How about you sir? Really-really like President-elect Dump? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“Um, well, he’s not bad,” Praline said, not wanting to upset Jason on the one hand but also not wanting to be marked nonresponsive. A corpse is nonresponsive.
“Great!” said the girl. “Put that down as ‘thinks he’s amazing.’ Now, how do you think President-elect Dump will handle the economy? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’? It’ll be YUGE! Or: It will be challenging to overcome the Great Recession of 2016, but Dump is the man for it.”
“Wait,” Jason said, “The Great Recession was in 2008.”
“Says you!”
“This is a horrible poll. It’s completely biased.”
“Is not. It’s for Box News.”
“You just have to listen to their slogan to know it’s not biased.” The other girl said, before quoting their famous slogan. “Unbiased and untrue.”
“Jason, Pina Colada, come along now. We have a lot to do today.”
“Really? What are we doing?” Praline asked.
“This morning, I have interviews in the lobby. Then this afternoon I have a rehearsal.”
“You have no idea how to conduct a scientific poll, do you?” Jason refused to let it go. “Simply taking the poll in front of Dump Tower skews it. So what is the point—”
“Jason darling, don’t argue with them. You know it will just make you unhappy.” She leaned over to Praline and said, “He’s always been like this. In high school, he led the impeachment effort against their class president.”
“It would have worked, too, but the vice principal perjured herself.”
“Now, now, let’s not rehash the whole experience.”
Praline could see that Jason was still upset, so he decided to change the subject with, “Are we going to get to meet Mr. Dump?”
“Praline! Why would you want to do that?” Jason asked, his blood pressure visibly rising. Praline realized he might not have changed the subject in the right direction.
“No reason,” Praline said casually. Somehow he was going to have to get to the new president and convince him to start being nice without letting his boyfriend know what he was up to.
“I’m sure we’ll see him at some point,” Yolanda said, not too confidently. She led them to a line of people standing behind a series of metal barriers in front of the hotel.
Jason looked at his mother curiously, and asked, “Mother, who else is performing?”
“I don’t know. I’m told it’s star-studded.”
“But they didn’t give you any names?”
“Not exactly. I was told there’d be someone like Jerry Seinfeld and someone like Tom Hanks and someone like Beyonce.”
“But not any of those people.”
“No. Entertainers like them.”
Praline felt bad. As much as he loved Yolanda Grimes, he knew that she had fallen to the D-list as celebrities go. He had hoped that performing at the Inauguration meant she’d be rising to at least the C-list. Though it wasn’t looking good.
“Oh, I’m sure there will be lots of famous people here,” he said optimistically. “President-elect Dump used to be a television star and he won Ohio so I bet the cast of True Wives of Toledo will be here, and, um, that actor who said all those mean things about Jews to the police when he was drunk—and those duck-shooters maybe, and, um, well…”
“Todd Nugget,” Jason said, dryly.
“Oh yeah, isn’t he the old rock ’n’ roll guy who threatened to shoot the president for being a liberal?”
“Why isn’t someone like that in jail?” Jason asked.
“Free speech?” Praline guessed.
“That’s exactly the kind of speech that’s not protected, though. Death threats aren’t legal.”
“Maybe no one believed him.”
“Just because a death threat is far-fetched doesn’t mean it should be legal.”
Then, an incredibly gorgeous man in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, gray tie, dark aviator sunglasses and a chiseled chin walked up to them and said, “Good morning. Can I ask your business at Dump Tower?”
“I’m Yolanda Grimes. I’m performing at the Dump Ball tomorrow night. We have reservations.”
Turning to Jason, “And you are?”
“He’s my son. He’ll be with me the whole time.”
“And you?”
After waiting a moment, to see if Yolanda would explain who he was, Praline said, “I’m with them.”
The man, who was obviously a Secret Service agent, glanced back at Yolanda and raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Yes, he’s with us. Butter Brickle is a, uh, friend of my son’s.”
“Can I see identification from each of you?”
“Even me?” Yolanda asked.
“Sorry ma’am. Policy.”
She took her driver’s license out of the little red handbag she carried. Handing it to the agent, she said, “The lighting at the DMV is always so very harsh and unforgiving. And my date of birth is a typo. The numbers are transposed. Obviously.”
He glanced closely at it, handed it back to her and then took Jason’s. After a cursory glance, he returned it. As he took Praline’s license their eyes locked—well, as much as eyes can lock while both people are wearing sunglasses. Still, the look the agent gave him was enough to make Praline squeak and send a jolt of testosterone coursing through his body.
The agent read Praline’s license, then looked him up and down. Twice. He said something into his lapel, apparently that wasn’t just an American flag pin, before gesturing to Praline. “You’re going to need to come with me.”
“What? Why?” Jason immediately insisted.
“I’m just taking him to a private area for a routine pat down.”
“No. No, you can’t do that.”
“It’s all right, Jason. I’ll be fine with—what is your name, sir?”
“Carlyle. Agent Carlyle.”
“See, there’s nothing to worry about?” Praline assumed that he couldn’t be doing anything wrong if he was willing to give them his name.
“Praline, there isn’t any reason in the world for him to search you.”
“Apparently there was a shooting incident six months ago? Among other suspicious activity.”
“We were shot at,” Jason nearly yelled. “This is outrageous.”
“This won’t take long. I’ll have your friend back to you in just a few minutes.”
And with that, he whisked Praline away as Yolanda called out, “We’ll meet you at check-in, Taffy!”
Just inside the lobby door was a makeshift room made of burlap-covered privacy panels. Pushed up against one panel was a bare, folding banquet table with a gray plastic tub sitting on it.
Agent Carlyle took Praline’s duffle bag and set it on the table. Deftly, he rifled through the contents, quickly determining there wasn’t anything in the bag to concern him. He turned to Praline, “I’m going to need you to empty your pockets.”
“Yes, sir.”
Praline emptied his pockets of his keys—to Jason’s dad’s condo, Jason’s car, and his mama’s house in Lumpkinville, Georgia—his wallet, a half a dozen caramels, his Simsang Universe X with its Hollywood Hospital slipcase and impossible to remember passcode, and the triple-action pepper spray his mama had sent for Christmas—she still thought Los Angeles was the most dangerous place in the world and he could not dissuade her.
“Now I’m going to need you to remove your clothing.”
“Oh, um, well, all right. If you think that’s absolutely necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is. You have quite the Homeland Safety file. You’re marked ‘most-likely to cause an international incident.’”
“In high school, I was voted ‘most-likely to need dentures.’ I have a sweet tooth.”
“Yes, I know, that’s in your file.”
“Wow, that file is, um, detailed.”
“It also says you frequently engage in sexual relations with virtual strangers.”
“Frequently is a very judgmental word,” he said, as he folded up his jeans and set them onto the table next to his T-shirt. He cupped his hands in front of his Notty Boy briefs to hide any traces of last night’s wet dream and this morning’s semi-erection.
“Oh, are we going incognito?” Praline asked.
“Of course not, Pumpernickel, I love the paparazzi. No, these are to guard against the glare from the tower. The silver glaze used on the windows causes such a strong reflection that retinas have been detached.”
“He’s been sued over that a couple thousand times,” Jason said bitterly.
“Mr. Dump has never successfully been sued,” Yolanda said, defending her benefactor. “I read that on the Internet.”
“Except it’s not true, he’s lost dozens of court cases.”
“Really? Well that seems just so wrong,” complained Yolanda. “If I click on something I expect it to be true.”
Praline slipped on his sunglasses and could barely see anything. He couldn’t help but agree with Yolanda, though. Things you clicked on should be true. And most of the things that Praline clicked on were true. They were also mainly links to porn. And porn was always true. Wait, was it, though? It certainly looked like guys were having sex…though they could be using CGI. And, of course, when they said they were straight they were being completely honest—oh, maybe porn wasn’t quite as true as he’d thought.
Then Praline had to stop thinking about the nature of truth and reality and porn because they were getting out of the limousine and struggling with Yolanda’s luggage.
As they headed across the sidewalk to Dump Tower, a newsboy—well, newsman, news old man, possibly old alcoholic man—stood in front of the building giving out free copies of The National Inquisitor. Praline took one, of course. His mama loved The National Inquisitor and had also taught him it was rude to turn down free things.
“What are you doing? You don’t want that awful paper,” Jason said.
“But it’s free.”
“It’s also nothing but lies.”
Praline glanced at the front page. There was one of the best pictures of Helmut Dump he’d ever seen. He was so attractive it didn’t even look like him. The headline read DUMP ALREADY BEST PREZ EVER!
The sub-headlines were:
- Wins the War on Christmas!
- Exposes Climate Change as HVAC industry plot to raise prices!
- Sells Air Force One! Promises to take public trans!
- Foils terrorist plot to blow up White House!
“Are you sure Mr. Dump is all that bad?” Praline asked Jason. “Look, it says he foiled a terrorist attack all on his own.”
“Did you read the article or just the headline?”
“What could it say in the article that it didn’t say in the headline?”
“If you read the article it’s going to say that he’s suggested changing the address of the White house to make it harder for terrorists to find it.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“Except it doesn’t change where the White House has always been. Just because you give it a street address that’s two blocks away doesn’t mean terrorists won’t find it.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’d have trouble finding an address if I went to another country to blow something up.”
“Praline, it’s a big, white house. It’s not hard to find.”
Praline gasped. “They should paint it blue and change the address.”
Jason was still rolling his eyes when they were abruptly stopped by a couple of perky, teenage pollsters holding clipboards. “Would you mind very much answering a few questions?”
“We don’t really have—” Yolanda said.
“Excellent. Starting with you sir,” the first girl said to Jason. “On a scale of one to five, how do you feel about President-Elect Dump? Do you super-duper love him? Really-really like him? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“I despise the man,”’ Jason growled. “Why isn’t strongly disapprove on option on your survey?”
“Because we want to accurately reflect how much Mr. Dump is liked. Why would we count people who dislike him?” To the other pollster, she said, “Put him down as nonresponsive. How about you sir? Really-really like President-elect Dump? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“Um, well, he’s not bad,” Praline said, not wanting to upset Jason on the one hand but also not wanting to be marked nonresponsive. A corpse is nonresponsive.
