Kergan Edwards-Stout's Blog, page 27
November 7, 2011
"Arsenic and Old Lace, Pt. II: Revenge of the Grannies"
I had an odd encounter yesterday at church. Ever since news of my book got out, the Christian Women's Fellowship (a lovely group of sweet old gals who meet weekly to crochet, needlepoint, and quilt), has been asking me to come and talk to them about my novel, Songs for the New Depression.. While I've put them off, repeatedly, one of them cornered me this morning, and mentioned that she was recommending my book, which she had not yet read, to her book club.
Since then, all I've been able to picture is a string of elderly women falling dead, clutching their hearts in one hand and my book in the other.
Prior to this juncture, I'd felt fortunate to attend such a progressive and inclusive church, where being gay has rarely been an issue. Now, though, the prospect of this particular group reading my book makes me feel a bit ill-at-ease. While not erotica and clearly a work of literary fiction, there are still elements within that could easily be described as "racy" and in some cases "over the top."
And while I'd always intended the book to find a wider audience outside the LGBT community, I find myself facing some unanticipated thoughts: Is my inherent uneasiness solely based on their age and gender? Am I stereotyping them? Does my own uncomfortableness have anything to do with feeling shameful of my sexuality? Or am I simply equating them with my mother?
While my parents are aware that I've finally published my novel, I am not encouraging them to read it. Too often, growing up, I was left disappointed by them, as their critiques of my artistic endeavors were rarely supportive. After seeing a play I directed which challenged religion and long-held stereotypes of women (which went on to win the American College Theatre Festival's Best Play award) my mother said, "I feel as if you've joined the Mafia."
Clearly, if my mother disapproved of something as tame as that, I shudder to think what could happen if she actually read my novel. And yet others have pointed out that many older women have far different world views and experiences than my own mother, and that their takeaways cannot be predicted.
Ultimately, though, I didn't write the book for them. While those who have read it tell me they feel the themes are universal, it was my job to try to create a specific world, which feels entirely authentic, through which the lead character can navigate. And given that the lead is a gay man, living in West Hollywood, and struggling with issues around sex and love, to leave the sex part out would ultimately cheat both the character and the reader.
Still, I cannot help but envision a legion of older women, coming at me with knives and pitchforks, cursing me for opening their eyes into an unfamiliar world such as the one I portray.
And so, on this fine, cool, crisp morning, I find myself concocting a whole array of arsenal with which to battle the soon-coming marauding band of grannies. I've got marbles to trip up their walkers, a fog machine to blind them, and wrapped hard candy with which to distract them. And I'm telling you, they will not take me alive!
November 4, 2011
Looking for a Good Book? Try "Our Arcadia"
I first read Our Arcadia, by Robin Lippincott, several years ago and it has always stuck with me. A Virginia Woolf aficionado, Mr. Lippincott's first book was the lovely Mr. Dalloway, which — as its title suggests — imagines the life of Mr. after the passing of the more well-known Mrs. While I enjoyed Mr. Dalloway, Our Arcadia found a way into my soul, and every so often I pick it up to read again.
In Our Arcadia, Lippincott looks at the lives of 6 people sharing a house on Cape Cod in 1928. The central characters, Lark Marin and Nora Hartley, are seeking the answer to the question "How to Live?", which is perhaps why it resonates so deeply with me. I've often found myself searching for "home" and for "community", and the longing of the characters feels entirely real to me, following each as they look for their own individual answer to the larger question.
As the book cover suggests, there is something about Our Arcadia which reminds me of a watercolor. While there are some dramatic moments, the story is not told luridly, but by imparting key moments and details, often in muted hues, which ultimately come together to form the larger picture.
If you're looking for a light and frothy read, this would not be the novel for you, but if you're interested in something poetic and nuanced, Our Arcadia has much to offer. I highly recommend it.
November 2, 2011
Book Giveaway on Goodreads!
New Beginnings
[image error]As my book launches out into the great unknown, I contemplate the affect it will have on those who read it, as well as the corresponding effect on my life.
