Larry Benjamin's Blog: Larry Benjamin's blog - This Writer's Life, page 16
July 9, 2012
Research & Writing
During a recent interview, one of the questions I was asked to answer was “Do you do a lot of research for your writing?” So I thought I’d answer that question in this week’s post.
I do research for my writing. I actually like doing research. It gives my creative mind a rest as I focus on details and cross checking facts, work out how what I’ve learned will fit into the story. Research can take many forms—sometimes I’ll just talk to someone who is of the era I’m writing about. You can talk to a doctor about a medical condition, or symptoms. Sometimes I find even memory can act as research. For the scene in which Thomas has to deliver a eulogy, I remembered standing at a podium and looking at a sea of mourners and that memory enabled me to write one of the most powerful scenes in the book: “.. I opened my eyes and looked at the faces in that church. Every one of them seemed stunned, exhausted. Grief-stricken eyes seemed to ask: How many more times? How many more will we have to bury before this is over?”
Not every story requires research, particularly if it’s emotional and heavily character driven. So, most of my short stories don’t require a lot of research. One in particular, “The Cross” did. It’s a story told through a series of letters and is loosely based on The Stations of the Cross. For that one I actually spent time in a church, looking at the stations, making notes and trying to figure out how each station could be represented by a letter. The serenity of the place, the somber colorful lights from the stained glass windows, the whisper of the priests’ vestments, all lent to the mood of the story, though those elements don’t appear in the story.
By far the most research I’ve ever done to date was for What Binds Us. During edits, my Carina Press editor, Rhonda Helms, suggested I include references to music to ground the story in its time period. That was actually a lot of fun as I went back and rediscovered forgotten hits, the old music resurrecting memories half forgotten. That research enabled me to discovered a theme song for Matthew and Thomas—Randy Crawford’s “Where There Was Darkness” which perfectly summed up the way each felt about the other.
Because I wanted a very specific feel for the book and wanted to create very distinctive characters, I did a lot of research on cars, settling on a 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk for main character Dondi, a 1946 Silver Wraith for Mrs. Whyte, and a Stutz Bearcat for maturing couple Thomas and Matthew. When Thomas first meets Matthew, Matthew is driving a Jeep, as matter-of-fact and low key as Matthew himself. For Colin, who lacked imagination, but not money, I chose the requisite Ferrari. Not only were the cars meant to help define the characters as highly individualistic, it also helped me visualize what the movie version would look like. (Yeah, I actually thought about how each scene would appear in the movie version as I wrote.)
When developmental edits required fleshing out the character of Mrs. Whyte, I researched female models of the 40s and 50s, discovered who the top designers and fashion photographers were. I learned that the first supermodel was Lauren Hutton. The term didn’t exist before then. And until then models were not exclusive. Which means Mrs. Whyte would have modeled for Balenciaga, Dior, Chanel―all the great houses. I used the research to capture that era and her life before the scandal threatened to ruin her—and her agency:
“Your mother was our top model. You should have seen her—she was this great, elegant, aristocratic beauty. She was mink and diamonds and chauffeur-driven Rolls Royces.” Clare’s voice had taken on the dreamy faraway quality of memory relived. “She was the model of the fifties. She was on every magazine cover. All the great photographers—Avedon, Irving Penn, Miller A. Green—they all photographed her. There was no doubt she had ‘it.’ To a certain extent every model has to have ‘it,’ that indefinable something. But she had it in spades. The only person I’ve ever met who came close to having what she had is Dondi.” She paused. “Then it all fell apart…”
By far the greatest research went into the AIDS crisis—even though it is not a large part of the story—particularly Thomas’ theory about how AIDS came into existence through a governmental conspiracy: “During the Nixon administration there was something known as the Special Virus Cancer Program. A bunch of government scientists, along with doctors from the Army’s biological warfare unit, worked on the genetic engineering of viruses. The thought was to identify a cancer-causing retrovirus…”
This was especially interesting because I’d done the original research when I first wrote the book 18 years ago when there were far fewer sources and no internet to speak of. Going back and researching again 18 years later, I was amazed by how much of his “wild” theory actually now was much more plausible. And finally research allowed me to quote history to help Thomas build the case for why his theory might just be fact:
“From nineteen thirty-two until seventy-two, there was an experiment in Tuskegee in which a group of poor black sharecroppers with syphilis were left untreated so that a group of government doctors could track the disease over the progression of their lives. These men had families. Lives. Many of them are still alive, in the last stages of the disease. That, Colin, is documented fact. Now, do you still think what Thomas is saying is so farfetched?”
I do research for my writing. I actually like doing research. It gives my creative mind a rest as I focus on details and cross checking facts, work out how what I’ve learned will fit into the story. Research can take many forms—sometimes I’ll just talk to someone who is of the era I’m writing about. You can talk to a doctor about a medical condition, or symptoms. Sometimes I find even memory can act as research. For the scene in which Thomas has to deliver a eulogy, I remembered standing at a podium and looking at a sea of mourners and that memory enabled me to write one of the most powerful scenes in the book: “.. I opened my eyes and looked at the faces in that church. Every one of them seemed stunned, exhausted. Grief-stricken eyes seemed to ask: How many more times? How many more will we have to bury before this is over?”
Not every story requires research, particularly if it’s emotional and heavily character driven. So, most of my short stories don’t require a lot of research. One in particular, “The Cross” did. It’s a story told through a series of letters and is loosely based on The Stations of the Cross. For that one I actually spent time in a church, looking at the stations, making notes and trying to figure out how each station could be represented by a letter. The serenity of the place, the somber colorful lights from the stained glass windows, the whisper of the priests’ vestments, all lent to the mood of the story, though those elements don’t appear in the story.
By far the most research I’ve ever done to date was for What Binds Us. During edits, my Carina Press editor, Rhonda Helms, suggested I include references to music to ground the story in its time period. That was actually a lot of fun as I went back and rediscovered forgotten hits, the old music resurrecting memories half forgotten. That research enabled me to discovered a theme song for Matthew and Thomas—Randy Crawford’s “Where There Was Darkness” which perfectly summed up the way each felt about the other.
