R.E. Bradshaw's Blog, page 3

What did you learn?

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I have a book on my desk written and compiled by H. Jackson Brown, Jr., entitled Live and Learn and Pass It On. The subtitle reads: “People ages 5 to 95 share what they’ve discovered about life, love, and other good stuff.” During the introduction, Brown discusses how on his fifty-first birthday he thought it would be interesting to jot down some of the things he had learned in a half a century of living. He wrote, “I’ve learned that…” twenty times on the left-hand side of a piece of paper. He then completed the twenty sentences. He enjoyed the activity enough to add it to his Sunday routine. One thing led to another, which led to a book filled with the wisdom of people just beginning to learn and those amazed to be still learning nearly one hundred years later.
Between the covers of the book are such pearls of wisdom as the ten-year-old’s words, “I’ve learned that it’s not what happens to people that’s important. It’s what they do about it.” Or the sixty-six-year-old’s statement, “I’ve learned that nothing very bad or very good every lasts very long.” And my absolute favorite, today anyway, is the five-year-old who said, “I’ve learned that goldfish don’t like Jello.” I sat down and wrote the first twenty things that came to mind. I’m sure my list would change from day to day, depending on what was on my mind, but here are just a few things I’ve learned in my first fifty-two years. I’ve learned that Dorothy was right. There is, in fact, no place like home, but home is where you make it.I’ve learned that plans never really go as planned. Being willing to adapt without fuss is the key to a happy vacation.I’ve learned that I should be thankful that the promise of tomorrow was kept. Every morning I rise is a good morning.I’ve learned that anything to excess is too much.I’ve learned that how people feel about themselves is more important than what anyone else thinks.I’ve learned that it is possible to eat healthy food and like it.I’ve learned that my parents were much younger than I thought they were when I was growing up.I’ve learned that seventy-five percent of the stuff I worry about never happens. Worry is not a smart investment of time and energy.I’ve learned that friends and loved ones can be taken in a tragic instant. Never take them for granted.I’ve learned that love at first sight is a real physical phenomenon. Our bodies recognize the connection before our hearts do. I’ve learned that disciplining a cat only creates an enemy hell bent on terrorizing you.I’ve learned that knowing you are loved gives you wings.I’ve learned that finding a way to earn a living doing something you’re passionate about makes life so much more fun.I’ve learned that you’re never too old to pursue a dream.I’ve learned that I knew nothing about the proper glasses for consuming different kinds of wine, or that it even mattered. A Dixie cup was always just fine. I’ve learned that the compassion of a dog can heal a broken heart.I’ve learned that a home filled with laughter is a great place to be.I’ve learned that there is more truth to fiction than most people assume.I’ve learned that only our bodies age. My mind still thinks I’m 25.I’ve learned that I love to learn. The world is fascinating to me.
I'll end with another favorite from Brown's book:
"I've learned to keep looking ahead. There are still so many good books to read, sunsets to see, friends to visit, and old dogs to take walks with." —Age 86 

Why not?

When someone says, “We can’t change it, because that’s the way it’s always been,” I say, “Why not?”
At the heart of my need to speak out is my six-year-old self. I was seventeen days from my seventh birthday, June 8, 1968. I remember it vividly, but as an observer now. I see my white button-front, short-sleeved shirt with the Peter Pan collar; the tail of which hung over my blue cotton shorts. I was a notorious un-tucker. No shirttail would remain tucked in a waistband if I could get away with it. I see the white socks folded over the fine blond hair at my ankles, and the faded blue canvas Keds I’m surprised are still on my feet. It was Saturday, so we were probably going to town later, hence the shoes. I hated shoes almost as much as I hate my bra now. I was a scrawny tomboy with a Dutch boy haircut, the top layer of sandy blond faded white from hours in the sun. I had freckles on my cheeks and tears running from my blue eyes, as I squinted into the morning sun. I stood, one foot in each seat, pulling on the bars to make the sit-down swing rise and fall. As I swayed back and forth, the swing sang a rhythmic “scree-scraww,” and one of the swing-set legs thumped up and down, loosened from its buried concrete footing. Above the rusted iron protestations of the swing, a young man’s voice cut through the air.

I had procured, (probably without permission, because that is how I rolled at six,) a small transistor radio. It was in the corner of the swing seat, tied there with a piece of baling wire I found out by the horse barn. I was resourceful, if not wise, as evidenced by some of my other adventures as a child. I was alone on the swing because the rest of my family was inside, watching a grainy black and white TV image of what I was listening to on my pilfered transmitting device. I was only six, but I had fallen in love and my heart had been broken. The adults could never understand the depth of my misery, so I chose to deal with it alone, outside. That’s where most of my childhood miseries were dealt with, outside, on a swing, in a tree house, a hidden fort, or floating in a small boat. On this day, I was completely without hope, the sun would never rise again, and my little broken heart would never heal.

How I came to love that man, I will never know. I do not remember a single thing about my infatuation other than that Saturday morning of bereavement on my swing. Years later, as a sophomore in college, I wrote a research paper on his speech writing skills and innate ability to deliver a universally understood message. My first crush was Robert Francis “Bobby” Kennedy and, on June 8, 1968, I listened to his brother Teddy give his eulogy. I had been in deep mourning for two days and was now in attendance at the memorial for my beloved Bobby. I may physically have been standing in an old rusty swing set on a country road in Inez, North Carolina, but my mind was in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. Teddy quoted from one of Bobby’s speeches, given to the young people of South Africa on their Day of Affirmation in 1966.