I'm grateful that a project that has gestated for as long as this one is finally out among the masses, and am hopeful that it has the desired impact. I want people to connect emotionally with the characters and, regardless of sexual orientation, see that our journeys are essentially the same. I also hope that I get to use my talents more often. But will it ultimately be "life changing"?
While that big picture answer will remain unknown for some time, internally, the simple act of "putting it out there" has already proven life changing. Allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is a huge risk, and yet the pay off can be substantial.
When I first met Shane Michael Sawick, I could've never foreseen the affect he and my experience with him would have on my life. There can be no doubt that, in the moment that I agreed to a single date, my life was forever altered. The little choices we make are just as important as the big ones, as they eventually impact our lives, altering our canvas.
[image error]As I was completing this post tonight, I got an email from a dear friend, whom I greatly admire. His favorite novel is James Joyce's "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man", and he wrote to tell me that he devoured my novel in one sitting, noting that my book "reminded (him) very much of Joyce, with more humor, and in (his) opinion is easily that quality."
We never know what impact our work or choices will have on others.
What do you want your canvas to look like? What impact do you want to have? When faced with options, do you take the familiar route, or venture outside your comfort zone?
Take the risk. Embrace new beginnings. It is the only way forward…
Songs for the New Depression is available now in paperback at BarnesandNoble.com, Amazon.com, and other fine book sellers.
This Year, Thanksgiving Comes Early
It's hard to express how I feel, being so close to the release of my debut novel, Songs for the New Depression. It has been over 12 years since I wrote the line which would go on to become the first sentence in the novel. When I wrote it, I had no idea of the journey which lie ahead.
At the time, I was in an entirely different relationship than I am now, did not yet have any children, and thought that my life's path would go very differently than it has. It is amazing how life has a way of shifting things — both events and perspectives — until we are on the right and best path forward.
As I write this, I am six days away from seeing the dream of being a published author realized. A wide array of thoughts and emotions are housed within me. I am nervous, hoping that the book meets expectations (both others and my own.) I am grateful, for both the support I've received and the positive reviews (so far!) I am exhausted, from trying to balance work/family/writing/life. I am energized, knowing that I am utilizing my skills. I am relieved, having this project finally come to fruition. And I am daunted by all that still lies ahead in terms of promoting the book — not to mention starting the next one.
This moment is so close, and yet feels so far away. I'm guessing that — when it comes — it will feel much like Christmas, when the build up far exceeds the day itself. Instead, I'm hoping it feels more like Thanksgiving, which somehow seems to linger and hover, the day elongating, whether due to full bellies, emotion, or tryptophan.
But unlike Thanksgiving, I'm really hoping this book release proves in no way to be a turkey.
October 27, 2011
This Year, Thanksgiving Comes Early
[image error]It's hard to express how I feel, being so close to the release of my debut novel, Songs for the New Depression. It has been over 12 years since I wrote the line which would go on to become the first sentence in the novel. When I wrote it, I had no idea of the journey which lie ahead.
At the time, I was in an entirely different relationship than I am now, did not yet have any children, and thought that my life's path would go very differently than it has. It is amazing how life has a way of shifting things — both events and perspectives — until we are on the right and best path forward.
As I write this, I am six days away from seeing the dream of being a published author realized. A wide array of thoughts and emotions are housed within me. I am nervous, hoping that the book meets expectations (both others and my own.) I am grateful, for both the support I've received and the positive reviews (so far!) I am exhausted, from trying to balance work/family/writing/life. I am energized, knowing that I am utilizing my skills. I am relieved, having this project finally come to fruition. And I am daunted by all that still lies ahead in terms of promoting the book — not to mention starting the next one.
This moment is so close, and yet feels so far away. I'm guessing that — when it comes — it will feel much like Christmas, when the build up far exceeds the day itself. Instead, I'm hoping it feels more like Thanksgiving, which somehow seems to linger and hover, the day elongating, whether due to full bellies, emotion, or tryptophan.
But unlike Thanksgiving, I'm really hoping this book release proves in no way to be a turkey.