“Great!” said the girl. “Put that down as ‘thinks he’s amazing.’ Now, how do you think President-elect Dump will handle the economy? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’? It’ll be YUGE! Or: It will be challenging to overcome the Great Recession of 2016, but Dump is the man for it.”
“Wait,” Jason said, “The Great Recession was in 2008.”
“Says you!”
“This is a horrible poll. It’s completely biased.”
“Is not. It’s for Box News.”
“You just have to listen to their slogan to know it’s not biased.” The other girl said, before quoting their famous slogan. “Unbiased and untrue.”
“Jason, Pina Colada, come along now. We have a lot to do today.”
“Really? What are we doing?” Praline asked.
“This morning, I have interviews in the lobby. Then this afternoon I have a rehearsal.”
“You have no idea how to conduct a scientific poll, do you?” Jason refused to let it go. “Simply taking the poll in front of Dump Tower skews it. So what is the point—”
“Jason darling, don’t argue with them. You know it will just make you unhappy.” She leaned over to Praline and said, “He’s always been like this. In high school, he led the impeachment effort against their class president.”
“It would have worked, too, but the vice principal perjured herself.”
“Now, now, let’s not rehash the whole experience.”
Praline could see that Jason was still upset, so he decided to change the subject with, “Are we going to get to meet Mr. Dump?”
“Praline! Why would you want to do that?” Jason asked, his blood pressure visibly rising. Praline realized he might not have changed the subject in the right direction.
“No reason,” Praline said casually. Somehow he was going to have to get to the new president and convince him to start being nice without letting his boyfriend know what he was up to.
“I’m sure we’ll see him at some point,” Yolanda said, not too confidently. She led them to a line of people standing behind a series of metal barriers in front of the hotel.
Jason looked at his mother curiously, and asked, “Mother, who else is performing?”
“I don’t know. I’m told it’s star-studded.”
“But they didn’t give you any names?”
“Not exactly. I was told there’d be someone like Jerry Seinfeld and someone like Tom Hanks and someone like Beyonce.”
“But not any of those people.”
“No. Entertainers like them.”
Praline felt bad. As much as he loved Yolanda Grimes, he knew that she had fallen to the D-list as celebrities go. He had hoped that performing at the Inauguration meant she’d be rising to at least the C-list. Though it wasn’t looking good.
“Oh, I’m sure there will be lots of famous people here,” he said optimistically. “President-elect Dump used to be a television star and he won Ohio so I bet the cast of True Wives of Toledo will be here, and, um, that actor who said all those mean things about Jews to the police when he was drunk—and those duck-shooters maybe, and, um, well…”
“Todd Nugget,” Jason said, dryly.
“Oh yeah, isn’t he the old rock ’n’ roll guy who threatened to shoot the president for being a liberal?”
“Why isn’t someone like that in jail?” Jason asked.
“Free speech?” Praline guessed.
“That’s exactly the kind of speech that’s not protected, though. Death threats aren’t legal.”
“Maybe no one believed him.”
“Just because a death threat is far-fetched doesn’t mean it should be legal.”
Then, an incredibly gorgeous man in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, gray tie, dark aviator sunglasses and a chiseled chin walked up to them and said, “Good morning. Can I ask your business at Dump Tower?”
“I’m Yolanda Grimes. I’m performing at the Dump Ball tomorrow night. We have reservations.”
Turning to Jason, “And you are?”
“He’s my son. He’ll be with me the whole time.”
“And you?”
After waiting a moment, to see if Yolanda would explain who he was, Praline said, “I’m with them.”
The man, who was obviously a Secret Service agent, glanced back at Yolanda and raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Yes, he’s with us. Butter Brickle is a, uh, friend of my son’s.”
“Can I see identification from each of you?”
“Even me?” Yolanda asked.
“Sorry ma’am. Policy.”
She took her driver’s license out of the little red handbag she carried. Handing it to the agent, she said, “The lighting at the DMV is always so very harsh and unforgiving. And my date of birth is a typo. The numbers are transposed. Obviously.”
He glanced closely at it, handed it back to her and then took Jason’s. After a cursory glance, he returned it. As he took Praline’s license their eyes locked—well, as much as eyes can lock while both people are wearing sunglasses. Still, the look the agent gave him was enough to make Praline squeak and send a jolt of testosterone coursing through his body.
The agent read Praline’s license, then looked him up and down. Twice. He said something into his lapel, apparently that wasn’t just an American flag pin, before gesturing to Praline. “You’re going to need to come with me.”
“What? Why?” Jason immediately insisted.
“I’m just taking him to a private area for a routine pat down.”
“No. No, you can’t do that.”
“It’s all right, Jason. I’ll be fine with—what is your name, sir?”
“Carlyle. Agent Carlyle.”
“See, there’s nothing to worry about?” Praline assumed that he couldn’t be doing anything wrong if he was willing to give them his name.
“Praline, there isn’t any reason in the world for him to search you.”
“Apparently there was a shooting incident six months ago? Among other suspicious activity.”
“We were shot at,” Jason nearly yelled. “This is outrageous.”
“This won’t take long. I’ll have your friend back to you in just a few minutes.”
And with that, he whisked Praline away as Yolanda called out, “We’ll meet you at check-in, Taffy!”
Just inside the lobby door was a makeshift room made of burlap-covered privacy panels. Pushed up against one panel was a bare, folding banquet table with a gray plastic tub sitting on it.
Agent Carlyle took Praline’s duffle bag and set it on the table. Deftly, he rifled through the contents, quickly determining there wasn’t anything in the bag to concern him. He turned to Praline, “I’m going to need you to empty your pockets.”
“Yes, sir.”
Praline emptied his pockets of his keys—to Jason’s dad’s condo, Jason’s car, and his mama’s house in Lumpkinville, Georgia—his wallet, a half a dozen caramels, his Simsang Universe X with its Hollywood Hospital slipcase and impossible to remember passcode, and the triple-action pepper spray his mama had sent for Christmas—she still thought Los Angeles was the most dangerous place in the world and he could not dissuade her.
“Now I’m going to need you to remove your clothing.”
“Oh, um, well, all right. If you think that’s absolutely necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is. You have quite the Homeland Safety file. You’re marked ‘most-likely to cause an international incident.’”
“In high school, I was voted ‘most-likely to need dentures.’ I have a sweet tooth.”
“Yes, I know, that’s in your file.”
“Wow, that file is, um, detailed.”
“It also says you frequently engage in sexual relations with virtual strangers.”
“Frequently is a very judgmental word,” he said, as he folded up his jeans and set them onto the table next to his T-shirt. He cupped his hands in front of his Notty Boy briefs to hide any traces of last night’s wet dream and this morning’s semi-erection.
April 2, 2016
Label Me, Please
I first began to understand that I was gay and what that meant in the late sixties. I was around nine or ten. There was a Mike Wallace report called The Homosexuals in 1967. I can’t imagine that my parents would have let me see this at nine years old, but this is what was out there. This is how the world thought in 1967. I do remember reading at least one article in The Reader’s Digest and one or two others in Time Magazine. The image presented of homosexuals was one of a diseased deviate incapable of carrying on a relationship. Needless to say, as a teenager I had a bleak view of what was to become of me.
When I was nineteen, Anita Bryant was big news. Her fight against an anti-discrimination law in Dade County, Florida—a fight she won, keeping an anti-discrimination law off their books for twenty years—was in the newspapers, on the nightly news and on magazine covers. But she didn’t just garner a lot of attention for herself. She also brought to the forefront gay activists. Gay people who boycotted orange juice—for which Bryant was a spokesperson—and campaigned on the slogan “Anita Bryant Sucks Oranges.” They were the ones who caught my attention.
Of course, I was a kid so I don’t remember having the conscious thought, “We can fight back.” And, I certainly wouldn’t have known how to fight back in a small town in Upstate New York. But knowing that there were people out there, embracing the term gay, claiming it, fighting for it, defining it, made things just a little bit easier for me and I began slowly, friend by friend, to come out. To say, “I’m gay.”
In the late 70s, more than two thirds of Americans had a negative view of homosexuality. Today that number is down to around a third. Remarkable progress in less than forty years. So, how did it happen? Did straight people randomly wake up and think, “You know, gay is okay”? No, what happened was someone close to them, a family member, a friend, a parent, a child, a teacher, a co-worker, someone came out to them. Someone stood up and embraced the label “gay” and changed their mind. So, without those millions of people coming out we would not be where we are today. And believe me, coming out and claiming a label are the same thing. You can’t do one without the other.
This morning on Facebook there was a meme attributed to the actor Josh Hutcherson that said, “I’m so sick of saying the words gay and lesbian. Can we just—people. I’m so tired of that. One day I want my son to come home from school and be like, I found this guy and I love him. And I’m gonna be like yes, you do, and that’s okay.” I don’t dispute that Hutcherson is a wonderful ally to the gay community, and I can’t argue that it isn’t a lovely sentiment that we might live in a world were it wouldn’t matter. I do, however, find statements like this one, which happen all the time, problematic.
Rejecting labels, whether it’s done by a straight ally—who, granted may be weary of our constant struggle to find inclusive words or acronyms that actually make all people feel included**—or a young celebrity who doesn’t want to label themselves and so attacks the idea of labels—which is quite likely a marketing ploy meant to keep a gay audience without losing a straight one—these acts, these statements erase the millions of people who stood up and claimed their label. These statements erase the very people upon whose shoulders we stand on.
It is vitally important that we all remember our history. Today didn’t just happen; it’s result of all our yesterdays. So, if you’re a straight person who wants to be an ally, it’s okay to do that because people labeled themselves. If you’re a straight person who wants to write about gay people, it’s okay to do that because of the gay people who took that label. If you’re a gay person and struggling to come out, as hard as it can still be, it is easier because of the people who came out before you—we're still out there, ask for help if you need it. If you’re a gay celebrity, don’t crap on labels to make a buck—be honest or don’t be honest, up to you, but stop dissing labels. And to gay celebrities who come out after twenty years in the business, don’t let people rush to label you a hero, the real heroes are the people who embraced their labels and by doing so gave up an acting career, a music career, a career in journalism, or sports, or whatever else they were denied because they were honest about who they were—you can become a hero, but you do not get to start there.