Robert Kennedy arriving in
Cape Town, the site of his famous
"Day of Affirmation" speech.“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”  
Of course I don’t remember that quote off the top of my head. When I was older, I looked up the eulogy and printed a copy for myself. I also found a recording of the memorial service on vinyl and listened to it from time to time. I read every speech Robert Kennedy ever wrote for himself and his President brother. I’m quite sure that my devotion to standing up for what I believe in comes from the phrases I do remember from that sad day in June of 1968. Although I may not have always heeded them, I heard these words running through my mind throughout my life, as a gentle reminder to do the right thing.
My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it.Those of us who loved him and who take him to his rest today, pray that what he was to us and what he wished for others will some day come to pass for all the world. As he said many times, in many parts of this nation, to those he touched and who sought to touch him:“Some men see things as they are and say why. 
I dream things that never were and say why not."
The passage of time has given me insights into Robert Kennedy’s life that I did not possess as a child. Without the taint of scandal and politics, I fell in love with an ideal. I believed that we could make a difference and that standing up for those who could not stand for themselves was always the right thing to do. I still believe that. I went through changes in my lifetime that affected my political views. We all do. But it seems I’ve come home to my roots as I aged. I, like many of my generation, still believe in ideals.
We are the generation that walked hand in hand through the civil rights movement in our classrooms. The adults were on the outside, fighting over the color of skin. We were at our desks, learning that we were not so different after all. We are the children that watched our first war from our living room television sets, and the resulting protests in the streets. We are the generation who saw women stand up to the status quo and win; fighting for equal rights and working to pass Title IX, from which I reaped many benefits in both education and athletics. We are the generation that blew away the closet doors and became very active on the issue of civil rights and equality for all Americans, regardless of race, gender, or sexuality. We are the generation that learned as babies, listening to the radio, that social change does happen. We never forgot what we witnessed.
Something else happened on June 8, 1968. James Earl Ray, the man who assassinated Martin Luther King, Jr., was captured in London. That seems rather coincidental or perhaps poetic. The fiftieth anniversary of The March on Washington and King’s “I have a dream” speech is August 28, 2013. Many marches and events are planned for the anniversary. I hope they are well populated, for we still have much to do before discrimination is a thing of the past. With all I’ve read in the news lately, discrimination on the basis of race, gender, sexuality, and bank account status has not been overcome, just set aside, a “it's better than it used to be” kind of thinking, the status quo of our day. We tend to look at discrimination as something that happens outside of our homes, out of our control, a “we can’t change the way other people think” mentality. That little girl in the Peter Pan collar believed in a world where wrongs were righted. I still believe. I still ask, “Why not?”
"There is discrimination in this world and slavery and slaughter and starvation. Governments repress their people; millions are trapped in poverty while the nation grows rich and wealth is lavished on armaments everywhere. These are differing evils, but they are the common works of man. They reflect the imperfection of human justice, the inadequacy of human compassion, our lack of sensibility towards the suffering of our fellows. But we can perhaps remember -- even if only for a time -- that those who live with us are our brothers; that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek -- as we do -- nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can." Robert Francis Kennedy

Link to the last portion of the eulogy given by Ted Kennedy.

"We read to know we are not alone." C. S. Lewis

I'm off to work with some teenagers this evening. I am really looking forward to supporting them in anyway I can. I miss working with young minds. The best part of this experience is that I'm going into it as me, not some part of me, but as a whole human being. When teaching before, I was required to leave part of me behind closed doors, away from prying eyes. Tonight, I get to look at LGBTQ young people and say, "Yes, yes I am." I can hold up a picture of my son's wedding and say, "I have a 25 year relationship with my wife and we raised a son together. This is my family."

I could never do that in public schools. I could never say this is the person I love; this is my happy life outside of these walls. No wonder our youth think there is something to be ashamed of. Their very obviously gay teacher isn't proudly displaying pictures of his child, because it's his partner's natural son. How would he explain his love for this young man, that he is his son too? That lesbian drama teacher calls her wife a “friend” and never introduces her to the class. They hide the truth. It must be shameful. There are no pictures of smiling vacations and happy family portraits to prove it gets better. Only the straight teachers have happy lives. After all, they have the photographic evidence displayed for all to see, right?

So, tonight I can be a real role model, a whole role model, not just the parts that others deem “mainstream.” Look around world. The LGBTQ family is out there and it is a distinction no different than the color of ones eyes. You work and live around people with blue eyes, brown, green, gray, the shades are endless and as unique as the individual possessing them. I look forward to the day that sexuality bears no more meaning in a description than a passing reference to eye color. I also look forward to the day when children aren’t taught to be afraid of the evil gay people. Hate and shame are both learned. I have the utmost hope that the next generation will teach less of it.


I want to help these kids, ages 13-20, build their library at the equality center. If you are an author and would like to offer assistance with this task, please contact me at rebradshawbooks@gmail.com. No explicit erotica, please. They can find that on their own like the rest of us did. I'm not playing censor as much as asking that you be conscious of the message you are sending along with your book. 
In addition to fiction, they have expressed an interest in learning LGBTQ history, which I find refreshing. These are our future leaders. Let us help them discover the roots to the tree of equality that they will continue to nourish. I hope for the day when a center like this is not the only place a child hears, “You are beautiful just the way you are.” Some kids never hear that. That has to change. Be the change you want to see. 