October 21, 2011
The Person Behind the Fiction
As I get closer to having my book released, I think more and more about my partner, Shane, who died in 1995. While Songs for the New Depression is a work of fiction, the lead character shares a certain attitude with Shane, and elements in the story are pulled from my experience as caregiver. And as I approach this debut of my work, I felt it important to remind others that, while my book is fictional, there are thousands out there, like Shane, who died needlessly, far too young.
Following Shane's death, I found myself on a quest. He'd been meticulous in leaving copious notes of instruction on how to do just about everything, from closing his checking account, to lists of friends to notify, to notes on his memorial and what to do with his most-prized possessions. He'd thought through everything so well, been so prepared, and yet I found myself increasingly irritated by him.
As I searched the house, going through paper after paper, I couldn't believe that he'd been so zealous about the factual, the every day — the mundane even — and yet had not left a personal letter for me. Some communication of how he felt. Of what our love had meant to him. I was being selfish, I realize now, in expecting him to have put down on paper such feelings, and yet I found that I needed it — almost desperately.
Perhaps it was because, prior to his death, he hadn't been able to really communicate. Thoughts were garbled, then words were gone altogether. In the end, he couldn't even blink for "yes" or squeeze my hand.
We'd had a moment, before his speech had gone, where he'd been angry. I wasn't doing things the way he wanted — not understanding his needs. And while we'd patched things up, there remained a tinge of lingering doubt. Did he really hate me? Was he simply overwrought, lashing out? Or maybe trying to push me away to save me the pain of losing him?
And I hated him for leaving me. Yes, for leaving, and for being so damned fucking anal with his endless piles of instructions, and so thoughtless as to never consider a letter for me.
In the days after his death, I went through every drawer in the house. Read every letter and scrap of paper I came across. Looked in places, both obvious and not, where he might have left something.
And then I found it. A simple slip of paper, with a few scribbled lines, tucked behind some pages in his Day Runner. I had almost missed it.
Those few words, written by his own hand, were all I needed.
******
If you've ever seen the movie Spitfire Grill, you're already familiar with the concept of house raffles. In Yankee Magazine, which Shane loved, every so often there would be an ad for a house raffle. For a variety of reasons, people would ask for a small entry fee, along with an essay on why you wanted their house, and award the house to some lucky winner. Shane became fixated on one such house, and wrote the following, which gives a better sense of who he is than I could ever communicate.
I'd imagine that this essay may be one of the more unusual essays you receive. I'm quite sure most people who have entered this contest are looking for a place to live. A fair number may simply be looking to win the property in the hopes of making a killing by selling it right away. I, too, am looking for a place to live as well as hoping to increase my net worth by winning your beautiful home, but the reality is I may also be securing a place to die. I have AIDS.
I figured I might as well state that fact right off the bat. My guess is I may have instantly put myself out of the running with that little piece of information, but in the event I haven't lost you yet, I'll continue. I really do have a very good reason for entering this contest.
Two summers ago, eight friends and I rented a house on Linekin Bay in Boothbay Harbor for a week in August. Although I was born in the Berkshire Mountains and raised in New York's Mid-Hudson Valley, I'd never been to Maine. I'd been all over New England, but not to Maine. I was hooked. Absolutely obsessed. Ever since that visit, I've found myself constantly fantasizing about living there.
I know the average person may wonder why I'd be so willing to give up my life in sun-kissed Southern California for the seemingly less comfortable life of a northeasterner, and the fact is, I'm not sure I can explain it. It seems to me almost a spiritual thing. I've lived in Los Angeles for nearly 13 years. I've made quite a life for myself here – a large number of friends and acquaintances; a fair amount of professional success (nothing to brag about, but I take care of myself); a good deal of recognition for my involvement in community and volunteer activities, etc. – still, each year when I travel back east for a summer or winter visit, despite horrendous humidity or blistering cold and snow, I find it harder and harder to return to my digs in sunny Southern Cal.
Maybe it's because most of my family is still located in the northeast. My mother and younger sister both have homes in central New York State. I will admit, the thought of living nearer to them; of seeing them more that once or twice a year; of having them close enough that I could decide on a whim to visit them and be able to do it, is intriguing. Yes, having family closer may be part of it, but still there's more.