Labeling matters. It’s how we got to where we are. I’m gay. That’s my label.
**In the '70s and '80s the word gay was used inclusively. Given the historical nature of much of the blog, I decided to use the word gay in that inclusive way, rather than use the QUILTBAG or the word queer. Since each can be as divisive as they are inclusive.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2UNc...
http://www.lgbtqnation.com/2011/01/ti...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anita_B...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABLUH...
When I was nineteen, Anita Bryant was big news. Her fight against an anti-discrimination law in Dade County, Florida—a fight she won, keeping an anti-discrimination law off their books for twenty years—was in the newspapers, on the nightly news and on magazine covers. But she didn’t just garner a lot of attention for herself. She also brought to the forefront gay activists. Gay people who boycotted orange juice—for which Bryant was a spokesperson—and campaigned on the slogan “Anita Bryant Sucks Oranges.” They were the ones who caught my attention.
Of course, I was a kid so I don’t remember having the conscious thought, “We can fight back.” And, I certainly wouldn’t have known how to fight back in a small town in Upstate New York. But knowing that there were people out there, embracing the term gay, claiming it, fighting for it, defining it, made things just a little bit easier for me and I began slowly, friend by friend, to come out. To say, “I’m gay.”
In the late 70s, more than two thirds of Americans had a negative view of homosexuality. Today that number is down to around a third. Remarkable progress in less than forty years. So, how did it happen? Did straight people randomly wake up and think, “You know, gay is okay”? No, what happened was someone close to them, a family member, a friend, a parent, a child, a teacher, a co-worker, someone came out to them. Someone stood up and embraced the label “gay” and changed their mind. So, without those millions of people coming out we would not be where we are today. And believe me, coming out and claiming a label are the same thing. You can’t do one without the other.
This morning on Facebook there was a meme attributed to the actor Josh Hutcherson that said, “I’m so sick of saying the words gay and lesbian. Can we just—people. I’m so tired of that. One day I want my son to come home from school and be like, I found this guy and I love him. And I’m gonna be like yes, you do, and that’s okay.” I don’t dispute that Hutcherson is a wonderful ally to the gay community, and I can’t argue that it isn’t a lovely sentiment that we might live in a world were it wouldn’t matter. I do, however, find statements like this one, which happen all the time, problematic.
Rejecting labels, whether it’s done by a straight ally—who, granted may be weary of our constant struggle to find inclusive words or acronyms that actually make all people feel included**—or a young celebrity who doesn’t want to label themselves and so attacks the idea of labels—which is quite likely a marketing ploy meant to keep a gay audience without losing a straight one—these acts, these statements erase the millions of people who stood up and claimed their label. These statements erase the very people upon whose shoulders we stand on.
It is vitally important that we all remember our history. Today didn’t just happen; it’s result of all our yesterdays. So, if you’re a straight person who wants to be an ally, it’s okay to do that because people labeled themselves. If you’re a straight person who wants to write about gay people, it’s okay to do that because of the gay people who took that label. If you’re a gay person and struggling to come out, as hard as it can still be, it is easier because of the people who came out before you—we're still out there, ask for help if you need it. If you’re a gay celebrity, don’t crap on labels to make a buck—be honest or don’t be honest, up to you, but stop dissing labels. And to gay celebrities who come out after twenty years in the business, don’t let people rush to label you a hero, the real heroes are the people who embraced their labels and by doing so gave up an acting career, a music career, a career in journalism, or sports, or whatever else they were denied because they were honest about who they were—you can become a hero, but you do not get to start there.
Labeling matters. It’s how we got to where we are. I’m gay. That’s my label.
**In the '70s and '80s the word gay was used inclusively. Given the historical nature of much of the blog, I decided to use the word gay in that inclusive way, rather than use the QUILTBAG or the word queer. Since each can be as divisive as they are inclusive.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2UNc...
http://www.lgbtqnation.com/2011/01/ti...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anita_B...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABLUH...
February 24, 2016
How Far Will I Go?
One of the questions I get a lot about the Boystown series is, “How many books will there be?” Of course, since the question is about the future the most honest answer is, “I don’t know.” But at the same time, how many books to write and where to leave Nick Nowak is something I think about and obviously something that interests my readers so I thought I’d put down a few thoughts…
Typically, as I finish one book I get ideas about the next one. Boystown 8: The Lies That Bind came out a few days ago and I already have about fifteen percent of Boystown 9: Lucky Days written in the form of notes and first draft scenes. This is important as I have to keep track of the mystery arc in books 7-9 about Jimmy English, and of course the ongoing lives of the recurring characters. I imagine if I finish one of the books and have no ideas, or very few ideas, about the next book I’ll know that the end has arrived.
The first eight books cover the period from January 1981 through August 1984. I definitely want to do two more books set in 1984 and have one in mind for 1985. That would bring me up to eleven—Joseph Hansen, one of my idols, did twelve in his series. I hope that I’ll write more than eleven. I wouldn’t mind getting all the way to nineteen or twenty like Michael Connelly, another of my idols. It would be nice to take the books all the way to the first glimmers of hope in the AIDS epidemic, but that wasn’t until the mid-nineties, which right now is a long way off.
As a gay man who lived through the eighties there are so many stories from that period I feel I can tell. So many stories I think are still important. One of the most satisfying aspects of writing this series has been collecting the little bits of real life that I remember from that period and weaving them into the mysteries. Quite a few of the characters and situations I’ve touched on in the stories come from people I knew during the period, in many cases people who can no longer speak for themselves. Collecting those stories matters to me a great deal on a very personal level.
There are many ways to classify the Boystown series. I think it would be fair to include it as AIDS literature. Most of AIDS literature took place in the eighties and nineties, and most of it was a cry for help, a warning bell rung as loudly as possible. Writing about AIDS from this vantage point is a very different experience. I’m able to focus on the way very real people reacted to the crisis. Knowing that things improve, allows me to focus on the ways in which individuals reacted, sometimes heroically, sometimes not. Of course, AIDS is still an issue. It hasn’t gone away. Reminding people of how it began and how we got to where we are is something I find to be vital.
I think if the Boystown series were a romance series with mystery elements—as opposed to being the opposite of that—I would have would have stopped at two or three books as I find manufacturing “conflict” in a happy couple uninteresting. Some writers do it well; I don’t think I’m one of them. Several of the Boystown books have ended in a happy-for-now kind of way, but if Nick ever finds a truly happy ending it will likely mean the end of the series.
An important indicator of whether a writer should keep writing a series is sales. Not for financial reasons—certainly many writers do well writing multiple series of three or four books—but because each sale represents one or more readers. The last year has been very positive for the Boystown series. Boystown 7: Bloodlines opened better than any of the previous books, and even though it’s only been a few days it looks as though this year’s book is on tract to exceed that. Equally important is that last year the first book in the series actually sold more copies than it had since it was published five years before. The audience is finding the books and I’m so happy about that. With all of that said, I’d like to send out a big thank you to all who’ve bought and supported the series over the years. It means a lot.
Typically, as I finish one book I get ideas about the next one. Boystown 8: The Lies That Bind came out a few days ago and I already have about fifteen percent of Boystown 9: Lucky Days written in the form of notes and first draft scenes. This is important as I have to keep track of the mystery arc in books 7-9 about Jimmy English, and of course the ongoing lives of the recurring characters. I imagine if I finish one of the books and have no ideas, or very few ideas, about the next book I’ll know that the end has arrived.
The first eight books cover the period from January 1981 through August 1984. I definitely want to do two more books set in 1984 and have one in mind for 1985. That would bring me up to eleven—Joseph Hansen, one of my idols, did twelve in his series. I hope that I’ll write more than eleven. I wouldn’t mind getting all the way to nineteen or twenty like Michael Connelly, another of my idols. It would be nice to take the books all the way to the first glimmers of hope in the AIDS epidemic, but that wasn’t until the mid-nineties, which right now is a long way off.
As a gay man who lived through the eighties there are so many stories from that period I feel I can tell. So many stories I think are still important. One of the most satisfying aspects of writing this series has been collecting the little bits of real life that I remember from that period and weaving them into the mysteries. Quite a few of the characters and situations I’ve touched on in the stories come from people I knew during the period, in many cases people who can no longer speak for themselves. Collecting those stories matters to me a great deal on a very personal level.
There are many ways to classify the Boystown series. I think it would be fair to include it as AIDS literature. Most of AIDS literature took place in the eighties and nineties, and most of it was a cry for help, a warning bell rung as loudly as possible. Writing about AIDS from this vantage point is a very different experience. I’m able to focus on the way very real people reacted to the crisis. Knowing that things improve, allows me to focus on the ways in which individuals reacted, sometimes heroically, sometimes not. Of course, AIDS is still an issue. It hasn’t gone away. Reminding people of how it began and how we got to where we are is something I find to be vital.
I think if the Boystown series were a romance series with mystery elements—as opposed to being the opposite of that—I would have would have stopped at two or three books as I find manufacturing “conflict” in a happy couple uninteresting. Some writers do it well; I don’t think I’m one of them. Several of the Boystown books have ended in a happy-for-now kind of way, but if Nick ever finds a truly happy ending it will likely mean the end of the series.
An important indicator of whether a writer should keep writing a series is sales. Not for financial reasons—certainly many writers do well writing multiple series of three or four books—but because each sale represents one or more readers. The last year has been very positive for the Boystown series. Boystown 7: Bloodlines opened better than any of the previous books, and even though it’s only been a few days it looks as though this year’s book is on tract to exceed that. Equally important is that last year the first book in the series actually sold more copies than it had since it was published five years before. The audience is finding the books and I’m so happy about that. With all of that said, I’d like to send out a big thank you to all who’ve bought and supported the series over the years. It means a lot.
September 20, 2015
Branding or Catfishing?
Writing is hard. It’s really hard. Especially if you have the crazy idea that you’d like to make a living as a writer. A friend recently sent me a link to a study from Author’s Guild that states the average full-time fiction writers’ yearly income is $17,500. To put that into perspective, you can expect to make around that working the same amount of hours at McDonald’s flipping burgers. Ouch. I’m having a good year and will end a bit below the average. I told the friend who sent me the link, “Oh my God, I’m really successful, and really broke.”