Because I wanted a very specific feel for the book and wanted to create very distinctive characters, I did a lot of research on cars, settling on a 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk for main character Dondi, a 1946 Silver Wraith for Mrs. Whyte, and a Stutz Bearcat for maturing couple Thomas and Matthew. When Thomas first meets Matthew, Matthew is driving a Jeep, as matter-of-fact and low key as Matthew himself. For Colin, who lacked imagination, but not money, I chose the requisite Ferrari. Not only were the cars meant to help define the characters as highly individualistic, it also helped me visualize what the movie version would look like. (Yeah, I actually thought about how each scene would appear in the movie version as I wrote.)
When developmental edits required fleshing out the character of Mrs. Whyte, I researched female models of the 40s and 50s, discovered who the top designers and fashion photographers were. I learned that the first supermodel was Lauren Hutton. The term didn’t exist before then. And until then models were not exclusive. Which means Mrs. Whyte would have modeled for Balenciaga, Dior, Chanel―all the great houses. I used the research to capture that era and her life before the scandal threatened to ruin her—and her agency:
“Your mother was our top model. You should have seen her—she was this great, elegant, aristocratic beauty. She was mink and diamonds and chauffeur-driven Rolls Royces.” Clare’s voice had taken on the dreamy faraway quality of memory relived. “She was the model of the fifties. She was on every magazine cover. All the great photographers—Avedon, Irving Penn, Miller A. Green—they all photographed her. There was no doubt she had ‘it.’ To a certain extent every model has to have ‘it,’ that indefinable something. But she had it in spades. The only person I’ve ever met who came close to having what she had is Dondi.” She paused. “Then it all fell apart…”
By far the greatest research went into the AIDS crisis—even though it is not a large part of the story—particularly Thomas’ theory about how AIDS came into existence through a governmental conspiracy: “During the Nixon administration there was something known as the Special Virus Cancer Program. A bunch of government scientists, along with doctors from the Army’s biological warfare unit, worked on the genetic engineering of viruses. The thought was to identify a cancer-causing retrovirus…”
This was especially interesting because I’d done the original research when I first wrote the book 18 years ago when there were far fewer sources and no internet to speak of. Going back and researching again 18 years later, I was amazed by how much of his “wild” theory actually now was much more plausible. And finally research allowed me to quote history to help Thomas build the case for why his theory might just be fact:
“From nineteen thirty-two until seventy-two, there was an experiment in Tuskegee in which a group of poor black sharecroppers with syphilis were left untreated so that a group of government doctors could track the disease over the progression of their lives. These men had families. Lives. Many of them are still alive, in the last stages of the disease. That, Colin, is documented fact. Now, do you still think what Thomas is saying is so farfetched?”
July 2, 2012
Defining Marriage
What can I say at this moment? I love you? Thank you?
―those are but pauper words forming an impoverished language,
making it impossible to tell you what is in my heart.
Because of you, I am better than I was, more than I am.
Because of you, who I am now, is who I wanted to be.
Because of you, I am stronger than I used to be.
If I could, I would pull the moon from the sky and lay it at your feet.
If I could, I would give you a lifetime of sunny days and dreams that come true.
None of these are mine to give.
Instead I ask you to accept this ring―this endless circle of gold―which, like my love for you, knows neither beginning nor end.
With this ring, I promise to be your lover, your best friend, your life’s companion.
With this ring, I promise to walk by your side all the days of my life, bound and freed by our love.
Accept this ring, then kiss me and free me.
Last week the Mister and I celebrated our 15th anniversary. For fifteen years without fail, the Mister’s mother has sent us an anniversary card; she is only person who does so. As I read her card, I thought about how much this simple gesture of support means to us. That got me thinking about marriage.
We’ve been together fifteen years. Already we have outlasted 50% of all first heterosexual marriages and 25% of all second marriages. Yet our marriage isn’t recognized, is in Pennsylvania, where we live, and most states, not legal, is perceived by some as a threat to the sacred union between one woman and one man. I don’t intend to argue that point here but instead want to focus on what marriage—any marriage—is.
Mrs. Moon, Daphne’s mother on Frasier, once said famously, “You young modern people think marriage is some sort of promenade through paradise, when it's more like a march through Hell with a man strapped to your back and a litter of nasty babies swinging from your teats!” I love that particular rant of hers, though I think marriage is neither. So what is it? It’s his cold feet pressed against your warm ones on a winter’s night and you not pulling away even though you want to. It’s gently telling him, “No honey, you’re not dying; you’re hung over. Remember last night?” It’s having sex in the morning when you’d rather do it at night so you can fall asleep afterwards. In short, it’s gentleness, it’s compromise. It’s a willingness to commit to each other even though no societal pressure comes to bare. It’s a willingness to commit even though no law in the land supports or recognizes that commitment. It’s a promise between two people and only those two people.
As with Matthew and Thomas, the main characters in my novel, What Binds Us, the idea to get married sprang up organically. Though I’d written What Binds Us before the Mister and I started dating, it hadn’t occurred to me that we would get married. One night over dinner, he mentioned he thought we should get rings. I asked how he imagined us exchanging rings as I didn’t see us simply handing them to each other across the counter of Tiffany. He raised an eyebrow at the mention of “Tiffany.” “Okay so I only intend to do this once; I want a ‘good’ ring,” I told him. As a result I would only consider purchasing a ring from Caldwell’s, Bailey Banks & Biddle or Tiffany.
Ours was a simple ceremony—at home before less than two dozen friends and family—a far cry from the fairy tale wedding of Thomas and Matthew:
“Dondi had had the interior of the ruined church whitewashed and as the building filled with dusk, two hundred beeswax candles were lit, giving off a delicate peach glow. Two dozen delicate gilt chairs with red velvet cushions were lined up in neat rows. A neat, highly polished parquet floor had been laid over the dirt. A woman in frothy lace sat holding an oboe. Behind her were four tuxedoed men with violins. Ten thousand pale pink roses—an entire crop from Holland flown in that morning—gave the stark whitewashed space an air of magnificent opulence.”