My Tea Drinkin' Buddy

I have been forced to drink tea and not sweet iced tea. Nooooo, that's bad for you the nutritionist said. We are now drinking hot tea, healthy stuff with names like "Perfect Energy" and "Women's Energy." I have to admit drinking a cup each of those two kicked me into high gear. There isn't a low hanging limb within 9 feet of our yard—the terminal reach of my chainsaw on a pole. I finished projects that have been hanging on for years, not weeks or days; we're talking many years, decades. So, I'll give credit where credit is due. The tea really does make me feel healthier and engaged.


I'm a coffee drinker by habit, so the tea thing is new. All part of our get healthy and stay that way plan. Seems my favorite 1/2 & 1/2 and sweet coffee are now off limits. Soy creamer and a measured teaspoon of cane sugar in my two cups of coffee in the morning, (I had to beg for that from the nutritionist—I call her Satan.) Then I switch to tea, water, and almond milk. I can have a cup of coffee after dinner, but then it's back to "Stress Relief" or "Bedtime" tea.       
The tea thing is okay. I got into it; bought a variable temperature teapot for my desk and the "Tea Bag Buddy," which despite its unfortunate product name is very handy. I researched the proper temperatures for specific teas. I'm getting used to drinking slightly flavored warm water, as opposed to my usual "I like a little coffee in my cream and sugar" good old cup of java-syrup. I do have a problem deciding if the tea bag is used up, because the last cup and the first cup seem to taste a lot alike.

Anyway, Deb and I spend a lot of time staring at all the different teas and what they are formulated to do. We buy a box of something different every time we go in the store. We have a pantry shelf full of tea. I threw two more boxes of the energy varieties in the cart the other day, (that stuff is the speed of my generation,) while Deb was still searching, reading labels on a couple of boxes. 
I asked, "Are you looking for a specific kind of tea?"
She said, "The hurry up and write more books so I can retire tea."
"Ah, that would be the 'Sit your ass in the chair' tea."
"Precisely."
My tea drinkin' business manager/wife/buddy is not subtle.

She hopes it's over soon. That makes two of us.

Take your hands off the climate control device, do not block or complain about the fan or its speed. Keep the box of tissues handy and, for the love of all things holy, please don’t bring me more bad news.


Warning this blog contains adult language. I say fuck and some other rather colorful words.I'm in a mood, so be forewarned. MOM!Bad news on any given day can be unsettling. Bad news on a menopausal mood-swinging day can be simply too much to endure; at least it can feel that way for a moment or two. I’m not enjoying this at all, these waves of hormonal modifications. Today, I was driving, when I felt it coming. I said, “I’m having a bad day,” and then tears just trickled down my cheeks. Deb asked what was wrong and I said, and I quote, “I don’t fucking know. Just find me a damn tissue.” My hairdresser asked what was wrong when I arrived red-eyed. I told her much the same thing. She told me I needed to go out in the yard, lie down, and re-center myself with nature. I’d like to tell Mother Nature to fuck off. This shutting down of the child bearing mechanism should be a much more agreeable process. I mean, I gave once a month like clockwork to Mother Nature’s cause, except for that one nine month stretch. I deserve some type of easy-out payoff in the end. Still, most of the time, with the aid of natural supplements, I’m managing to keep the emotional roller-coaster from leaving the barn. But some days—bad news is the last thing I want to hear.
Sorry, wrong number!It wasn't so bad getting the phone message from the nurse explaining the cost of my pelvic ultrasound and asking me to call in for scheduling. I was poked, prodded, and smashed just a month ago, and then given a clean bill of health. This was obviously a mistake. I returned the call and inquired about this unexpected procedure. After verifying my birthdate, the nurse said, N-o-o-o-o, it wasn't just an ultrasound; I was to be scheduled for a biopsy. NOT ME! Yep, that was my educated, two degree holding, writes for a living response, NOT ME! She checked again. "Oh oops, it isn't you. I called the wrong one. We have several of you by that name."

Sorry, wrong door.I kind of knew it was a name issue, because I've dealt with the name thing quite a few times. I once had my door kicked in by the Feds, looking for someone else with the same name. Luckily, one of the agents knew me and said I was "not the one they were looking for." That was a "thank God my Daddy knows everybody" moment, to be sure. I didn’t want the identity mishap to be discovered after I was already property of the CLIC, (Chief Lesbian in Charge at the jail.) Anyway, finding that I was not the one needing the pelvic ultrasound and biopsy was quite a relief. I went from, "Oh, holy shit" to "Thank you, Jesus" in the span of the thirty seconds it took the nurse to realize I was "not the one." Isn’t it funny how a non-church goer can turn so blasphemously religious in moments of panic and redemption?
Friend or Foe?I spent most of the afternoon sitting here wondering if there wasn't really a mix up and it was me who needed the biopsy. What else have they mixed up? Are all our files jumbled together? Should I go get checked again, just to be sure? In the meanwhile, I’m heartsick for the other woman who has my name and is in need of a biopsy —— and then I feel her fear, the empathy tearing at my already hormonally unbalanced brain. I love and hate that I feel so much, that I can so keenly imagine pretty much anything and be swept away in the emotion of the moment—and that’s on a good day. Being able to do that was the basis of my theatrical career and is an asset to my writing. The world needs people like me, who feel very deeply the suffering of others. But then nature comes along and adds its complications to the mix. This midlife hormonal shift is kicking my ass and the empathy that was my friend is now the foreseer of gloom and doom for us all. My mind is my worst enemy and my best friend. It imagines stories people like to read, but it also makes up SHIT for me to worry about. I just keep mumbling to myself, "Count your blessings. Count your blessings."
Deb, poor thing, I know she hopes this emotional storm plays itself out soon. I think I can hear her over there on the couch mumbling, “This too shall pass. This too shall pass.” 
[Post Script: I am the patient of a menopause specialist. This fact was very obvious when the nurse called back, before she went home for the day. She wanted to reassure me that I was not the one in need of the procedure. That just goes to show that she is aware the patients she deals with are hormonally challenged and subject to dwell on something like this all night, until they are forced to drive to the office, where they will be found at dawn in a panic waiting in parking lot to resolve the identity issue, DNA kit in hand.]