Every writer trying to make a living, or even just trying to maintain the paltry living we make, is constantly trying to cage the system. We’re always doing promotions, begging for reviews, chasing trends, writing short when that pays more, writing long when that pays more, doing whatever we can think of to present our works, and ourselves in a way that will make readers hit that buy button.
Sometimes I like to write mainstream (read not-queer) stories and books. Certainly, mainstream is a much larger market so the potential to make a living is greater. In the past, I published my mainstream writing as Marshall Thornton. In fact those were my first forays into self-publishing. I actually did pretty well for a while, then I began to establish myself as a gay writer and the sales on my mainstream work evaporated. My longtime editor suggested that I put out a mainstream book I had lying around under a different name. At first, the idea of doing this felt like going back into the closet. After all, the point would be to hide that I’m a gay writer. But then I thought, why should some else’s homophobia cost me money?
Eventually I did decide to publish my latest book, Death Comes to Happy Acres under the name JT Moss (which is both of my parents’ names; Marshall Thornton, which I’ve been writing under since 1992, is part of my grandfather’s name) with the caveat that I would be open to my existing fans. And for that matter any new ones I make as JT Moss.
As I’m launching my new book this week, Josh Lanyon finally came out as a woman. This has been a longtime rumor, which was confirmed for me more than a year ago by someone I trusted to actually know. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure I ever truly believed she was a man. In the broadest sense, Josh Lanyon is a brand just as Marshall Thornton is a brand and JT Moss is a brand. And I don’t have a problem with that and don’t think anyone else should either.
On the other hand, a great deal of this business is very personal and when you pose as a different gender both publicly and privately then you are skating dangerously close to catfishing. There have been instances where female writers have deliberately catfished gay male writers in order to pump them on how they “really” feel about straight women writing gay fiction. To my knowledge this is not something Josh ever did, and I’m not suggesting that.
However, everything Josh has said about straight women writing about gay men does now needs to be taken with a grain of salt. I’ve seen several comments about instances where she used her authority as a “gay man” to tell people how they should be writing about gay men, in fact I’d say she does that a lot in her book, Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Cash & Kinks.
In a 2010 article at by Dick Smart at Lambda Literary Josh is quoted as saying “There’s a great deal to appeal to gay male readers in M/M fiction.” That statement has weight coming from a gay male writer, from a gay man it means “hey you should try these books, I like them, you might too.” From a straight female writer, even though it may be a sincerely held opinion, the subtext becomes “buy my books.”
I want to stop for a moment and say that Josh has always been nice to me. She has gone so far as to recommend my books to her readers, mentioning me on her boards, on twitter, and in her newsletter. Writers don’t have to do things like that, especially successful ones, and I appreciate the support. I’m not writing this to suggest that she be punished or penalized for what she’s done. If you thought she was a man and you like her books you should keep on reading them. That said, I do think there needs to be some examination of when branding goes too far.
I also have few issues with her “coming out” blog, well, many issues. To me it feels like she’s trying to paint herself as some kind of victim. She writes “This is the blog post I kind of hoped I’d never have to write…” Really? I was told she was coming out last year. That means she’s been thinking about this post for at least a year. Did she think she could pretend/not pretend wink-wink to be a gay man forever?
“…I really did believe in my heart that the M/M genre had surely moved past this kind of nonsense.” You know, I think they have. Lots of women use male pen names. They do it transparently. They don’t create “open secrets,” they don’t spend fifteen years clouding the issue. And they answer the gender question when it’s asked. But it’s usually not asked because they show up at events and use actual author photos.
In the blog, she references a dust-up at DearAuthor.com and takes the position that refusing to state her gender is somehow admitting she was a woman. Certainly, she’s right that it increases suspicion (just as it does when an actor refuses to state a sexuality, and we’ve seen that a lot) but I fail to see how refusing to answer a question, over time, becomes honesty. It’s not.
And, that dust-up took place in 2008, yet in 2010 she’s described in an Out Magazine article as “one of the M/M genre’s few male authors…” I have no idea if Josh herself provided this info to the reporter, but somehow among all the male-named authors in M/M the reporter decided Josh was actually male. As nearly as I can tell, Josh did nothing to correct this very public mistake. Certainly, there was no blog about it. To me, whether actively or passively allowing the gay press to identify you as a gay male qualifies as catfishing.
To turn this around a bit if, in my new JT Moss brand, I allowed a publication to refer to me as a heterosexual and I didn’t correct it, that would be catfishing. Yes, casual readers will assume I’m straight, just as casual readers of any m/m male-named author might assume they’re reading gay men. But, the minute a reader takes the time to ask a question I think they deserve an honest answer.
And, if you’re an author who really wants to remain anonymous then don’t have an online presence. Don’t Facebook, don’t blog, don’t send out newsletters. The only thing you really have to do to be an author is write books. Yes, if you don’t do the rest of it, if you don’t actively create a brand, then you may not, in fact probably won’t, sell a lot of books. But that’s a choice freely made. There are downsides to being successful and if you don’t want to experience them, then don’t try to be a success.
I appreciate that in the year 2000 when Josh began publishing it may have seemed like a good idea to create a gay male persona as a brand. And during the ensuing fifteen years she did a lot, either actively or passively, to create that gay male persona. The problem – for Josh – is that in 2015, creating a false gay male persona is a really, really bad idea. And it has been for quite a while. This is why she’s been playing “open secret” for several years.
Had she “come out” with a blog that said, “this is what happened, this is why it happened, and this is how times have changed” I think there would have been a lot less hullabaloo about the whole thing. Certainly, I would have respected her more. Choosing to paint yourself as the victim of a brand you yourself created. Not cool. Not cool at all.
Links:
https://www.authorsguild.org/industry...
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/feature...
http://joshlanyon.blogspot.com
http://dearauthor.com/features/letter...
http://www.out.com/entertainment/2010...
Every writer trying to make a living, or even just trying to maintain the paltry living we make, is constantly trying to cage the system. We’re always doing promotions, begging for reviews, chasing trends, writing short when that pays more, writing long when that pays more, doing whatever we can think of to present our works, and ourselves in a way that will make readers hit that buy button.
Sometimes I like to write mainstream (read not-queer) stories and books. Certainly, mainstream is a much larger market so the potential to make a living is greater. In the past, I published my mainstream writing as Marshall Thornton. In fact those were my first forays into self-publishing. I actually did pretty well for a while, then I began to establish myself as a gay writer and the sales on my mainstream work evaporated. My longtime editor suggested that I put out a mainstream book I had lying around under a different name. At first, the idea of doing this felt like going back into the closet. After all, the point would be to hide that I’m a gay writer. But then I thought, why should some else’s homophobia cost me money?
Eventually I did decide to publish my latest book, Death Comes to Happy Acres under the name JT Moss (which is both of my parents’ names; Marshall Thornton, which I’ve been writing under since 1992, is part of my grandfather’s name) with the caveat that I would be open to my existing fans. And for that matter any new ones I make as JT Moss.
As I’m launching my new book this week, Josh Lanyon finally came out as a woman. This has been a longtime rumor, which was confirmed for me more than a year ago by someone I trusted to actually know. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure I ever truly believed she was a man. In the broadest sense, Josh Lanyon is a brand just as Marshall Thornton is a brand and JT Moss is a brand. And I don’t have a problem with that and don’t think anyone else should either.
On the other hand, a great deal of this business is very personal and when you pose as a different gender both publicly and privately then you are skating dangerously close to catfishing. There have been instances where female writers have deliberately catfished gay male writers in order to pump them on how they “really” feel about straight women writing gay fiction. To my knowledge this is not something Josh ever did, and I’m not suggesting that.
However, everything Josh has said about straight women writing about gay men does now needs to be taken with a grain of salt. I’ve seen several comments about instances where she used her authority as a “gay man” to tell people how they should be writing about gay men, in fact I’d say she does that a lot in her book, Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Cash & Kinks.
In a 2010 article at by Dick Smart at Lambda Literary Josh is quoted as saying “There’s a great deal to appeal to gay male readers in M/M fiction.” That statement has weight coming from a gay male writer, from a gay man it means “hey you should try these books, I like them, you might too.” From a straight female writer, even though it may be a sincerely held opinion, the subtext becomes “buy my books.”
I want to stop for a moment and say that Josh has always been nice to me. She has gone so far as to recommend my books to her readers, mentioning me on her boards, on twitter, and in her newsletter. Writers don’t have to do things like that, especially successful ones, and I appreciate the support. I’m not writing this to suggest that she be punished or penalized for what she’s done. If you thought she was a man and you like her books you should keep on reading them. That said, I do think there needs to be some examination of when branding goes too far.
I also have few issues with her “coming out” blog, well, many issues. To me it feels like she’s trying to paint herself as some kind of victim. She writes “This is the blog post I kind of hoped I’d never have to write…” Really? I was told she was coming out last year. That means she’s been thinking about this post for at least a year. Did she think she could pretend/not pretend wink-wink to be a gay man forever?
“…I really did believe in my heart that the M/M genre had surely moved past this kind of nonsense.” You know, I think they have. Lots of women use male pen names. They do it transparently. They don’t create “open secrets,” they don’t spend fifteen years clouding the issue. And they answer the gender question when it’s asked. But it’s usually not asked because they show up at events and use actual author photos.
In the blog, she references a dust-up at DearAuthor.com and takes the position that refusing to state her gender is somehow admitting she was a woman. Certainly, she’s right that it increases suspicion (just as it does when an actor refuses to state a sexuality, and we’ve seen that a lot) but I fail to see how refusing to answer a question, over time, becomes honesty. It’s not.
And, that dust-up took place in 2008, yet in 2010 she’s described in an Out Magazine article as “one of the M/M genre’s few male authors…” I have no idea if Josh herself provided this info to the reporter, but somehow among all the male-named authors in M/M the reporter decided Josh was actually male. As nearly as I can tell, Josh did nothing to correct this very public mistake. Certainly, there was no blog about it. To me, whether actively or passively allowing the gay press to identify you as a gay male qualifies as catfishing.