In an example of art imitating life, the vows they exchange are the vows I wrote for my own commitment. One real couple, one fictional couple, one couple with great wealth, one couple saving to buy a house. Life and fiction were vastly different save for one detail common to both: “He slipped the narrow gold band on my finger as I looked at his beloved face, the contours and textures of which I knew as well as those of my own. I looked into his shining silver eyes and knew absolutely that I was loved.”
Yet to say that marriage is about commitment tells only half the story. Traditional marriage also carries with it certain rights and protections, which as gay men, we do not have access to no matter how committed we are, no matter how long we’ve been together. My mother does not speak to my brother’s wife. Yet my brother’s wife does not have to worry that if something happens to Michael, she will be denied her place at his bedside; she will not have to battle our parents for his remains, for the house they own together. My mother does not speak to the Mister. Why does he not deserve the same peace of mind my sister-in-law does?
―those are but pauper words forming an impoverished language,
making it impossible to tell you what is in my heart.
Because of you, I am better than I was, more than I am.
Because of you, who I am now, is who I wanted to be.
Because of you, I am stronger than I used to be.
If I could, I would pull the moon from the sky and lay it at your feet.
If I could, I would give you a lifetime of sunny days and dreams that come true.
None of these are mine to give.
Instead I ask you to accept this ring―this endless circle of gold―which, like my love for you, knows neither beginning nor end.
With this ring, I promise to be your lover, your best friend, your life’s companion.
With this ring, I promise to walk by your side all the days of my life, bound and freed by our love.
Accept this ring, then kiss me and free me.
Last week the Mister and I celebrated our 15th anniversary. For fifteen years without fail, the Mister’s mother has sent us an anniversary card; she is only person who does so. As I read her card, I thought about how much this simple gesture of support means to us. That got me thinking about marriage.
We’ve been together fifteen years. Already we have outlasted 50% of all first heterosexual marriages and 25% of all second marriages. Yet our marriage isn’t recognized, is in Pennsylvania, where we live, and most states, not legal, is perceived by some as a threat to the sacred union between one woman and one man. I don’t intend to argue that point here but instead want to focus on what marriage—any marriage—is.
Mrs. Moon, Daphne’s mother on Frasier, once said famously, “You young modern people think marriage is some sort of promenade through paradise, when it's more like a march through Hell with a man strapped to your back and a litter of nasty babies swinging from your teats!” I love that particular rant of hers, though I think marriage is neither. So what is it? It’s his cold feet pressed against your warm ones on a winter’s night and you not pulling away even though you want to. It’s gently telling him, “No honey, you’re not dying; you’re hung over. Remember last night?” It’s having sex in the morning when you’d rather do it at night so you can fall asleep afterwards. In short, it’s gentleness, it’s compromise. It’s a willingness to commit to each other even though no societal pressure comes to bare. It’s a willingness to commit even though no law in the land supports or recognizes that commitment. It’s a promise between two people and only those two people.
As with Matthew and Thomas, the main characters in my novel, What Binds Us, the idea to get married sprang up organically. Though I’d written What Binds Us before the Mister and I started dating, it hadn’t occurred to me that we would get married. One night over dinner, he mentioned he thought we should get rings. I asked how he imagined us exchanging rings as I didn’t see us simply handing them to each other across the counter of Tiffany. He raised an eyebrow at the mention of “Tiffany.” “Okay so I only intend to do this once; I want a ‘good’ ring,” I told him. As a result I would only consider purchasing a ring from Caldwell’s, Bailey Banks & Biddle or Tiffany.
Ours was a simple ceremony—at home before less than two dozen friends and family—a far cry from the fairy tale wedding of Thomas and Matthew:
“Dondi had had the interior of the ruined church whitewashed and as the building filled with dusk, two hundred beeswax candles were lit, giving off a delicate peach glow. Two dozen delicate gilt chairs with red velvet cushions were lined up in neat rows. A neat, highly polished parquet floor had been laid over the dirt. A woman in frothy lace sat holding an oboe. Behind her were four tuxedoed men with violins. Ten thousand pale pink roses—an entire crop from Holland flown in that morning—gave the stark whitewashed space an air of magnificent opulence.”
In an example of art imitating life, the vows they exchange are the vows I wrote for my own commitment. One real couple, one fictional couple, one couple with great wealth, one couple saving to buy a house. Life and fiction were vastly different save for one detail common to both: “He slipped the narrow gold band on my finger as I looked at his beloved face, the contours and textures of which I knew as well as those of my own. I looked into his shining silver eyes and knew absolutely that I was loved.”
Yet to say that marriage is about commitment tells only half the story. Traditional marriage also carries with it certain rights and protections, which as gay men, we do not have access to no matter how committed we are, no matter how long we’ve been together. My mother does not speak to my brother’s wife. Yet my brother’s wife does not have to worry that if something happens to Michael, she will be denied her place at his bedside; she will not have to battle our parents for his remains, for the house they own together. My mother does not speak to the Mister. Why does he not deserve the same peace of mind my sister-in-law does?
June 25, 2012
I am Strong. I am Invincible.
I’ve been thinking about bullying a lot lately—partly because it’s been in the news so much. I read of the rising numbers of LGBT youth who are committing suicide or running away or otherwise giving up and I am saddened and baffled: How did I and others like me survive while today’s youth are not? And partly because I’m working on my next book, which I mentioned in my June 4 post, Inspiration Returns, and one of the lead characters, Lionel, is bullied throughout school.
Of all my characters, Lionel is the most like me. So, I’ve been trying to remember what bullying was like and how I got through it. It never occurred to me to tell my parents what was going on. I didn’t have a close friend to confide in. If my teachers noticed, they were largely silent. Except for one, who when he caught me and my friend Jeffrey walking outside school holding hands, called my parents in and suggested they put me in military school without telling them specifically why. They refused. Jeffrey’s parents, called in separately and apparently told the whole story, did not; I never saw Jeffrey again.
What I remember most from that time is silence. Everyone else’s. And my own.