Famous Faces of MenopauseRejoice in five famous faces of menopause and discover how these women handled this "dreaded" stage in uplifting ways.http://www.healthline.com/health-slideshow/menopause-celebrities 

Claiming My Space and the Right to Stand There

I need to clear up some things, some notions resulting from misinterpretation of things I’ve said. This is how I truly feel, not what someone else told you they think I said. True confessions, horses mouth, and all that – here is what I think and why I think that way.

I taught Theatre Arts in both university and high school settings. This leads people to surmise that I like all Theatre Arts. I have two degrees in the subject and worked in the field professionally – both on stage and behind the curtain. Even with that background, I have to confess that I am not a fan of Shakespeare. Oh, I absolutely comprehend what the work attributed to “Shakespeare” (please hold your theories, I’ve heard them all) contributed to the theatre arts. Shakespeare created theatre for the masses, a voice of the people, a stage to tell tales and record histories, spread laughter, all while dressing the truth in fiction and thumbing noses at the powers that be. Great stuff from “The Bard.” But I’d rather see an adaptation of his work, like West Side Story, than the original Romeo and Juliet. It’s a matter of personal tastes, different palettes painting the same story. In visual arts I prefer Andrew Wyeth to Picasso, but they are both masters in their own right. My preferring one over the other does not make one less than. They all deserve their spaces in the halls of art appreciation. Oh yeah, I taught a Humanities class, as well.       I studied theatre arts from its beginnings at the campfires of ancient peoples to its modern manifestations. I found much of the Theatre of the Absurd tedious and really what was the point, which was their point – to prove there was no point. I understood the value of learning about each segment of theatre history and all that it brought to the table. Each time period and movement added its flavor to the punch so to speak. The modern theatre world dips from that punch bowl and tells the same stories Shakespeare told, just as he told the tales of the Romans, and they the Greeks before them. We’re still telling the same stories. I prefer to see those old plots played out in contemporary American drama, with a bit of history and mystery thrown in the mix. That’s just the kind of theatre I like, it’s also the type of fiction I like to read. It doesn’t make me wrong or right, nor does it make those that prefer other forms of theatre and literature inferior or superior. We all like what we like. There’s a great line from a Sondheim song, “All they really like is what they know.” Yes, I’m that reader; I like what I like and I read what I like. Don’t tell me that I’m missing out by limiting myself. I want to read what I want to read. Don’t judge my single-mindedness on this. I celebrate the wide variety available to those who choose to read in many genres. Like the wife I’ve been married to for twenty-five years, I found what makes me happy. I don’t have to look any further. Please, validate that experience as much as I validate another’s right to try new things.