To turn this around a bit if, in my new JT Moss brand, I allowed a publication to refer to me as a heterosexual and I didn’t correct it, that would be catfishing. Yes, casual readers will assume I’m straight, just as casual readers of any m/m male-named author might assume they’re reading gay men. But, the minute a reader takes the time to ask a question I think they deserve an honest answer.
And, if you’re an author who really wants to remain anonymous then don’t have an online presence. Don’t Facebook, don’t blog, don’t send out newsletters. The only thing you really have to do to be an author is write books. Yes, if you don’t do the rest of it, if you don’t actively create a brand, then you may not, in fact probably won’t, sell a lot of books. But that’s a choice freely made. There are downsides to being successful and if you don’t want to experience them, then don’t try to be a success.
I appreciate that in the year 2000 when Josh began publishing it may have seemed like a good idea to create a gay male persona as a brand. And during the ensuing fifteen years she did a lot, either actively or passively, to create that gay male persona. The problem – for Josh – is that in 2015, creating a false gay male persona is a really, really bad idea. And it has been for quite a while. This is why she’s been playing “open secret” for several years.
Had she “come out” with a blog that said, “this is what happened, this is why it happened, and this is how times have changed” I think there would have been a lot less hullabaloo about the whole thing. Certainly, I would have respected her more. Choosing to paint yourself as the victim of a brand you yourself created. Not cool. Not cool at all.
Links:
https://www.authorsguild.org/industry...
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/feature...
http://joshlanyon.blogspot.com
http://dearauthor.com/features/letter...
http://www.out.com/entertainment/2010...
September 17, 2014
I Am Not A Romance Writer…
(Originally published on The Blogger Girls)
I feel like I’m at a twelve-step meeting. “Hello, my name is Marshall. And I am not a romance writer.” Instead of saying, “Hello Marshall” you’re probably saying, “Huh?” or if your language is more colorful, “What the fuck?” I get your confusion. First of all, this is an m/m romance blog. Second, I publish with an m/m romance publisher. And third, as you may already know, I market to the m/m romance audience.
So, how did I end up here? Well, like many other sites, The Blogger Girls have been gracious enough to review my books and have gone the extra mile and asked me to blog. How did I get my not-m/m romance books published with an m/m romance publisher? MLR Press publishes a lot of m/m romance but they also publish gay fiction and have a special interest in gay mystery. Why do I market my books to m/m romance readers? Like any audience the m/m romance audience is not monolithic. Certainly, some readers exclusively read m/m romance, while others like to mix it up with other genres; sometimes gay mysteries.
What I am is a gay fiction writer, though I am also a mystery writer – with or without the gay in front of it – and occasionally a gay romantic comedy writer. (Romantic comedy and romance are distinctly different genres but that’s a blog of a different color.) After reading that, some of you may have gone back to “huh?” and “WTF?” Again, I get your confusion. A lot of writers and readers in the m/m romance community use the terms gay fiction and m/m synonymously. I don’t believe that to be true.
A friend of mine recently asked me “Why are some books called romance novels and others aren’t? Don’t most books have romance in them?” I think the explanation I gave is a pretty good one, I replied, “In a romance novel, whatever the main character(s) central problem is it is solved by love. In other genres, the main character(s) problem is solved by other means and love is a kind of trophy granted for solving the problem.”
This explanation applies to the central differences between m/m and gay fiction. In m/m romance the HEA has to be a committed relationship between two men (I hesitate to say gay men because the characters don’t always begin that way and an HEA with one of the men identified as bi is possible.) In gay fiction, an HEA is optional. And, if there is an HEA it very likely has to do with self-acceptance, self-awareness or an increase in self-esteem. Sometimes within a relationship and sometimes not.
Additionally, there are many sub-rules to the m/m romance genre. Rules which I know about because readers incorrectly identify my work is m/m and then complain that I don’t follow the rules.
The biggest rule I break is that I use the HEA common to all mysteries. The crime is solved. In a mystery that is the HEA. Sometimes private investigator Nick Nowak’s life ends on an up note and sometimes it ends on a down note. It really depends on what’s going on in his life. But the crime is always solved.
Another rule I break is that Nick is a guy who has a lot of sex particularly in the early books. He has recreational sex, anonymous sex, friendly sex, angry sex, break-up sex, good sex, bad sex, mournful sex, loving sex, vengeful sex, and, finally, at the end of Boystown 6, safe sex (FYI: safe sex did not exist before 1983). From what I’ve seen in m/m promiscuous characters secretly want a boyfriend despite all the hot sex they’re having or they’re the bad guy or…both.
And, speaking of sex, not a lot of the sex in the books is emotional. That’s another rule I break. Sex needs to be emotional in m/m romance. Nick has a tendency to act like a gay James Bond or a gay Mike Hammer. Some of this is my having fun with those traditionally heterosexual archetypes and some of it has to do with the period.
The books, so far, cover the period between 1979 and 1984. This was a very sexually active period in the gay community. To truly understand that you have to remember that same-sex relationships were still criminal in the majority of the country (as they were until 2003). Illinois repealed these laws in 1961, but the population of Chicago was composed of many transplants from places with oppressive sodomy laws. The heightened sexuality of the 1970s and early 1980s was, in large part, a reaction to the gradual legalization of gay sex. Since it was legal to have sex in places like San Francisco, New York and Chicago, guys wanted to have it. They were asserting their newly granted rights and sex was in the air.
Another important way that I break the rules of m/m romance is Nick’s relationship to monogamy. He was monogamous in his first relationship but in his relationship with Bert Harker he is not. The two of them talk about it rarely but Harker knows what Nick is up to and doesn’t make any moves to stop him. There are some very good reasons for their relationship to be set up that way but you’re going to have to read the books to find out.
I know that open relationships sometimes happen in m/m romance but I’m fairly certain that if a couple or a character begin a book in an open relationship it’s closed by the end of the book. (I know there’s ménage romance out there but I don’t know anything about the rules for that genre.)
Okay, so after looking back over all the ways I break the rules of m/m romance I have to say that if that were what I was trying to do that I’d really suck at it. No, I’m mainly a mystery writer. The Boystown series is much more romantic than a lot of mysteries, even gay mysteries. One reader went so far as to call it “the most romantic non-romance she’d very read.” As her comment demonstrates, romantic is a quality that a book might have while romance is a structural form.
I guess you could call me a romantic writer, but not a romance writer.
I feel like I’m at a twelve-step meeting. “Hello, my name is Marshall. And I am not a romance writer.” Instead of saying, “Hello Marshall” you’re probably saying, “Huh?” or if your language is more colorful, “What the fuck?” I get your confusion. First of all, this is an m/m romance blog. Second, I publish with an m/m romance publisher. And third, as you may already know, I market to the m/m romance audience.
So, how did I end up here? Well, like many other sites, The Blogger Girls have been gracious enough to review my books and have gone the extra mile and asked me to blog. How did I get my not-m/m romance books published with an m/m romance publisher? MLR Press publishes a lot of m/m romance but they also publish gay fiction and have a special interest in gay mystery. Why do I market my books to m/m romance readers? Like any audience the m/m romance audience is not monolithic. Certainly, some readers exclusively read m/m romance, while others like to mix it up with other genres; sometimes gay mysteries.
What I am is a gay fiction writer, though I am also a mystery writer – with or without the gay in front of it – and occasionally a gay romantic comedy writer. (Romantic comedy and romance are distinctly different genres but that’s a blog of a different color.) After reading that, some of you may have gone back to “huh?” and “WTF?” Again, I get your confusion. A lot of writers and readers in the m/m romance community use the terms gay fiction and m/m synonymously. I don’t believe that to be true.
A friend of mine recently asked me “Why are some books called romance novels and others aren’t? Don’t most books have romance in them?” I think the explanation I gave is a pretty good one, I replied, “In a romance novel, whatever the main character(s) central problem is it is solved by love. In other genres, the main character(s) problem is solved by other means and love is a kind of trophy granted for solving the problem.”
This explanation applies to the central differences between m/m and gay fiction. In m/m romance the HEA has to be a committed relationship between two men (I hesitate to say gay men because the characters don’t always begin that way and an HEA with one of the men identified as bi is possible.) In gay fiction, an HEA is optional. And, if there is an HEA it very likely has to do with self-acceptance, self-awareness or an increase in self-esteem. Sometimes within a relationship and sometimes not.
Additionally, there are many sub-rules to the m/m romance genre. Rules which I know about because readers incorrectly identify my work is m/m and then complain that I don’t follow the rules.
The biggest rule I break is that I use the HEA common to all mysteries. The crime is solved. In a mystery that is the HEA. Sometimes private investigator Nick Nowak’s life ends on an up note and sometimes it ends on a down note. It really depends on what’s going on in his life. But the crime is always solved.
Another rule I break is that Nick is a guy who has a lot of sex particularly in the early books. He has recreational sex, anonymous sex, friendly sex, angry sex, break-up sex, good sex, bad sex, mournful sex, loving sex, vengeful sex, and, finally, at the end of Boystown 6, safe sex (FYI: safe sex did not exist before 1983). From what I’ve seen in m/m promiscuous characters secretly want a boyfriend despite all the hot sex they’re having or they’re the bad guy or…both.
And, speaking of sex, not a lot of the sex in the books is emotional. That’s another rule I break. Sex needs to be emotional in m/m romance. Nick has a tendency to act like a gay James Bond or a gay Mike Hammer. Some of this is my having fun with those traditionally heterosexual archetypes and some of it has to do with the period.
The books, so far, cover the period between 1979 and 1984. This was a very sexually active period in the gay community. To truly understand that you have to remember that same-sex relationships were still criminal in the majority of the country (as they were until 2003). Illinois repealed these laws in 1961, but the population of Chicago was composed of many transplants from places with oppressive sodomy laws. The heightened sexuality of the 1970s and early 1980s was, in large part, a reaction to the gradual legalization of gay sex. Since it was legal to have sex in places like San Francisco, New York and Chicago, guys wanted to have it. They were asserting their newly granted rights and sex was in the air.