All of this came back as I’ve been writing and has worked its way into “His Name was Jose.” Looking back at being bullied in school, Lionel writes:
“It had taken me a lifetime but I’d found my words, my voice. I’d learned early on that to respond, to deny, to explain myself was to cede victory. And that, I would not do; no one would gain dominion over me.”
I, myself, had gone silent in defense, refusing to acknowledge the hateful words: Braniac. Sissy. Faggot. Now, in retrospect, I realize I’d let them, those boys who I did not know or care about, silence me, take my voice away.
How did I get through? How did I survive? Oddly it was Helen Reddy and her anthemic "I Am Woman," that paean to girl power that gave me the strength, the courage to stay the course.
You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul
Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
Yes, I took comfort in song, words, for I had nothing else. Maybe that’s when I first came to believe in the power of words. Words, Helen Reddy taught me, had the power to help, to heal, to inspire.
In one scene when Jose, the young boy-hero, and his girlfriend, Janice come upon Lionel, he is on the ground surrounded by a circle of jeering boys. His books scattered on the ground, his pants torn, one taunting boy holds his glasses so he cannot see:
They hurled words like stones: "Braniac. Sissy. Faggot."
“Hey,” Jose shouted suddenly, “Hey!”I couldn’t see him through the circle of boys, but I recognized his voice, that deep, thunderous rumble.
“C’mon.” I heard his girlfriend say, “It’s just that faggot. This happens to him all the time. He’ll be fine.”
“My name is Lionel,” I wanted to shout. “You’ve known me since fourth grade.” Instead I remained on the ground fighting new tears.
Jose pushed through the circle of boys. “Leave him alone.” He must have seen my raw, naked face for he turned to the boy holding my glasses. “Are those his?” he asked, pulling them out of his hands. "Get!"
He crouched beside me; bouncing on the balls of his feet, he looked at my scattered books, my briefcase flung open, empty. His eyes went soft, dark with concern. “You okay?”
I smiled, nodded.
“Give me a tissue,” he barked over his shoulder. “Hey," he snapped.
“What?” Janice popped her gum, stared at him.
“Give me a tissue.”
She sucked her teeth, reached into her purse and handed him a single tissue as if it was her last dollar. He glared at her, dark eyes flashing. She relented, handed him a handful more. “Here,” he said, “Dry your eyes and blow your nose. We’ll walk you to the bus stop.”
Oddly decades later, it’s not the bullies I remember but the ones who didn’t pick on me, the occasional boy hero who actually stood up for me or at least called for a halt in the hostilities, who had the courage to say “Stop, This isn’t right.” While I don’t remember their individual faces or names, I remain grateful to them for speaking up. Stop. This isn’t right.
The years of torment and pain behind me, I have reclaimed my voice, and it’s a voice of pride, a voice of strength. And like Lionel, I found my words and my words, they flow like blood on paper, and Lionel rises from the ashes of the boy I was; Jose rises from the tomb of memory; together they soar, sing. I, this determined Braniac, sissy, faggot, who made it through to the other side of adolescence, will continue to use my hard-won voice. I will scream at the top of my lungs in the wilderness if I have to but I will not be silent. Not ever again.
Of all my characters, Lionel is the most like me. So, I’ve been trying to remember what bullying was like and how I got through it. It never occurred to me to tell my parents what was going on. I didn’t have a close friend to confide in. If my teachers noticed, they were largely silent. Except for one, who when he caught me and my friend Jeffrey walking outside school holding hands, called my parents in and suggested they put me in military school without telling them specifically why. They refused. Jeffrey’s parents, called in separately and apparently told the whole story, did not; I never saw Jeffrey again.
What I remember most from that time is silence. Everyone else’s. And my own.
All of this came back as I’ve been writing and has worked its way into “His Name was Jose.” Looking back at being bullied in school, Lionel writes:
“It had taken me a lifetime but I’d found my words, my voice. I’d learned early on that to respond, to deny, to explain myself was to cede victory. And that, I would not do; no one would gain dominion over me.”
I, myself, had gone silent in defense, refusing to acknowledge the hateful words: Braniac. Sissy. Faggot. Now, in retrospect, I realize I’d let them, those boys who I did not know or care about, silence me, take my voice away.
How did I get through? How did I survive? Oddly it was Helen Reddy and her anthemic "I Am Woman," that paean to girl power that gave me the strength, the courage to stay the course.
You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul
Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
Yes, I took comfort in song, words, for I had nothing else. Maybe that’s when I first came to believe in the power of words. Words, Helen Reddy taught me, had the power to help, to heal, to inspire.
In one scene when Jose, the young boy-hero, and his girlfriend, Janice come upon Lionel, he is on the ground surrounded by a circle of jeering boys. His books scattered on the ground, his pants torn, one taunting boy holds his glasses so he cannot see:
They hurled words like stones: "Braniac. Sissy. Faggot."
“Hey,” Jose shouted suddenly, “Hey!”I couldn’t see him through the circle of boys, but I recognized his voice, that deep, thunderous rumble.
“C’mon.” I heard his girlfriend say, “It’s just that faggot. This happens to him all the time. He’ll be fine.”
“My name is Lionel,” I wanted to shout. “You’ve known me since fourth grade.” Instead I remained on the ground fighting new tears.
Jose pushed through the circle of boys. “Leave him alone.” He must have seen my raw, naked face for he turned to the boy holding my glasses. “Are those his?” he asked, pulling them out of his hands. "Get!"
He crouched beside me; bouncing on the balls of his feet, he looked at my scattered books, my briefcase flung open, empty. His eyes went soft, dark with concern. “You okay?”
I smiled, nodded.
“Give me a tissue,” he barked over his shoulder. “Hey," he snapped.
“What?” Janice popped her gum, stared at him.
“Give me a tissue.”
She sucked her teeth, reached into her purse and handed him a single tissue as if it was her last dollar. He glared at her, dark eyes flashing. She relented, handed him a handful more. “Here,” he said, “Dry your eyes and blow your nose. We’ll walk you to the bus stop.”