When I go looking for books online, I generally look for authors I already know, or have been recommended to me by someone whose opinion I value. I look at the books people buy who also purchase the same books I do. I look in the genre listings, like mystery or suspense/thriller. I’m generally safe when sticking to like-minded authors and readers. I’m rarely disappointed, but then I go to the lesbian fiction category and all those indicators go out the window. I can look under lesbian fiction-mystery, but it’s potluck whether I’ll get a well-written story or a sex romp between the clues. It’s not that way over in mainstream mystery, so why is it that way here in lesbian fiction land? This leads to something else I need to explain. Like theatre, literature with lesbian characters comes in varied forms and genres. As with theatre, I don’t like it all, but that doesn’t mean I think the rest of it is rubbish. It’s just not my cup of tea.
I’ve been accused of being a prude, or at the least unenlightened. My wife and close friends would disagree, but then they know me and most people only know the public me. But just so there is no misunderstanding, I will express my opinions about sex publicly. This is simply the truth of how I feel about sex and my sexuality. In my house, there are some things that stay private. That’s just who we are, not what we expect everyone else to be. I will not be found discussing my sex life in public, and to be honest, I find people that do to be disrespectful of their sex partners. The bondage folks and erotica enthusiast are always talking about “trust” as a big issue with sex partners, learning to trust and let yourself be free of hindrance in your sexual experiences. I wholeheartedly support that. Explore and be free, allow yourself to be vulnerable in your consensual sexual experiences, in a safe and trusting environment. But, how much trust can there be when the woman you let yourself go with then proceeds to the nearest social media site or phone to discuss all the “hot” things she did with you last night? I also find a group of giggling, blushing, grown women cracking jokes about wet parts and dildos, as much fun as a dentist appointment. Can we have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around or devolve into what makes one “hot?” Is it necessary to make sure everyone in the room knows that one has had sex, that it was “hot,” and that given the opportunity it will be “hotter” next time. And can we get a word for a gratifying sexual experience other than “hot.”
I also feel that having sex with a woman does not a lesbian make. There is much more to my lesbian identity than the reproductive organs of my sex partner. I find the sexualization of my being a lesbian a tired stereotype. Yet, many lesbians don’t mind feeding the myth that we are only sexual beings, with no further drives than carnal ones. To me, there is absolutely no appeal in sitting around talking about sex like teenagers in a high school locker room.  I'm not judging you if you do, but don't expect me to hang around. Really, my friends and I talk about raising kids, getting old, politics, social issues, but rarely do any of us talk about sex. It’s not that we don’t have sex and enjoy it. We just do a lot of other things too.
Some lesbians will say they have earned the right to objectify women, to talk about sex any way and anywhere they want, and to wear their sexuality like a badge. Here, here, demand your space, ladies! I only ask that you allow me my space to be a lesbian as I see fit. One size does not fit all. I celebrate the diversity among lesbians, but my inclusion in the group does not mandate that I believe and behave in a prescribed manner or follow the splinter groups into the fragmented quagmire of lesbian feminism. These are my personal beliefs about sex and the role it plays in my lesbian life. They have nothing to do with how I feel about the way lesbian literature is labeled.
The lesbian fiction literary category is a complete mess. No one has any idea what he or she is buying, and don’t kid yourself that the boys aren’t in there buying it too. I take that back. Bless the hearts of those unabashed erotica writers and the titles that leave no doubt that theirs is a book meant to titillate. Contrary to some rumors, I am not out to remove sex from books in the lesbian fiction category, nor do I have my head in the sand. I know erotica is selling these days and erotic romance is burning up the sales counters. This is nothing new. It comes in cycles and has been around since the first ancient libraries were built. Just as I studied the theatre genres, I also studied literary genres. I learned to appreciate why each literary genre existed, to recognize well-written examples, and make informed critical decisions without regard to personal tastes. (That is what a critique is. Unfortunately, most reviewers are not offering this type of critique, which makes them book reviewers, not literary critics.) I have read and appreciated literary erotica. I believe it is a valuable part of the human literary history, and deserves its place alongside all forms of erotic art. Sex is part of the happy healthy human experience. We should reflect that sex in our art and literature as much as any other aspect of human existence. How it is portrayed varies along with the audience that finds these variants appealing. As the French say, “à chacun son gout,” each one to his own tastes.
Erotica author I. J. Miller wrote a piece for Huff Books on erotic history http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ij-miller/an-erotic-history_b_3140977.html). He spoke of how titles like The Happy Hooker and Fear of Flying earned their mainstream success in the 1970s, “because of their intelligence and good writing.” He went on to say, “Thanks to the writers of the previous decade, if a book was erotic, well-written, and told a good story it would be marketed as a literary book.” Miller was careful to point to his own titles as literary erotica. He then calls attention to “loosely plotted, explicit erotic fiction focused mainly on titillation, usually found in adult bookstores located in the seedy part of town—” and now online. Read the blog. It shows me that erotica writers want very much to distinguish themselves from material they deem too sexually explicit to be included in their genre. I applaud his efforts and that of others to have the craft of erotica writing critiqued fairly. Like him, I hope that walk to the cash register for the soccer mom becomes less intimidating, with the “mommyporn” tucked under her arm. Miller’s word, not mine, and no one is calling him a prude. Erotica deserves its own proud space in the literary world.

Sylvia Day, Passionate Ink’s co-founder, (Passionate Inkis a Special Interest Chapter of Romance Writers of America for erotic romance writers,) makes this point to her fellow erotic romance writers in a blog post: “New readers who pick up a book with ‘erotic romance’ on the spine and later discover that they hold an erotica title without any romance will be upset. Will this affect their decision to purchase more erotic romance? Possibly. How will they know that the entire genre of erotic romance is not the same as that mislabeled book they purchased?” Day goes on to define the varying “heat” levels, from high to low, as porn, erotica, erotic romance, sexy romance, the last one being “basically a standard romance with hotter sex.” (Go to the blog post to see the detailed descriptions: http://www.sylviaday.com/extras/erotic-romance/.) There is definitely no one calling Sylvia Day, #1 NY Times Best Seller of Erotic Romance, a prude. Erotic romance deserves its own space on the shelves, as well.
If these two, and there were many others, who write erotica and erotic romance respectively, are asking to be given their own space in the literary world, are quick to point out what there work is not, and do not want their work mislabeled, then am I really being prudish to ask for the same considerations for my novels? Day encourages erotic romance writers to label their work as such. She addresses the issues of a reader being mislead by mislabeling or lack there of. That is all I have ever said about the lesbian fiction category and erotica. If it is an erotic romance, call it that. If it is erotica, call it that. All I want is for authors and publishers to call it what it is. I want that reader looking for sizzling pages of erotica to find that book. If she’s looking for the erotic romance, I want her to find that too. I don’t want the reader looking for a “standard” romance or mystery to instead find the sizzler, be turned off, and refuse to read another "lesbian fiction" book. Sylvia Day also said of educating the public about the differences in porn, erotica, erotic romance, etc., “. . . perhaps the distinctions between genres will become clearer and more readers will get exactly what they’re looking for in a “hot” romance.” There needs to be a clear indication – in the blurb, on the cover, in the meta data, in the tagging system, or in the book description – some clue as to what the book really is. My point is proved every day, as book blurbs pop up for new releases, books written by authors who are very proud to talk about how “hot” the sex scenes are in their books, and who trumpet the cause of the erotica writers' place among lesbian fiction, but nowhere in their book blurb do they indicate the sex will be detailed and plentiful. I find that dishonest.