Another important way that I break the rules of m/m romance is Nick’s relationship to monogamy. He was monogamous in his first relationship but in his relationship with Bert Harker he is not. The two of them talk about it rarely but Harker knows what Nick is up to and doesn’t make any moves to stop him. There are some very good reasons for their relationship to be set up that way but you’re going to have to read the books to find out.
I know that open relationships sometimes happen in m/m romance but I’m fairly certain that if a couple or a character begin a book in an open relationship it’s closed by the end of the book. (I know there’s ménage romance out there but I don’t know anything about the rules for that genre.)
Okay, so after looking back over all the ways I break the rules of m/m romance I have to say that if that were what I was trying to do that I’d really suck at it. No, I’m mainly a mystery writer. The Boystown series is much more romantic than a lot of mysteries, even gay mysteries. One reader went so far as to call it “the most romantic non-romance she’d very read.” As her comment demonstrates, romantic is a quality that a book might have while romance is a structural form.
I guess you could call me a romantic writer, but not a romance writer.
May 14, 2014
Writing About Safe Sex in the Early 80s
Occasionally, readers have noted or even complained about the lack of condoms in the Boystown Mystery series. I’m aware that unsafe sex can make readers uncomfortable, but the first five books span the years 1981 through 1982 and the use of condoms would have been anachronistic. Boystown 6: From the Ashes takes place early in 1984 and will introduce condoms toward the end of the book.
To my knowledge, the first brochure regarding safe sex was “How to Have Sex in an Epidemic” and it was published in May 1983 (though Wikipedia lists it as 1982). The brochure was written by Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen in New York. Richard Berkowitz has a pdf on his website here: http://richardberkowitz.com/category/...
There is also an important reference in The Normal Heart soon to be on HBO. One of the doctors treating early victims suggests that gay men stop having sex. That would have been in the late 1982 to early 1983 time period. That also represents activity in New York.
Things in Chicago happened at a slower pace. While there was activism there those at the forefront were in New York and San Francisco. A couple of the characters are becoming involved in local activism, I've used them and the cross-pollination natural to communities of activists to introduce Nick to the idea of condoms. The reactions he gets in this and later books will be reflective of how gay men reacted to the idea of condoms when it was first introduced.
There will probably still be characters who avoid them. For several years many people took the attitude that they probably already had the virus so why bother? (Indeed the virus won't be discovered until Boystown 7) It wasn't until testing really began that guys got more careful. And then they only stayed careful for a few years. Safe sex significantly declined once the new, better drugs became available.
It may seem illogical to skip something as simple as wearing a condom, but they've been readily available for nearly a century and women have never stopped having unwanted pregnancies. I don't mean to compare an unwanted child to a potential deadly illness but prior to the 70s an unwanted pregnancy often ended in a botched back alley abortion. So the consequences were, potentially, just as deadly.
People make bad decisions about sex. And bad decisions make good fiction.
To my knowledge, the first brochure regarding safe sex was “How to Have Sex in an Epidemic” and it was published in May 1983 (though Wikipedia lists it as 1982). The brochure was written by Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen in New York. Richard Berkowitz has a pdf on his website here: http://richardberkowitz.com/category/...
There is also an important reference in The Normal Heart soon to be on HBO. One of the doctors treating early victims suggests that gay men stop having sex. That would have been in the late 1982 to early 1983 time period. That also represents activity in New York.
Things in Chicago happened at a slower pace. While there was activism there those at the forefront were in New York and San Francisco. A couple of the characters are becoming involved in local activism, I've used them and the cross-pollination natural to communities of activists to introduce Nick to the idea of condoms. The reactions he gets in this and later books will be reflective of how gay men reacted to the idea of condoms when it was first introduced.
There will probably still be characters who avoid them. For several years many people took the attitude that they probably already had the virus so why bother? (Indeed the virus won't be discovered until Boystown 7) It wasn't until testing really began that guys got more careful. And then they only stayed careful for a few years. Safe sex significantly declined once the new, better drugs became available.
It may seem illogical to skip something as simple as wearing a condom, but they've been readily available for nearly a century and women have never stopped having unwanted pregnancies. I don't mean to compare an unwanted child to a potential deadly illness but prior to the 70s an unwanted pregnancy often ended in a botched back alley abortion. So the consequences were, potentially, just as deadly.
People make bad decisions about sex. And bad decisions make good fiction.
May 7, 2014
Excerpt from Boystown 6: From The Ashes
Some people are like orchids: delicate, easily bruised, wilted by a chill breeze. Others are more like weeds: stubborn, hard to dig out, impossible to kill. Most people don’t know which they are until life starts to kick them around. Early in 1984, I found out which I am. I’m a weed.
Tucked under the Sheridan stop of the Jackson Howard, the bar was called Irving’s “L” Lounge. The year before, I’d spent so much time drinking there they hired me as the day bartender. I was surprised by the job offer since my no longer being a customer likely put a noticeable dent in their profits. Irving’s had a liquor store (and one-time delicatessen) on one side and the dark, sticky bar on the other. By the time I worked there, Irving was long gone – if there ever had been an Irving - and the place was now owned by a fat guy named Ludlow who clerked the liquor store himself because he was too cheap to pay anyone else to do it.
When you walked through the nicotine-drenched velvet curtain that covered the front door, the first thing you noticed was the antique mahogany bar. Even though the shellac had worn off in spots and there were chips every few inches, it was a beautiful sight: inlaid columns holding it up every few feet, a thick brass foot rail, and a heavy lip wrapping around the whole thing. Behind me, when I was working, it rose to the ceiling, with more columns, a wide cornice at top, and three beveled mirrors. The bar was obviously an antique and, like much of the clientele, in need of rescue.
The day-drinkers liked to make up stories about it, the most common being that it was salvaged from an old hotel down in the Loop that was pulled down decades ago. They speculated that Al Capone sat at it and drank. I never thought that story was particularly true. The bar was too small to have served a hotel, a speakeasy perhaps, but never a hotel. And, as far as I knew, Al Capone spent more time selling booze than drinking it. Still, the story kept my regulars occupied between sips.
Across from the bar, four small booths lined the wall. The booths were upholstered in licorice black leatherette, matching the stools that ringed the bar. Every few minutes the El rattled by above us. I had to be careful not to stack the glasses too close together or they chattered. And chattered. And chattered.
Every morning at five I arrived to get ready to open the doors at six. By seven we were in the middle of a rush. Our regulars broke down into a couple of distinct types. First, you had the graveyarders, the men and women who’d worked all night and wanted a couple of drinks before they went home to sleep all day. No one would think twice about them, except that they did everything opposite the normal world. Then, you had what I called the freshmen. Young kids who’d just discovered drinking, got drunk on Rush Street the night before, and decided they just had to keep going. They usually showed up just once or twice. Sooner or later they’d get some sense unless, of course, they turned into the third type of customer we had—the career drunk. These were people who drank in Irving’s until closing at four a.m., ran out to a twenty-four hour diner for a little breakfast, and were back at the front door waiting for me to open at six. The career drunks drank twenty-four hours a day for as long as they could, then crashed somewhere for a few days or maybe even a week, and then began the process all over again. That was me for a while. I gave it up when I crawled over to the other side of the bar. Not because I had an epiphany or read a self-help book or suddenly got all happy, it was just that drinking day and night got boring after a while. So, I slowed down.
The morning Mrs. Harker showed up at the bar was windy and barely above freezing. On the way in, I’d hit a patch of black ice on the sidewalk that allowed the wind to sail me back a good three feet. The fact that she’d braved the elements and at least two buses was not a good sign. She snuck in while a regular was telling me about the Super Bowl. Well, not so much about the game, according to him that was a real snooze with the Raiders trouncing the Redskins, but about a commercial, a really cool commercial in the second half for a computer named after a fruit.
“The ad was based on that book, you know the one, it says the world is gonna end this year.”
“1984?” I guessed.
“Yeah, that one.”
I’d never read it, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t about the apocalypse. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone needed anything and there was Mrs. Harker, sitting primly at the street end of the bar. She looked older, older than she was even, though I didn’t know exactly how old she happened to be. Somewhere near, or past, seventy. Her hair was white, whiter than the clumps of snow outside on the sidewalk, her skin was pink and about as thick as tissue paper, her eyes were hard and mean as a snake. I walked down and stared at her a moment, then asked, “How’d you find me here?”
“Your lawyer tell my lawyer,” she said. This was how we’d been communicating, through lawyers. Showing up in person was a new twist but it did mean she wouldn’t be getting an invoice from her lawyer. I figured sooner or later she’d get tired of paying to torture me and look for a way to do it for free. She looked around the bar and sneered, “Bertram would not like this place.”
No, I thought, she’s right. And he wouldn’t like me working there either. I decided to be snotty and said, “I won’t tell him, if you won’t.” She gave me the frown I deserved. No one was telling Bert anything. He’d been dead for more than a year. “What do you want, Mrs. Harker?”
“I have Seven and Seven,” she said. I wasn’t all that sure, but I didn’t think I’d actually spoken to her since Bert’s funeral. Her accent seemed to have grown thicker, her English rough. I wondered if she spoke it very often; if she spoke any language very often. Or was it more that she’d become disenchanted with America, angry about all the country had given her and then taken away.
I arched an eyebrow at her and said, “It’s nine o’clock in the morning. Isn’t that early for a high ball?”
“This is way you talk to customer?”
After a heavy sigh, I walked down the bar and made her a drink. I brought it back and set it in front of her. She opened her purse and began to dig through it. “It’s on me,” I said, but she stubbornly put a five-dollar bill on the bar. I stubbornly ignored it. I stood there until she took a sip of her drink. She tried to hide her shiver as she swallowed. She was not the kind of woman who drank in the morning, and to remind her of that fact, I’d made the drink a little strong; well, it was almost brown.
“Now, tell me what you really want,” I said.
“I, I need hire you.”
“You need a bartender? Are you throwing a garden party?”
“I need detective,” she said with a scowl.
I almost said I didn’t do that anymore, because I didn’t. I’d been avoiding my chosen profession since I killed the man who killed Bert. That sort of made me lose interest. Still, I couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “Why do you need a detective, Mrs. Harker?”
“At my church, my priest, Father Maniatis, he died.”
“Father what?” I asked, not quite catching the name through her accent.