Oddly decades later, it’s not the bullies I remember but the ones who didn’t pick on me, the occasional boy hero who actually stood up for me or at least called for a halt in the hostilities, who had the courage to say “Stop, This isn’t right.” While I don’t remember their individual faces or names, I remain grateful to them for speaking up. Stop. This isn’t right.
The years of torment and pain behind me, I have reclaimed my voice, and it’s a voice of pride, a voice of strength. And like Lionel, I found my words and my words, they flow like blood on paper, and Lionel rises from the ashes of the boy I was; Jose rises from the tomb of memory; together they soar, sing. I, this determined Braniac, sissy, faggot, who made it through to the other side of adolescence, will continue to use my hard-won voice. I will scream at the top of my lungs in the wilderness if I have to but I will not be silent. Not ever again.
June 12, 2012
Through Writing, I Hope to Soar.
The first sentence of the press release read: “Bold Strokes Books is pleased to announce the acquisition of Larry Benjamin's new short story collection, Damaged Angels, scheduled for release in 2012 from Bold Strokes Heatstroke Editions.” I was rushing to get ready to drive up to New York to visit my parents but the words held me in place, unable to leave. I just sat staring at the email. Of course I’d known it was coming—I’d signed the contract a few weeks before but still…
I’d been so worried about this one. I’d sent the manuscript out just after Carina Press released What Binds Us. This book was, I knew, very different from What Binds Us and that difference was deliberate. I’ve never been good repeating myself, at coloring inside the lines. Instead, I tend to soar when given room, freedom. I intended to soar with Damaged Angels, to discover new voices, new territories: “The 13 stories in this collection give voice to the invisible, the damaged: the drug addicts and hustlers, the mentally ill, the confused, and the men who fall in love with them…”
The first publisher I submitted Damaged Angels to politely declined it saying it was good but “too literary for our audience.” I was determined not to get depressed, would instead vet my next publisher more carefully. I decided to rewrite my synopsis when I sent it to Bold Strokes Books. Now—I don’t think I’m alone here —I hate writing synopses (I had to look up the plural of synopsis. Thank you dictionary.com). I mean really, I’ve written a book here that’s thousands of words long and you want me to summarize it in a few paragraphs? What’s up with that?
As always I wanted to write simply:
Dear [insert name of would-be-publisher]
I have written a book. It is quite a good book, I think, way too good to summarize in [insert number of paragraphs] so why don’t you just read the whole manuscript and let me know what you think?
Sincerely
[insert name of destined-to-remain-unpublished-author here]
Instead, I thought long and hard about how to explain these stories were borne of experience, of joy and pain, deep, unstoppable as the ocean? These stories were inspired by past relationships, some good, some not-so-good but from each I learned something—about myself, about him, about how the world around us operated. Out of experience comes learning. In the telling, I hope to teach.
I remember one early boyfriend repeatedly breaking my heart, back when it was still breakable, with his serial cheating. After one particularly tender reconciliation he rolled over and said, “You know I love you more than anybody else.”
Sensing a “but” I asked, “But?”
“You’re not good looking enough to hold my attention.”
Wait! My failure to be handsome was responsible his failure to remain faithful? That was an epiphany for me. I wasn’t handsome, never would be, but I was smart and kind and loyal. The relationship limped on for a few months and then I walked away. Not because I didn’t think he would stop cheating but because I didn’t care and I thought somehow I should. Years later he wrote me that he still loved me and wanted to give “us” another shot. He went on to write that this time around he probably wouldn’t cheat on me because “all my other boyfriends are dead.”
I wanted to write back, “I wouldn’t get involved with you, if you were the last man on earth,” but didn’t. I was seeing the Mr by then, which he knew, and wrote back and said I would never cheat on the Mr, “he deserves better than to be cheated on.”
And so do I.
As Nietzsche said (and Kelly Clarkson has no doubt immortalized),”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” So I’ll keep on living, hopefully getting stronger—and writing—until something, most likely my next synopsis, kills me.
I’d been so worried about this one. I’d sent the manuscript out just after Carina Press released What Binds Us. This book was, I knew, very different from What Binds Us and that difference was deliberate. I’ve never been good repeating myself, at coloring inside the lines. Instead, I tend to soar when given room, freedom. I intended to soar with Damaged Angels, to discover new voices, new territories: “The 13 stories in this collection give voice to the invisible, the damaged: the drug addicts and hustlers, the mentally ill, the confused, and the men who fall in love with them…”
The first publisher I submitted Damaged Angels to politely declined it saying it was good but “too literary for our audience.” I was determined not to get depressed, would instead vet my next publisher more carefully. I decided to rewrite my synopsis when I sent it to Bold Strokes Books. Now—I don’t think I’m alone here —I hate writing synopses (I had to look up the plural of synopsis. Thank you dictionary.com). I mean really, I’ve written a book here that’s thousands of words long and you want me to summarize it in a few paragraphs? What’s up with that?
As always I wanted to write simply:
Dear [insert name of would-be-publisher]
I have written a book. It is quite a good book, I think, way too good to summarize in [insert number of paragraphs] so why don’t you just read the whole manuscript and let me know what you think?
Sincerely
[insert name of destined-to-remain-unpublished-author here]
Instead, I thought long and hard about how to explain these stories were borne of experience, of joy and pain, deep, unstoppable as the ocean? These stories were inspired by past relationships, some good, some not-so-good but from each I learned something—about myself, about him, about how the world around us operated. Out of experience comes learning. In the telling, I hope to teach.
I remember one early boyfriend repeatedly breaking my heart, back when it was still breakable, with his serial cheating. After one particularly tender reconciliation he rolled over and said, “You know I love you more than anybody else.”
Sensing a “but” I asked, “But?”
“You’re not good looking enough to hold my attention.”
Wait! My failure to be handsome was responsible his failure to remain faithful? That was an epiphany for me. I wasn’t handsome, never would be, but I was smart and kind and loyal. The relationship limped on for a few months and then I walked away. Not because I didn’t think he would stop cheating but because I didn’t care and I thought somehow I should. Years later he wrote me that he still loved me and wanted to give “us” another shot. He went on to write that this time around he probably wouldn’t cheat on me because “all my other boyfriends are dead.”