Everyone points fingers at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and other distributors for how they lump all books with lesbian main characters, F/F sex, and basically anything outside of a heterosexual M/F sexual encounter into the lesbian fiction category. I do think they could do a better job of removing the obvious porn from our midst. Even the erotica writers don’t want to be associated with that, remember? I also think that the writers and publishers of novels that fall in the lesbian fiction category do little to help readers understand what to expect in sexual explicitness when buying our books. If the Passion Ink people don’t want a reader mistakenly grabbing erotica, while searching for an erotic romance, then I think I’m on pretty solid ground to want to make the distinction that my books are neither. I respect both Mr. Miller and Ms. Day for wanting people to understand what they write, to claim their space on the shelves of literary-dome, and not be confused with what they are not. I have only asked for the right to stand as a lesbian writer in the way that suits me and find my place on the literary shelves, where I have as much right as Miller and Day to seek my own easily identifiable authentic space.

The Silence of the Vaginas

My apologies to Layce Gardner for the title of this blog. You can find her blog, “The V-Word,” that prompted this response, here:http://laycegardner.wordpress.com/2013/04/24/the-v-word/
I know Layce was using her finely tuned sense of comic writing and I do try not to take myself too seriously, but alas, I am one of her "brouhaha" makers. The titles were funny and I did get a laugh. By the way, "The Devil Eats Vagina," that I spoke of in my post and that I believe Layce is referring to in her blog, was not on the best sellers page, but showed up in the kindle book search results for my name only, implying that the search engine had been tweaked to batch anything with the word lesbian together, or the tags had not been removed. (Tags were supposed to be removed by Amazon, because of misuse by authors tagging their books with best sellers’ names to draw readers. If you search for my name now, those books will not show up. Amazon addressed my complaint quickly and asked that I capture any further misplaced search results and report them.) This occurrence is a symptom of the problem. I was disappointed that with all the great Lesbian Fiction titles that could have fallen at the end of my list of publications, Amazon’s search engine inserted three titles that in no way resemble anything I write or would suggest to others. These titles don’t show up in my “people who bought these books also bought…” selections either. Most, not all, but most people who read my books are not reading “The Devil Eats Vagina.” Here is my issue—and it is not the existence of Lesbian Erotica or crotch shots on the covers—but being crammed into a one-size-fits-all genre. It’s the assumption that because it says lesbian in the book then it must be about salacious, gratuitous sex. I don't know about you, but "Teen Lesbians Love Cock" is not something I want showing up in search results for my name. I suppose I'd feel the same if it said, "Teen Lesbians love Vagina." That's not the type of literature I read or write. It’s not the type of Erotica women I deeply respect write either. Yes, I said respect. It takes skill to write erotica well, a skill I do not possess. Again, my complaint is not with Erotica. I don't want my name associated with the “Love Cock, Eat Pussy” books. Is it true you can tell the difference between porn and erotica by the type of music playing in the background, or was that the lighting? I can never remember. If it's porn, it's porn—just because it is lesbian porn doesn't mean I have to like it; just like being a lesbian doesn't automatically make someone a good athlete. A non-athletic lesbian should not be thought of as less than a true lesbian, any more than my not liking Lesbian Erotica or porn makes me unworthy of true lesbian status. I swear I hear seventies “Chicka Bow Bow” music in the background. The word Vagina doesn't bother me a bit. In fact, I’m rather fond of the word and the noun it names, one in particular. I am not the sex police. Read and write what you please. All I ask is that a dialogue open concerning Erotica being categorized as Erotica, and that porn trash find a home somewhere other than the lesbian fiction search results. Having a divided system of classification in mainstream publishing has not hurt Erotica sales. Look at 50 Shades—it was listed as the #1 Best Seller on the NY times list, but still clearly labeled Erotic. It was not, however, popping up when one searched for John Grisham novels. Lesbian Erotica doesn’t pop up when you search for Patricia Cornwell novels, and she is a lesbian and has lesbian characters in her books. It doesn’t show up when you search for Fannie Flagg, Rita Mae Brown, Dorothy Allison, and Sarah Waters. Something is amiss here. It’s worth pondering if these authors purposely distance themselves from the Lesbian Fiction genre, and if so, why?Let’s just take the word lesbian out of the equation. Now we’re just talking Romance, Mystery, Thriller, Paranormal, Erotica, etc—categories that tell the reader exactly what to expect. It would be just as wrong for me to label my books as erotic. Someone seeking erotic material would be very disappointed in my writing style. That would be dishonest of me. And the few that have expected more gratuitous sex from my books have complained loudly in reviews that there wasn’t enough sex to be called a lesbian book. It seems there is a question as to what a lesbian book should contain. I think clear labels could take care of misunderstandings. I clearly label my Thriller series, so as not to confuse readers of my other styles of writing. Still, some people ignore the blurbs and press on to find themselves in a bloody murder. They are not happy. I go out of my way to let people know what to expect because of this. I don’t want people to be unhappy. I want that erotica reader to be able to find that clearly labeled erotic novel. I want the romance reader, who does not like erotic sex scenes in her books, not to be turned off by a mislabeled erotic novel and dismiss all lesbian fiction as such.People say Vagina in the title sells—Yep, they're right, sex sells, but other types of books sell too. I had 3 titles in the Amazon Lesbian Fiction top twenty the other day, which have very minimal sexual content, appropriate amounts, but not erotic by any means. In fact, only 2 titles in the top 20 at that moment were Erotic in nature, or at least the covers and titles did not suggest that there were more, demonstrating that many readers are buying the non-erotic covers, titles, and content, as well. I'd say my success in this genre, and that of other authors, clearly points to lesbian readers looking for a wide variety of books, including those that do not revolve around vivid descriptions of the sex lives of the characters. No one has suggested that sex is a bad thing or should not be a part of lesbian fiction. Just like the books are divided under the main heading of Lesbian Fiction—Romance, Mystery, Sci-Fi., etc—there should be a clear distinct listing of Erotica. Who decides what is Erotica? If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck. It really isn't that difficult to tell the difference between Romance and Erotica. And I’m willing to concede that this genre likes its romances very steamy. Still, my not so steamy romances sell too. I’m pretty sure we all know the difference between Erotica and Romance, and if not, ask an Erotica writer. They should be able to tell you.I'll take the friendly poking and the implied "prude" label in stride; because yes, some of us do want to be taken seriously, not only as writers, but also as lesbians and women. I am a sexual being. Sex is happily a healthy part of my relationship. It is not, however, all that I am and all that I stand for. I'd like the world to see lesbians as everyday people—not just sexual beings, but human beings. I have been doing a lot of research on the lesbian evolution through the years and one thing sticks out—lesbians love to pick sides and decide who is and who isn’t demonstrating appropriate lesbian behavior. I’m sure some folks think I’m not very lesbianese, because I don’t want to read erotic sex books or chat about my sexual fantasies in open forums full of grown women giggling like middle-school girls. Surely there must be something wrong with me, right? No, really, I’m fully lesbianized—I just have a different tolerance for what I deem private, or appealing. I don’t judge—so why am I judged for not wanting to be associated with “The Devil Eats Vagina,” a title I expect to see on a Westboro Baptist Church protest sign, right beside “God Hates Fags.” My momma always said, “If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.” It was her way of saying you only have one name and one reputation to protect, be careful where you make your bed.Ann Bannon and others like her are celebrated for taking the soft-core porn that was lesbian pulp fiction (the majority of which was written by straight men for straight men,) and attempting to treat the characters with more humanity and truth in the tales, as much as the censors allowed them. Dorothy Allison said of Ann Bannon, “Her books come close to the kind of books that had made me feel fatalistic and damned in my youth, but somehow she just managed to sustain a sense of hope.” Salacious lesbian antics sold and happy endings were not allowed or were carefully slipped between the lines in order to subvert the censors. Ann Bannon threw a lifeline to so many, because it was all the lesbian in a small town could know of others like her. The lesbian pulp fiction industry faded away around 1969, when women took to the presses to tell their stories, wrestling control of the lesbian voice from men. I get that it is important that we be allowed to represent ourselves as sexual beings, celebrating lesbian sex and vaginas in our art, music, written word, etc. I am not asking for censorship of any kind and I am not slinging arrows at Erotica writers. Again, read and write what you wish. I am simply asking for clear product labeling and the removal of the assumption in search engines that if it says lesbian then it should all be together in one category. We are more than what takes place in our bedrooms—or any other place we’ve decided to get busy, because after all, forbidden is fun—and we should be allowed to celebrate the parts of our lives that are not sexually motivated. We've graduated from hiding our real selves between the lines of lesbian pulp fiction pocket-books. Our literature should and does reflect that. It’s time we were willing to admit that there is a place for lesbian literature that does not revolve around our Vaginas. I know sex sells. Watch how my contribution to Layce’s titles, "The Silence of the Vaginas," gets my blog re-tweeted. 