Could it be all of the friends that I left behind when I "went west"? It's true, I admit it, my deepest, "bestest" friends remain the friends I have "back east". Maybe because these are the ones I grew up with. Maybe just because they're from the northeast. See, I don't think I ever really became a Southern Californian. Oh, I've learned over the years to honestly love many things about life here in the west. Nevertheless, I still order most of my clothes from L.L. Bean. I hurry off to the nearby mountains each January at the first mention of snow. And each fall, when I know everyone in New York or Massachusetts or Maine is layering a nice shetland wool sweater over their corduroy shirt, I'm left to pine away, staring at my own wonderful collection of shetlands and raggs and Irish wools, carefully stored in cedar and mothballs, waiting for the one or two weeks I spend each year in climates cold enough to use them.
I was certain it would fade. That kinda little spot inside of me that missed the east. I was so sure that time in L.A. would fill it with new pleasures and interests. I was, in fact, partially correct. As I've already said, I don't loathe my life here. I have found new pleasures and interests, but there's still a part of me, that particular spot I spoke of a moment ago, that has never stopped yearning for east coast things. The first day of spring after a long, cold winter when you can leave the windows open for a hour or two in the afternoon. Those same long, cold winter days seen instead, as a blessing for providing a good excuse to stay inside with a book and a nice fire (of slow burning hardwood, incidentally, all we get in L.A. is pine!). The way lawns smell when they're mowed on a humid summer's day. And, of course, the sight of the same country road I took for granted all summer long, suddenly repainted with yellow and gold and red and orange in late October. It seems that after all these years here California, I still can't get over missing these things.
Not too long ago I had the good fortune to travel to San Francisco. A very lovely city, indeed, possibly one of the loveliest cities I'd ever seen. Something seemed to click. The city is older than L.A. and full of charming architecture something that Los Angeles definitely cannot boast. And they have weather in the "city by the Bay"! Believe it or not, sunshine day in and day out, the way it tends to be in L.A., gets old very fast! Yes, I really thought I might have found a solution to my increasing interest in leaving Los Angeles. I thought I might pack up and move north to San Francisco. But then a few weeks later, I made an extended trip to the east for Christmas. My trip included many things I've always wanted to do, but never had. I visited Stockbridge during the holidays; rode in a hansom cab through a snow-covered Central Park; visited some of the historic homes that line the Hudson Valley. I knew then that I wasn't going to find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I knew it was time to start looking into the possibilities of moving back east. Back home.
I realize I started this essay off with a bombshell and I haven't really talked about it yet, so let me return to that discussion. I'm not just looking for a place to live, I'm looking for a place to live what may be the most precious days of my life – the days I have left. The truth is, I'm really very healthy. I'm what's known as asymptomatic, which means I am infected and diagnosed with AIDS but to date, the diagnosis is mostly a technical one. In other words, I haven't had any major complications to speak of. I lead a basically normal life. However, I don't ignore the fact that this could change very quickly. As a result, like most people facing the possibility of a shortened life expectancy, I've examined the quality of my life and decided I'd like to make a few changes. The very first change I'd like to make is to leave Los Angeles and for all of the reasons I've already mentioned above, and a few more to boot, I'd like to leave Los Angeles for parts east. Northeast to be specific. And a lot less urban.
When I first saw your ad in YANKEE I must admit I didn't nibble. The prospect of actually winning a new home in the area of the country I longed to be in seemed beyond my wildest dreams! I don't have financial problems to speak of, but certainly obtaining a home without spending all of my savings would be an excellent way of keeping what money I have available for any medical expenses not covered by my health insurance. So after my "moment of truth" during my trip home this past Christmas, I took another look at your ad.
Let me take a moment to explain why I even chose to mention my having AIDS in this essay. I realize it was a fairly controversial thing to do. It wasn't necessarily to illicit sympathy. It was, in fact, because I figured the only way to win this contest was to have a very interesting essay and I don't think I'm creative enough to come up with anything that interesting unless of course it happens to be the facts. I took a shot that this would be the only essay you'd get from someone with AIDS and I guess I just hoped that that would help make it interesting. Besides, it's obviously the main reason -I'm so interested in moving at this time. How could I honestly write an essay on why I'd like to win a home in Maine and not mention the single most forceful reason I'm dealing with?