I wanted to write back, “I wouldn’t get involved with you, if you were the last man on earth,” but didn’t. I was seeing the Mr by then, which he knew, and wrote back and said I would never cheat on the Mr, “he deserves better than to be cheated on.”
And so do I.
As Nietzsche said (and Kelly Clarkson has no doubt immortalized),”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” So I’ll keep on living, hopefully getting stronger—and writing—until something, most likely my next synopsis, kills me.
June 4, 2012
Inspiration Returns
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about how I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t “blocked;” I just wasn’t inspired by anything. The words simply were not coming. A few people posted not to worry because inspiration would strike when it was ready. So I waited. And tweeted and updated my website. And tweeted. A few days ago All Things Queer in South Africa (@AllThingsQueer.co.za) posed a question on Twitter: “How old were you when you first realised you're gay/lesbian/bi/trans/queer?”
I thought back to “the moment“ and quickly tweeted: “I was 12 & in 7th grade. He was the new kid. His name was Jose. He walked into 4th period music, smiled & changed everything”
Then I went on with my day. Except that tweet kept replaying itself in my head, tugging at me. Finally I picked up my notebook and wrote. That’s right, I wrote. For the first time in months, the words just came and kept coming. I wrote in the car on the way to a memorial service. I wrote in the car on the way to the movies. I was writing and remembering, trying to get the description of that first crush picture perfect.
I was 12 and in seventh grade. He was the new kid. His name was José. He walked into fourth period music, smiled and changed everything. Until that moment, I had believed I would grow up marry a “nice” girl, have a couple of kids and a cat and a dog and a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch because that’s what everyone told me boys did when they grew up.
José. Behind long feathery lashes, he had enormous wide-set dark eyes that bulged slightly from the smooth nut-brown of his rather narrow face. Thick lips parted over square white teeth. His cheekbones were high and sharp as a barber’s blade. He had a very pronounced Adam’s apple that made my heart beat faster every time I looked at it. He was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen.
His voice was rough, deep for a 12 year old, yet soft, like a shouted whisper. And he had a big laugh that started rumbling deep in his throat then suddenly burst forth through his lips falling suddenly around him, and you, in an avalanche of joy.
Staring at his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke, or more often, laughed, the movement mesmerizing, seductive as his voice, his words, I wanted to press my lips gently against it, feel its movement as words, laughter, his magic rose up. I decided I would marry him; we would adopt children and a cat and a dog and buy a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch.
I conspired to get him to notice me.
He was assigned the trombone. I had been assigned the trumpet but schemed and convinced the teacher to let me switch to trombone. Now, I cared not a whit about either instrument, my disinterest in both surpassed only by my inability to play either. But playing trombone meant I got to sit right next to him! Once in awhile he would reach out and adjust the position of my trombone thing—the part that slid in and out. I would look at his strong brown fingers with their crescent-shaped cuticles and clean flat nails and want to kiss each of those fingers.
The challenge in telling this story is to recreate a particular moment in time, to accurately describe the emotions of my 12 year old self at what was a moment of discovery, a life changing moment. I doubt he ever knew that I had a crush on him or that the simple act of walking into a new classroom and smiling caused me to redefine myself, to reevaluate every assumption I’d ever made about myself. Without meaning to, he’d shown me a door and I’d chosen, in that instant, to step through. I’ve never looked back at what could have been but wasn’t meant to be. Who I am now is who I needed to be.
I’m not sure what these words, these scratchings of memory, will turn into but I am confident that this will turn into something, that the story will reveal itself in the telling. Once again I will step through a door he opened.
Note: To read the slightly longer version of this story, see Larry’s Writing Lab on my website at www.larrybenjamin.com.
I thought back to “the moment“ and quickly tweeted: “I was 12 & in 7th grade. He was the new kid. His name was Jose. He walked into 4th period music, smiled & changed everything”
Then I went on with my day. Except that tweet kept replaying itself in my head, tugging at me. Finally I picked up my notebook and wrote. That’s right, I wrote. For the first time in months, the words just came and kept coming. I wrote in the car on the way to a memorial service. I wrote in the car on the way to the movies. I was writing and remembering, trying to get the description of that first crush picture perfect.
I was 12 and in seventh grade. He was the new kid. His name was José. He walked into fourth period music, smiled and changed everything. Until that moment, I had believed I would grow up marry a “nice” girl, have a couple of kids and a cat and a dog and a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch because that’s what everyone told me boys did when they grew up.
José. Behind long feathery lashes, he had enormous wide-set dark eyes that bulged slightly from the smooth nut-brown of his rather narrow face. Thick lips parted over square white teeth. His cheekbones were high and sharp as a barber’s blade. He had a very pronounced Adam’s apple that made my heart beat faster every time I looked at it. He was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen.
His voice was rough, deep for a 12 year old, yet soft, like a shouted whisper. And he had a big laugh that started rumbling deep in his throat then suddenly burst forth through his lips falling suddenly around him, and you, in an avalanche of joy.
Staring at his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke, or more often, laughed, the movement mesmerizing, seductive as his voice, his words, I wanted to press my lips gently against it, feel its movement as words, laughter, his magic rose up. I decided I would marry him; we would adopt children and a cat and a dog and buy a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch.
I conspired to get him to notice me.
He was assigned the trombone. I had been assigned the trumpet but schemed and convinced the teacher to let me switch to trombone. Now, I cared not a whit about either instrument, my disinterest in both surpassed only by my inability to play either. But playing trombone meant I got to sit right next to him! Once in awhile he would reach out and adjust the position of my trombone thing—the part that slid in and out. I would look at his strong brown fingers with their crescent-shaped cuticles and clean flat nails and want to kiss each of those fingers.