She gave me her basic unhappy look. She didn’t believe she had an accent. “Is Greek. Many-ah-tis.”
“Father Maniatis. He was murdered?”
“I don’t know. I am not detective. You are detective. You are to find out.”
“Do the police think he was murdered?”
She shook her head, “No.”
I waited for her to say more but she didn’t. “What do the police think?”
“He had heart attack.”
“And you don’t think he did?”
“No. Very young, very healthy.”
“How young was he?” I asked.
“Forty-one, forty-two.”
That was just about five years older than I was. Which did seem young. On the other hand there were days I thought I might be on the verge of dropping dead of a heart attack myself. Usually right before I passed out drunk. “Why do you think he was healthy?”
“His doctor say.”
“You talked to his doctor?”
“Father Maniatis tell me.” With a glance she read my mind. “He would not tell lie.”
“Well...doctors have been wrong before. Was there an autopsy?”
“I do not know. This is for you to find out.” She gave me an exasperated look, as though I were a child who refused to understand.
“I told you. I don’t do that anymore. Check the yellow pages.”
“So you not help me? I pay you.” She knew I wouldn’t take her money. I hadn’t touched a penny of Harker’s money even though he’d left me half of it. He’d never said so, but I figured he did it so I’d always take care of his mother. A position that my lawyer had made clear to her lawyer. From the way she was looking at me I think she’d decided my doing work for her came under the heading of taking care of her. I didn’t agree.
It took a few more minutes, but she finally figured out I wasn’t going to do what she wanted. She snatched up her five-dollar bill and with a huff got off the stool. I watched her walk out the door, happy she was leaving.
She didn’t belong in a place like Irving’s.
Tucked under the Sheridan stop of the Jackson Howard, the bar was called Irving’s “L” Lounge. The year before, I’d spent so much time drinking there they hired me as the day bartender. I was surprised by the job offer since my no longer being a customer likely put a noticeable dent in their profits. Irving’s had a liquor store (and one-time delicatessen) on one side and the dark, sticky bar on the other. By the time I worked there, Irving was long gone – if there ever had been an Irving - and the place was now owned by a fat guy named Ludlow who clerked the liquor store himself because he was too cheap to pay anyone else to do it.
When you walked through the nicotine-drenched velvet curtain that covered the front door, the first thing you noticed was the antique mahogany bar. Even though the shellac had worn off in spots and there were chips every few inches, it was a beautiful sight: inlaid columns holding it up every few feet, a thick brass foot rail, and a heavy lip wrapping around the whole thing. Behind me, when I was working, it rose to the ceiling, with more columns, a wide cornice at top, and three beveled mirrors. The bar was obviously an antique and, like much of the clientele, in need of rescue.
The day-drinkers liked to make up stories about it, the most common being that it was salvaged from an old hotel down in the Loop that was pulled down decades ago. They speculated that Al Capone sat at it and drank. I never thought that story was particularly true. The bar was too small to have served a hotel, a speakeasy perhaps, but never a hotel. And, as far as I knew, Al Capone spent more time selling booze than drinking it. Still, the story kept my regulars occupied between sips.
Across from the bar, four small booths lined the wall. The booths were upholstered in licorice black leatherette, matching the stools that ringed the bar. Every few minutes the El rattled by above us. I had to be careful not to stack the glasses too close together or they chattered. And chattered. And chattered.
Every morning at five I arrived to get ready to open the doors at six. By seven we were in the middle of a rush. Our regulars broke down into a couple of distinct types. First, you had the graveyarders, the men and women who’d worked all night and wanted a couple of drinks before they went home to sleep all day. No one would think twice about them, except that they did everything opposite the normal world. Then, you had what I called the freshmen. Young kids who’d just discovered drinking, got drunk on Rush Street the night before, and decided they just had to keep going. They usually showed up just once or twice. Sooner or later they’d get some sense unless, of course, they turned into the third type of customer we had—the career drunk. These were people who drank in Irving’s until closing at four a.m., ran out to a twenty-four hour diner for a little breakfast, and were back at the front door waiting for me to open at six. The career drunks drank twenty-four hours a day for as long as they could, then crashed somewhere for a few days or maybe even a week, and then began the process all over again. That was me for a while. I gave it up when I crawled over to the other side of the bar. Not because I had an epiphany or read a self-help book or suddenly got all happy, it was just that drinking day and night got boring after a while. So, I slowed down.
The morning Mrs. Harker showed up at the bar was windy and barely above freezing. On the way in, I’d hit a patch of black ice on the sidewalk that allowed the wind to sail me back a good three feet. The fact that she’d braved the elements and at least two buses was not a good sign. She snuck in while a regular was telling me about the Super Bowl. Well, not so much about the game, according to him that was a real snooze with the Raiders trouncing the Redskins, but about a commercial, a really cool commercial in the second half for a computer named after a fruit.
“The ad was based on that book, you know the one, it says the world is gonna end this year.”
“1984?” I guessed.
“Yeah, that one.”
I’d never read it, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t about the apocalypse. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone needed anything and there was Mrs. Harker, sitting primly at the street end of the bar. She looked older, older than she was even, though I didn’t know exactly how old she happened to be. Somewhere near, or past, seventy. Her hair was white, whiter than the clumps of snow outside on the sidewalk, her skin was pink and about as thick as tissue paper, her eyes were hard and mean as a snake. I walked down and stared at her a moment, then asked, “How’d you find me here?”
“Your lawyer tell my lawyer,” she said. This was how we’d been communicating, through lawyers. Showing up in person was a new twist but it did mean she wouldn’t be getting an invoice from her lawyer. I figured sooner or later she’d get tired of paying to torture me and look for a way to do it for free. She looked around the bar and sneered, “Bertram would not like this place.”
No, I thought, she’s right. And he wouldn’t like me working there either. I decided to be snotty and said, “I won’t tell him, if you won’t.” She gave me the frown I deserved. No one was telling Bert anything. He’d been dead for more than a year. “What do you want, Mrs. Harker?”
“I have Seven and Seven,” she said. I wasn’t all that sure, but I didn’t think I’d actually spoken to her since Bert’s funeral. Her accent seemed to have grown thicker, her English rough. I wondered if she spoke it very often; if she spoke any language very often. Or was it more that she’d become disenchanted with America, angry about all the country had given her and then taken away.
I arched an eyebrow at her and said, “It’s nine o’clock in the morning. Isn’t that early for a high ball?”
“This is way you talk to customer?”
After a heavy sigh, I walked down the bar and made her a drink. I brought it back and set it in front of her. She opened her purse and began to dig through it. “It’s on me,” I said, but she stubbornly put a five-dollar bill on the bar. I stubbornly ignored it. I stood there until she took a sip of her drink. She tried to hide her shiver as she swallowed. She was not the kind of woman who drank in the morning, and to remind her of that fact, I’d made the drink a little strong; well, it was almost brown.
“Now, tell me what you really want,” I said.
“I, I need hire you.”
“You need a bartender? Are you throwing a garden party?”
“I need detective,” she said with a scowl.
I almost said I didn’t do that anymore, because I didn’t. I’d been avoiding my chosen profession since I killed the man who killed Bert. That sort of made me lose interest. Still, I couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “Why do you need a detective, Mrs. Harker?”
“At my church, my priest, Father Maniatis, he died.”
“Father what?” I asked, not quite catching the name through her accent.
She gave me her basic unhappy look. She didn’t believe she had an accent. “Is Greek. Many-ah-tis.”
“Father Maniatis. He was murdered?”
“I don’t know. I am not detective. You are detective. You are to find out.”
“Do the police think he was murdered?”
She shook her head, “No.”
I waited for her to say more but she didn’t. “What do the police think?”
“He had heart attack.”
“And you don’t think he did?”
“No. Very young, very healthy.”
“How young was he?” I asked.
“Forty-one, forty-two.”
That was just about five years older than I was. Which did seem young. On the other hand there were days I thought I might be on the verge of dropping dead of a heart attack myself. Usually right before I passed out drunk. “Why do you think he was healthy?”
“His doctor say.”
“You talked to his doctor?”
“Father Maniatis tell me.” With a glance she read my mind. “He would not tell lie.”
“Well...doctors have been wrong before. Was there an autopsy?”
“I do not know. This is for you to find out.” She gave me an exasperated look, as though I were a child who refused to understand.
“I told you. I don’t do that anymore. Check the yellow pages.”
“So you not help me? I pay you.” She knew I wouldn’t take her money. I hadn’t touched a penny of Harker’s money even though he’d left me half of it. He’d never said so, but I figured he did it so I’d always take care of his mother. A position that my lawyer had made clear to her lawyer. From the way she was looking at me I think she’d decided my doing work for her came under the heading of taking care of her. I didn’t agree.
It took a few more minutes, but she finally figured out I wasn’t going to do what she wanted. She snatched up her five-dollar bill and with a huff got off the stool. I watched her walk out the door, happy she was leaving.
She didn’t belong in a place like Irving’s.
December 21, 2013
Excerpt from The Ghost Slept Over
The Ghost Slept Over
Coming January 31st, 2014
When failed actor Cal Parsons travels to rural New York to claim the estate of his famous and estranged ex-partner he discovers something he wasn't expecting...the ghost of his ex! And, worse, his ex invites Cal to join him for all eternity. Now. As Cal attempts to rid himself of the ghost by any means he begins to fall for the attractive attorney representing the estate. Will Cal be able to begin a new relationship or will he be seduced into the ever after?
This excerpt is at the point when Cal Parsons discovers the ghost of his ex, McCormick Williams (Mac).
I woke at dawn, still dressed in the clothes I’d flown out from Los Angeles in. I had stumbled into the shower, turned the water on as hot as I could stand, and was trying to understand Mac’s very expensive cleansing system; scrubbers, exfoliants, rejuvenators, conditioners, and plain old cleansers; which were for skin and which were for hair and in what order—when I remembered the dream. It was annoying. In the dream, I’d been almost glad to see him. And I didn’t want to be glad to see him. Too much had happened. Of course it doesn’t matter, I told myself. Mac was dead. I’d never see him again. And I had all his stuff. Maybe it was time to forgive and forget. Or at least forget.