In closing, I'd like to address a question that I would imagine might be on your minds. You may be wondering what would happen if you were to award me ownership of the house and I should die in the not to distant future. I'm sure one of your objectives in putting this contest together was to insure that this place which has meant so much to you would end up in the hands of someone who would care for it as much as you have and hopefully for a long time. I'm certain I could care for the place very much, unfortunately, I can't guarantee for how long. And for that reason, should I win this contest, I would instruct my family to do two things if I die in the not-too-distant future: first, to make sure the house ends up with to someone who will care for it as much as you and I have – maybe by sponsoring an essay contest like this one; and second, I'd ask them to do something very special with whatever profits they may realize from the sale or surrender of the place. I'd ask them to give those profits to the AIDS charity of my choosing. In that way this place could go on to be a help to others with AIDS, and it would be cared for and looked after in a way that would provide you with some peace of mind, too.
Anyway, that's my story. If you've read this far, I thank you for being so generous with your time and open-minded in your considerations.
- Shane Sawick
If you have memories or stories of Shane Michael Sawick that you'd like to share, please leave your thoughts on the Tribute Page.
October 17, 2011
Found Objects, No. 1
Every once in a while I find things online that really move me, such as this. While searching for lyrics to a Mary Chapin Carpenter song, I stumbled on a website that a man made in tribute to his deceased wife. I thought his story, along with the poem he discovered, were well worth sharing with my dear friends. But he tells it better than I…
I was loved once, by an angel.
This is my tribute page to my late wife Beth since she isn't here to make her own. I hope she would approve. As you can see she was beautiful on the outside. She was beautiful on the inside too. And brilliant. So brilliant it could scare you but she never ever made anyone feel "small" in any way (except if they really deserved it).
I watched an Ally McBeal (repeat) recently. The episode where the older famous (now deemed incompetent) artist paints only his dead wife. If I could paint (like my brother), I would paint Beth over and over again too.
For all of you out there, maybe alone, and wondering if you'll ever meet your special someone, Beth and I lived in different states (me in upstate NY and she in NC) and "met" through a personals ad in the Mensa magazine. So you see, it can and does happen.
Beth died suddenly of a heart attack at the very young age of 44.
She wasn't one to keep things (sayings) on her wall but she had clipped this one and had it hanging in her office. I asked that it be read at her service and include it here in case you may find it relevant to your own life and whatever time is left you.
You never know, do you.
* * * * *
"If I Had My Life To Live Over"
by Nadine Stair, age 85
I'd dare to make more mistakes next time.
I'd relax. I would limber up.
I would be sillier than I have been this trip.
I would take fewer things seriously.
I would take more chances.
I would take more trips.
I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.
I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I'm one of those people who live sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I've had my moments and if I had to do it over again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to have nothing else. Just moments.
One after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day.
I've been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute.
If I had it to do again, I would travel lighter next time.
If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the Spring and stay that way later in the Fall.
I would go to more dances.
I would ride more merry-go-rounds.
I would pick more daisies.
More of his tribute can be found here.
October 12, 2011
Chaz Bono: The Sum of His Parts?
In all of the hubbub over Chaz Bono simply showing his face (and spiffy dance moves) on "Dancing with the Stars", I feel like something has been lost. He is talked about as if he were no more than a collection of body parts, put together at will. He has been demonized for making a choice that feels right to him and his emotional state — a state to which the rest of us are not privy. And yet the conversation, as dictated by the media, misses the main point: Chaz Bono, like him or not, is a person. A full-fledged, living, thinking, feeling human being.
That the comments made toward him are — in large part — derogatory is almost to be expected. (The show itself is basically a circus, anyway, just in fancier dress.) But by reducing the conversation to merely his physical state negates the other varied elements of his personae.
Many of us are afraid of those who are transgendered. We don't understand them or their choices, dismissing them as "weird" or "other." Yet we are all the same — creatures made by God (or your creator of choice), with a multitude of nuances, in incalculable varieties.