The challenge in telling this story is to recreate a particular moment in time, to accurately describe the emotions of my 12 year old self at what was a moment of discovery, a life changing moment. I doubt he ever knew that I had a crush on him or that the simple act of walking into a new classroom and smiling caused me to redefine myself, to reevaluate every assumption I’d ever made about myself. Without meaning to, he’d shown me a door and I’d chosen, in that instant, to step through. I’ve never looked back at what could have been but wasn’t meant to be. Who I am now is who I needed to be.
I’m not sure what these words, these scratchings of memory, will turn into but I am confident that this will turn into something, that the story will reveal itself in the telling. Once again I will step through a door he opened.
Note: To read the slightly longer version of this story, see Larry’s Writing Lab on my website at www.larrybenjamin.com.
May 29, 2012
Let’s Talk About Sex
Let’s talk about sex, baby. Specifically sex in fiction, by which I mean sex in my fiction. Hey this is my blog, right?
I came across a reader review in which the reader complained that all the sex in “What Binds Us” happens “off-page.” This seemed to annoy her greatly. So of course, I had to obsess about that comment and examine why the sex happens off page. That’s what umpteen years of therapy will do for you—force you to always review your actions and examine your motives.
I’ve always hated the term “homosexual” which seems to bring undue focus on sex, on the actual mechanics of how 2 people of the same sex bring each other pleasure, a pleasure that may or may not be an expression of love. I much prefer “gay” which, to me, gives better expression to what being gay means: being gay isn’t about sex, it’s about who you want to hold hands with, who you want to dance with at Prom. In "What Binds Us," both Dondi and Thomas are admittedly, hopelessly gay. Matthew on the other hand probably is gay only because he falls in love with Thomas. They are three very different men and each affirms, expresses his sexuality in a different way. For Dondi every sexual conquest is a shouted affirmation: Yes. I am. For Thomas, the earring in his right ear, loving Matthew is his affirmation: Yes. I am. For Matthew, touching Thomas, making love to Thomas is his affirmation: Yes. I love. And am loved in return.
I’ve read m/m romances where from the first hook-up the protagonists have incredible, mind-blowing, outrageous sex, night after night, two, three times a night and I’ve always been like…really? In what parallel universe? Don’t these guys ever go to work? Eat? They shower but that always devolves into more acrobatic sex. For this story it was important that Thomas and Matthew fall in love first, for desire to be born of that love.
So does all of this explain my reluctance to write details of my characters’ sex lives? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. With this book, I wanted readers, regardless of their sex or orientation, to be able to relate to this story, these characters, to see that love is love, that there’s more to love than sex. I wanted them to understand that there’s more to being gay than having, well…gay sex, that it’s more than a matter of what gets put where by whom. In short, this story was about love, not just passionate love but brotherly love, friendly love.
Do they have sex? Yes absolutely. And they have a great sex life, they are young, beautiful and in love, after all. But they have other things going on that interrupt that. At one point Thomas remembers wistfully: “It had been our habit to clean together on Saturdays. We would start at opposite ends of the house and meet in the middle in the double den, where I had my desk and Matthew, his piano. Often we would lose interest in cleanliness and instead make love, in the dust, under the piano or on the pile of dirty sheets by the laundry room door. Now, neither of us had the stamina for midday sex.” And what couple hasn’t experienced that deep exhaustion—from raising children, working too many hours, struggling to pay the bills, restoring an old house, or caring for someone who is ill? Yet the love continues and they soldier on picking up that thread of desire at some future date. And that’s the point: their love exists even without the constant stimulus of sex and desire.
As I was working on this post, I came across a tweet from my twitter pal Shoshanna Evers, a multi-published romance and erotica writer:
@ShoshannaEvers …How did I write 20K of an erotic romance and the characters haven't had actual sex yet? A spanking, nipple play, & a bj won't quite satisfy.
@WriterLarry A BJ doesn't count as actual sex?
@ShoshannaEvers …In a novella that's marketed as "erotic romance" readers expect the characters to have more sex than just a bj... ;) #pubtip
This led to a rather informative exchange between us. (Yes, Virginia you can have an actual conversation on Twitter.) She finally tweeted:
@ShoshannaEvers Gotcha. IMO sex in fiction is different from sex in erotica, where sex *is* the fiction, and moves the story forward.
So there you have it.
And lest you think I’m anti-sex or just a general lunatic, my next book contains on-page sex because, for those characters, for those stories, sex is a focus, a driver.
I came across a reader review in which the reader complained that all the sex in “What Binds Us” happens “off-page.” This seemed to annoy her greatly. So of course, I had to obsess about that comment and examine why the sex happens off page. That’s what umpteen years of therapy will do for you—force you to always review your actions and examine your motives.
I’ve always hated the term “homosexual” which seems to bring undue focus on sex, on the actual mechanics of how 2 people of the same sex bring each other pleasure, a pleasure that may or may not be an expression of love. I much prefer “gay” which, to me, gives better expression to what being gay means: being gay isn’t about sex, it’s about who you want to hold hands with, who you want to dance with at Prom. In "What Binds Us," both Dondi and Thomas are admittedly, hopelessly gay. Matthew on the other hand probably is gay only because he falls in love with Thomas. They are three very different men and each affirms, expresses his sexuality in a different way. For Dondi every sexual conquest is a shouted affirmation: Yes. I am. For Thomas, the earring in his right ear, loving Matthew is his affirmation: Yes. I am. For Matthew, touching Thomas, making love to Thomas is his affirmation: Yes. I love. And am loved in return.
I’ve read m/m romances where from the first hook-up the protagonists have incredible, mind-blowing, outrageous sex, night after night, two, three times a night and I’ve always been like…really? In what parallel universe? Don’t these guys ever go to work? Eat? They shower but that always devolves into more acrobatic sex. For this story it was important that Thomas and Matthew fall in love first, for desire to be born of that love.
So does all of this explain my reluctance to write details of my characters’ sex lives? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. With this book, I wanted readers, regardless of their sex or orientation, to be able to relate to this story, these characters, to see that love is love, that there’s more to love than sex. I wanted them to understand that there’s more to being gay than having, well…gay sex, that it’s more than a matter of what gets put where by whom. In short, this story was about love, not just passionate love but brotherly love, friendly love.