I slid the glass door open, thinking again how nice the bathroom was and that it was really too bad I’d be selling it. Of course, I could buy myself a condo in Los Angeles. Maybe I’d look for one with a marble bathroom just like this one. Or maybe I’d have a bathroom done up this way. Pictures might be a good idea. I should take some. I wrapped a plush towel around my waist, and was about to go look for my phone when I looked up and there was Mac standing in the bathroom doorway.
“Oh shit,” I said. I hadn’t gotten the towel completely tucked and it dropped to the floor.
With a leer, Mac said, “The years have treated you well, Cal.”
“You’re dead.”
“I know. Bummer, huh?”
“Except you’re not dead. You’re here. Right there. Goddammit! I knew it. This is some kind of vicious joke, isn’t it? I’m being punked. Are we on a reality TV show?”
“Well, if we are, you’re going to spend a lot of time being blurred out.”
I grabbed the towel off the floor and tucked it tightly around my waist. “You do realize there’s no way in hell I’m signing a waiver. You’d better go get the producer. We need to have it out.”
“Relax. You’re not on a TV show.”
After eyeing him suspiciously, I said, “I’m not?”
“No.”
“Then what is this? You’re not dead. Why are you pretending to be dead? Are you in trouble with the mob?”
“Why would I be in trouble with the mob? Dewey told you how much money I—”
“Maybe it’s their money. They’re going to want it back aren’t they?”
“Heavens, you’re so dramatic.”
“Me. You’re the one who just showed up…not dead.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t dead. I’m dead. I’m very dead.”
I sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re standing right in front of me.”
“Look at me. Look at me closely.” I looked. As he had the night before, Mac looked just the way he looked when we’d last seen each other. No, younger. He looked like he did when we first met, which is to say pretty damn sexy in a bookish, professorly kind of way. Strangely, he looked younger than I did. Which he shouldn’t, the last time I’d seen a photo of him (three years before when he was nominated for a Tony) he looked actually, well…old. And yes, I admit it, I’d taken a mean delight in his decrepitness, but now—
“How old do I look?” he asked.
“Really? Vanity? Now?”
“It’s a serious question. How old do I look?”
“You found a really good plastic surgeon, big deal,” I said. Part of me wanted a referral. I wondered for a moment if I could squeeze a procedure or two out of Mac when all of this was sorted out. He has actually damaged me, I thought. He owed me something. Then I remembered something even more important. I’d sold my truck. I was an Angeleno without transportation. My life was ruined—
“I sold my truck to get here. You owe me a truck!”
“Cal, I’m a ghost.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Apparently, when you die you get to look your best. That’s why I look like this.”
“What? No.” I decided to put an immediate end to the whole idea, so I walked over and tried to stick my hand through his chest.
“Ouch! Stop that!” Mac screamed when my hand hit his sternum.
“See. You’re not a ghost. Ghosts are…un-material.”
“Do you know a lot of ghosts?” he asked, snidely.
“Of course not,” I said, pushing passed him to go into the bedroom. I went to my bag and pulled out a pair of briefs.
“Even though you don’t know any ghosts you know you should be able to stick your hand through one?”
“Well…”
I really didn’t want to say it, so he did, “You saw it in a movie.”
“It seems logical that you should be…un-material if you’re a spirit. Which I don’t believe you are for a minute. Turn around.”
“What?”
“I’m going to put my underwear on and I don’t want you gaping at me. Turn around.”
“I just got a good look in the bathroom. And I want to say again you’re looking—”
“Shut up and turn around.”
Finally, he turned around. I dropped the towel and stepped into my underwear. “Thank you,” I said when I was ready for him to turn back around. He did, took a good look at my designer briefs, and said, “Oh my, snazzy. You almost look better with those on than you do in nothing at all.”
“Shut up.” And then, partly because he was annoying me and partly because it had to be true, I said, “You’re not a ghost.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do to prove it to you.”
“You don’t—okay, do something ghost-like. Disappear, levitate, turn the room a chilly five degrees.”
He scowled at me and said, “Boo.”
“Very funny.”
Then I had an idea. An important idea. I went over to the nightstand and grabbed my smart phone. I looked up the lawyer’s number and hit it.
“What are you doing?” Mac asked.
Dewey picked up. “Hi. This is Cal Parsons. You mentioned the possibility of seeing Mac’s body before he’s cremated. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to do that.”
“You have?”
“It’s not too late, is it?”
“No, the cremation is scheduled for around eleven. There’s time. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
“Great,” I said, and hung up. I turned back to Mac and said, “I’m going to see your dead body. Want to come?”
“Good God no. That’s just too morbid.”
Coming January 31st, 2014
When failed actor Cal Parsons travels to rural New York to claim the estate of his famous and estranged ex-partner he discovers something he wasn't expecting...the ghost of his ex! And, worse, his ex invites Cal to join him for all eternity. Now. As Cal attempts to rid himself of the ghost by any means he begins to fall for the attractive attorney representing the estate. Will Cal be able to begin a new relationship or will he be seduced into the ever after?
This excerpt is at the point when Cal Parsons discovers the ghost of his ex, McCormick Williams (Mac).
I woke at dawn, still dressed in the clothes I’d flown out from Los Angeles in. I had stumbled into the shower, turned the water on as hot as I could stand, and was trying to understand Mac’s very expensive cleansing system; scrubbers, exfoliants, rejuvenators, conditioners, and plain old cleansers; which were for skin and which were for hair and in what order—when I remembered the dream. It was annoying. In the dream, I’d been almost glad to see him. And I didn’t want to be glad to see him. Too much had happened. Of course it doesn’t matter, I told myself. Mac was dead. I’d never see him again. And I had all his stuff. Maybe it was time to forgive and forget. Or at least forget.
I slid the glass door open, thinking again how nice the bathroom was and that it was really too bad I’d be selling it. Of course, I could buy myself a condo in Los Angeles. Maybe I’d look for one with a marble bathroom just like this one. Or maybe I’d have a bathroom done up this way. Pictures might be a good idea. I should take some. I wrapped a plush towel around my waist, and was about to go look for my phone when I looked up and there was Mac standing in the bathroom doorway.
“Oh shit,” I said. I hadn’t gotten the towel completely tucked and it dropped to the floor.
With a leer, Mac said, “The years have treated you well, Cal.”
“You’re dead.”
“I know. Bummer, huh?”
“Except you’re not dead. You’re here. Right there. Goddammit! I knew it. This is some kind of vicious joke, isn’t it? I’m being punked. Are we on a reality TV show?”
“Well, if we are, you’re going to spend a lot of time being blurred out.”
I grabbed the towel off the floor and tucked it tightly around my waist. “You do realize there’s no way in hell I’m signing a waiver. You’d better go get the producer. We need to have it out.”
“Relax. You’re not on a TV show.”
After eyeing him suspiciously, I said, “I’m not?”
“No.”
“Then what is this? You’re not dead. Why are you pretending to be dead? Are you in trouble with the mob?”
“Why would I be in trouble with the mob? Dewey told you how much money I—”
“Maybe it’s their money. They’re going to want it back aren’t they?”
“Heavens, you’re so dramatic.”
“Me. You’re the one who just showed up…not dead.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t dead. I’m dead. I’m very dead.”
I sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re standing right in front of me.”
“Look at me. Look at me closely.” I looked. As he had the night before, Mac looked just the way he looked when we’d last seen each other. No, younger. He looked like he did when we first met, which is to say pretty damn sexy in a bookish, professorly kind of way. Strangely, he looked younger than I did. Which he shouldn’t, the last time I’d seen a photo of him (three years before when he was nominated for a Tony) he looked actually, well…old. And yes, I admit it, I’d taken a mean delight in his decrepitness, but now—
“How old do I look?” he asked.
“Really? Vanity? Now?”
“It’s a serious question. How old do I look?”
“You found a really good plastic surgeon, big deal,” I said. Part of me wanted a referral. I wondered for a moment if I could squeeze a procedure or two out of Mac when all of this was sorted out. He has actually damaged me, I thought. He owed me something. Then I remembered something even more important. I’d sold my truck. I was an Angeleno without transportation. My life was ruined—
“I sold my truck to get here. You owe me a truck!”
“Cal, I’m a ghost.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Apparently, when you die you get to look your best. That’s why I look like this.”
“What? No.” I decided to put an immediate end to the whole idea, so I walked over and tried to stick my hand through his chest.
“Ouch! Stop that!” Mac screamed when my hand hit his sternum.
“See. You’re not a ghost. Ghosts are…un-material.”
“Do you know a lot of ghosts?” he asked, snidely.
“Of course not,” I said, pushing passed him to go into the bedroom. I went to my bag and pulled out a pair of briefs.
“Even though you don’t know any ghosts you know you should be able to stick your hand through one?”
“Well…”
I really didn’t want to say it, so he did, “You saw it in a movie.”
“It seems logical that you should be…un-material if you’re a spirit. Which I don’t believe you are for a minute. Turn around.”
“What?”
“I’m going to put my underwear on and I don’t want you gaping at me. Turn around.”
“I just got a good look in the bathroom. And I want to say again you’re looking—”
“Shut up and turn around.”
Finally, he turned around. I dropped the towel and stepped into my underwear. “Thank you,” I said when I was ready for him to turn back around. He did, took a good look at my designer briefs, and said, “Oh my, snazzy. You almost look better with those on than you do in nothing at all.”
“Shut up.” And then, partly because he was annoying me and partly because it had to be true, I said, “You’re not a ghost.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do to prove it to you.”
“You don’t—okay, do something ghost-like. Disappear, levitate, turn the room a chilly five degrees.”
He scowled at me and said, “Boo.”
“Very funny.”
Then I had an idea. An important idea. I went over to the nightstand and grabbed my smart phone. I looked up the lawyer’s number and hit it.
“What are you doing?” Mac asked.
Dewey picked up. “Hi. This is Cal Parsons. You mentioned the possibility of seeing Mac’s body before he’s cremated. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to do that.”
“You have?”
“It’s not too late, is it?”
“No, the cremation is scheduled for around eleven. There’s time. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
“Great,” I said, and hung up. I turned back to Mac and said, “I’m going to see your dead body. Want to come?”
“Good God no. That’s just too morbid.”