It's "Fanbloodytastic"

This is the third in the award winning Rainey Bell Thriller series, following Lambda Literary Award Finalist Rainey Nights. Each book is stand-alone. It does help to read them in order, but it is not necessary. In The Rainey Season, former FBI behavioral analyst Rainey Bell has settled into her life as a wife and mother with Katie Myers and the triplets. Consulting and private investigative work occupy the time not taken up with the one-year-olds crawling around her ankles. As always, her eye is on the security of her family, because Rainey knows is out there and that it is probably watching her. Rainey may be paranoid, but she’s generally right. If it feels wrong, it usually is.    Buy at Amazon.com     Buy at Barnes and Noble

Pecans, Texas, Birthdays, and Destiny

(Follow me; it may be hard, but give it a try.)
I love pecans. I have always loved pecans. My grandparents had several giant pecan trees in the yard. There were always pecans on the coffee table, and this fantastic little pecan cracker that I spent many hours operating. I would sit happily shelling pecans for Grandma, stuffing paper sacks with nature’s candy, a squirrel’s dream and mine too. Cooked, raw, in pies or cookies, fresh off the tree, it really doesn’t matter how they are presented; I love pecans. There are little containers of pecans all over my house right now. Did I mention I love pecans?
(Major missing segue – but you’re still here, so that’s a good sign.)
I had a fascination with Texas from the time I could talk. Not sure if it was the steady diet of westerns I fed on or the fact my dad was doing rodeo stuff back then, whatever the link, I loved the cowboy way. This fascination followed me through the years. I remember meeting a friend’s mother for the first time and my jaw dropping. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen and she had huge hair. She was beautiful, tanned, and drawled Texas so thick; her “Pam” came out more like, “Pa-yam.” I loved Miss Joan. She was everything I ever thought about Texas rolled into one tall, big-haired beauty from just outside of big D. That’s Dallas in case you didn’t know, (sing it - big D, little a, double L - A, S.) Yep, loved me some Texas.