Within the gay community, there are many who believe that the transgendered should not be included within the LGBT umbrella, as being transgender is not an issue of sexual identity, but of gender identity. While I can see their point, and used to feel that way myself, as I evolve, I begin to see the bigger picture. It is not so much about gay, straight, bi, transgendered… It is about human.
One of the books which opened my eyes to this is the really terrific "Trans-Sister Radio", by Chris Bohjalian (author of "Midwives"). In it, he creates a character transitioning from male to female, and follows how that process affects not only the character, but those around him. It poses the question, if you've fallen in love with a man, how would your affection be altered — or would it — if that person transitioned to female?
By letting you into the character's world, we see humanity, in all of its forms, attempting to grapple with something as fundamental as identity. And following this particular character's journey brought me greater understanding and empathy for those on similar paths.
In life, I believe that it is our job to keep growing, to become whomever we're meant to be. That means following your passion. But how can you follow your passion if — at your very core — there is a disconnect between self-perception and biology? As Steve Jobs noted, our "time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life."
Be who you are. Own it, live it.
We have a transgendered child at our church, 7 year old Danann (featured in the video below), who is transitioning from male to female. While she has already experienced much discrimination in her few years on the planet, all I have to do is watch her happily singing with the choir to know that this is the right choice for her. And I need to support her, and all other transgendered, because — as the song notes — "Jesus loves the little children, All the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, All are precious in His sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world."
How can someone take one look at Danann — or Chaz Bono — and even think anything else?
October 5, 2011
A Letter to David Mixner
One of my heroes is David Mixner, who has been fighting for civil and equal rights throughout his career. His new book At Home with Myself will be released this month, which explores his time living in the rural town of Turkey Hollow, NY, and promises to be worth the read. (You can pre-order it on Amazon.) I follow his blog regularly, and find his work thoughtful, incisive, and always well-written.
A few years ago, he wrote a really touching piece on aging and loneliness in the era of hiv/AIDS, which I'm betting has ended up in his book. It moved me deeply, and I wrote a note back, which he was gracious enough to share with his readers.
In celebration of his new book, I offer my letter to you:
Mr. Mixner,
Just wanted to thank you for the elegant essay you wrote on your site about your home, HIV/AIDS, and loneliness. It truly was both beautiful and touching.
There was a time in my life where death was all around me. I worked and volunteered at AIDS Project Los Angeles, cared for my lover through his death, and watched numerous friends and acquaintances perish as well. Though at the time our community seemed solid, focused and galvanized, now very few of us seem to even "remember when." Not only is our focus gone, but the complacency we are left with seems a supremely unfitting tribute to all of those whom we have lost.
I would never have imagined that I could go from the life I lead then, to the one I'm leading now. Today, I am the adoptive father of two amazing kids, and my days are full of life and love and living. And yet even now, I know that my ability to parent is directly formed through my experiences as a caretaker for my lover and friends, guiding them to their deaths.
Few people in my life now seem to be able to connect with the emotions of such collective loss, acting instead as if it is something in some ancient history book. "Oh, yeah–I remember AIDS!" Have we lost the ability to connect with each other? Is the pain so great that we have just shut down? Is it denial? Apathy? Ignorance?
Several months ago there was a cover story in the LA Times about the NAMES quilt and how it now lays largely in a warehouse in Atlanta, gathering dust. And yet there is a woman there who tends the quilt, who has been there since that first day in SF with Cleve Jones. She works endlessly, patching and mending panels as they are returned from exhibits. She plays dance music to "her boys" as she works, often alone late at night, and wonders why people have forgotten.
I feel a real affinity for that woman. The pain and sorrow I feel for my losses at times seems almost unbearable. And then one of my boys will call out, and the moment is gone, replaced by a dull ache. As much as I want "life," it is essential to somehow hold onto this part of our past and carry it with us, so that those we've lost will live on in our memories…
We need leaders able to harness our collective pain and anger, and help us channel it productively in creating a better world.
Yours,
Kergan Edwards-Stout