I have just discovered that these two things are related, my love of pecans and Texas, and are part of my destiny. It’s my wife’s birthday today. From the very first time I spoke to her, I sensed I had known her my entire life and many more lives before this one. People say we appear as two pieces of a puzzle, like we were made for each other in the giant puzzle factory in the sky, a matching set. My attraction to her was instantaneous. I have often wondered about that. Why, after years of ignoring and dismissing an attraction to women, would I suddenly say, “Yep, this is the one. This is the one for whom I will lose everything and gain so much more in return. This one will change my life.” And she did.
So how does my love of pecans, Texas, and a blue-eyed girl from Oklahoma prove there is such a thing as fate? Searching the 1956 headlines in the small town where my wife was born, I came face to face with my destiny. I knew the first time I heard my wife’s mother speak that I was honing in on something. When she says Deb’s name, it sounds like, De – yeb. Then I see the claim to fame of the little patch of earth southwest of Dallas, not far from Waco, where my wife was born. Yep, this was destiny – San Saba, Texas, Pecan Capital of the World.


I think that girl deserves a pecan pie for her birthday, don’t you? 

Coming out of the Woods

Recent events led to this letter. I have rarely talked about this incident. I am doing so now in the hope that it helps someone, somewhere. After forty-four years, this was a long time coming.


To my molester:When I was seven years old, a group of you took me to the woods and molested me. Your deeds were discovered, but not because I told. I remembered the threats, so I kept quiet, but I wasn’t your only victim and you were all eventually found to be molesting more than one of the youngsters in our neighborhood. “Young adolescent boys being boys,” they said. “Don’t talk about it,” they said. “You must have done something,” they said. And in typical 1960’s fashion, the stain was covered with an area rug, like the spot where Uncle Joe spilled the wine at Christmas. If it couldn’t be seen, then it never really happened.To my credit, even though I felt like damaged goods in my parents’ eyes, I instinctually did what it takes some victims years of therapy to accomplish. I moved on with my life and never really gave the incident much thought. Sometimes I would wonder why I didn’t think about it, why I was able to dismiss those memories completely. To this day, I only remember walking in the woods and the aftermath of the discovery of what happened under those tall pine trees. That’s really the part that sticks out, the aftermath, the shaming. See, it wasn’t what you did that hung around for years. You were all a bunch of sick, stupid teenage boys, who should have received what was coming to you, but you didn’t. Back then the shame brought to the victims’ families overwhelmed any need to get justice for them. So, “the boys” skipped away free, while the victims carried the burden of “keeping the family secret.” It was never discussed again, NEVER. That is until I came out of the closet. My mother wanted someone to blame for my being a lesbian. Guess what, she blames you. I find that amusing. Being a lesbian is the one true thing I do know about myself. It has nothing to do with “man hating” or the trauma experienced by a seven-year-old-girl. I loved several boys and later men, married, divorced, and raised an exemplary young man. I simply found my soul mate in a woman, and discovered the missing link in my life. Really, my mother gives you way too much credit, and I certainly give you none for the best thing that ever happened to me. Finding me had absolutely nothing to do with you.Still, my mother cannot let go of the blame game. She has to have a reason for her daughter being a lesbian. It certainly can’t be something natural, there must be an explanation, and it can’t come back on her. So, for more than twenty years, since discovering I was gay, she has searched for answers and finds them in blaming you. She runs into some of you from time to time. She likes to call and tell me when she does. Now, the thing we NEVER talked about is her obsession. She wants me to be angry. She wants me to walk into your offices and let fly with the accusations. (By the way, I see you still run in a pack, with a few exceptions. Nice political positions some of you have, too. Sure would be a shame for people to know what you did. That next election or political appointment might be hard to pull off.) Besides the fact that the statute of limitations ran out years ago, I think it’s just too little too late.The time for marching up courthouse steps was forty-four years ago, when standing up for a little girl’s dignity would have meant something. Fortunately, that little girl stood up for herself. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are and what you’ve become. I did just fine, and never give you a passing thought, until my mother calls with another sighting. I look back now and know that the thing that affected me the most was not what was done to my body, but what was done to my self-image by those who let me think I was damaged goods. What you did, well, I hope you can live with that. What the people that were supposed to help me during the aftermath did, well, I hope they can live with that too. What I did, learning to depend on me and only me, I most certainly can live with that. My father apologized to me, just three years ago. He’s had time to think about how the incident was handled. He’s very sorry, now. I just told him, “No big deal,” and walked away. See, the time to have talked about it passed long ago. The little incident you experienced with my mother the other day, her innuendo in front of your wife and kids that she knew your deepest secrets, the way you flushed white and the joy it gave her – I get no pleasure from that. It makes her feel better to call you out now. I would have preferred she called you out forty-four years ago, when it mattered. You don’t matter at all to me now.So why am I writing this to you? Because somewhere somebody will read this and think twice before telling a child, “Don’t talk about it.” Maybe they will see that the trauma to the body is a passing thing. The trauma to the mind is not, and that emotional trauma is multiplied when you shame the victim. Maybe someone will step up and be a child’s hero, remind them that they’re worthy of love, and this bad thing that happened, it wasn’t their fault. Maybe someone will realize that being molested as a child can be overcome more readily than the aftermath of accusations and denial.I’m going to tell my mother to leave you alone. I’m going to tell her that this attempt to blame someone for my sexuality is ludicrous. I will tell her that your demons are yours to deal with, and hers she needs to own. The trip to the woods did not damage me as much as she’d like to think. The shaming in my own home was worse. Have a good rest of your life. I know it’s getting down to the wire for you. Make your peace. I have. I am not your victim, I am a survivor.