Do they have sex? Yes absolutely. And they have a great sex life, they are young, beautiful and in love, after all. But they have other things going on that interrupt that. At one point Thomas remembers wistfully: “It had been our habit to clean together on Saturdays. We would start at opposite ends of the house and meet in the middle in the double den, where I had my desk and Matthew, his piano. Often we would lose interest in cleanliness and instead make love, in the dust, under the piano or on the pile of dirty sheets by the laundry room door. Now, neither of us had the stamina for midday sex.” And what couple hasn’t experienced that deep exhaustion—from raising children, working too many hours, struggling to pay the bills, restoring an old house, or caring for someone who is ill? Yet the love continues and they soldier on picking up that thread of desire at some future date. And that’s the point: their love exists even without the constant stimulus of sex and desire.
As I was working on this post, I came across a tweet from my twitter pal Shoshanna Evers, a multi-published romance and erotica writer:
@ShoshannaEvers …How did I write 20K of an erotic romance and the characters haven't had actual sex yet? A spanking, nipple play, & a bj won't quite satisfy.
@WriterLarry A BJ doesn't count as actual sex?
@ShoshannaEvers …In a novella that's marketed as "erotic romance" readers expect the characters to have more sex than just a bj... ;) #pubtip
This led to a rather informative exchange between us. (Yes, Virginia you can have an actual conversation on Twitter.) She finally tweeted:
@ShoshannaEvers Gotcha. IMO sex in fiction is different from sex in erotica, where sex *is* the fiction, and moves the story forward.
So there you have it.
And lest you think I’m anti-sex or just a general lunatic, my next book contains on-page sex because, for those characters, for those stories, sex is a focus, a driver.
May 21, 2012
Holy crap, I need to write another book!
I haven’t written a word in weeks. There I’ve said it. Now if you’re a writer you’ll know how terrifying a sentence that is. Generally not writing doesn’t much trouble me—I’ve gone weeks, even months without writing a single sentence. Somehow though, 2 months post publication of my first book, I’m suddenly frantic.
I’ve gotten emails from readers telling me how much they enjoyed “What Binds Us,” how the characters really came alive for them. Inevitably they end with the kindest words possible, “I can’t wait to read your next book,” or something similar. I write and thank each one, silently thanking my Lord, my muse then quietly panic: Holy crap, I need to write another book!
I’m not blocked; there just this silence inside my head as if the usual confederacy of characters who live inside my head, noisily chatting and reproducing, suddenly exhausted, have gone off to bed. In the middle of my party.
As I wait and wait for the party to recommence, for the words for the next book to start flowing, I keep reading about writers who pen sequels and trilogies, writers who crank out two books a year. Feeling inadequate, as if I may not be a “real” writer, after all, I started doing research on the “craft of writing.” Most of the prevailing wisdom seems to insist that one should write every day at the same time to train one’s mind to be creative when one needs it to be. Yeah, uh huh. I actually came across something called “The Snowflake Method” (Google it) which actually made sense and sort of paralleled the way I write. Then came a bunch of articles on creating character profiles. I thought this was an intriguing approach—I usually just develop my characters as I’m writing, fleshing them out and discovering quirks and nuances along the way, which admittedly can lead to some frantic rewriting of earlier passages or can even lead to a subplot. When I read, “I’ve known writers who create 30-50 page character profiles,” I gave up and, shutting down my computer, went to dig around in the garden.
A couple of years ago there was an epic battle in our neighborhood over the installation of a playground in the public park in the middle of the neighborhood. I remember, one woman, a pediatrician and mother, holding her toddler and giving an impassioned speech against the playground. She cited studies that prove children need open green space in order to roam free, to develop their imagination, to dream. I’m thinking she’s right and that’s part of my problem—a life and mind too crammed with work, with to-do lists, with guilt over all the things I haven’t gotten done. I think I need to stop being a writer and go back to just being me. Maybe if I let the yard work go, order a pizza instead of cooking dinner and sit in the yard daydreaming, my characters will come back to me, will gather round and once again whisper their stories into my drowsing ear.
I’ve gotten emails from readers telling me how much they enjoyed “What Binds Us,” how the characters really came alive for them. Inevitably they end with the kindest words possible, “I can’t wait to read your next book,” or something similar. I write and thank each one, silently thanking my Lord, my muse then quietly panic: Holy crap, I need to write another book!
I’m not blocked; there just this silence inside my head as if the usual confederacy of characters who live inside my head, noisily chatting and reproducing, suddenly exhausted, have gone off to bed. In the middle of my party.
As I wait and wait for the party to recommence, for the words for the next book to start flowing, I keep reading about writers who pen sequels and trilogies, writers who crank out two books a year. Feeling inadequate, as if I may not be a “real” writer, after all, I started doing research on the “craft of writing.” Most of the prevailing wisdom seems to insist that one should write every day at the same time to train one’s mind to be creative when one needs it to be. Yeah, uh huh. I actually came across something called “The Snowflake Method” (Google it) which actually made sense and sort of paralleled the way I write. Then came a bunch of articles on creating character profiles. I thought this was an intriguing approach—I usually just develop my characters as I’m writing, fleshing them out and discovering quirks and nuances along the way, which admittedly can lead to some frantic rewriting of earlier passages or can even lead to a subplot. When I read, “I’ve known writers who create 30-50 page character profiles,” I gave up and, shutting down my computer, went to dig around in the garden.
A couple of years ago there was an epic battle in our neighborhood over the installation of a playground in the public park in the middle of the neighborhood. I remember, one woman, a pediatrician and mother, holding her toddler and giving an impassioned speech against the playground. She cited studies that prove children need open green space in order to roam free, to develop their imagination, to dream. I’m thinking she’s right and that’s part of my problem—a life and mind too crammed with work, with to-do lists, with guilt over all the things I haven’t gotten done. I think I need to stop being a writer and go back to just being me. Maybe if I let the yard work go, order a pizza instead of cooking dinner and sit in the yard daydreaming, my characters will come back to me, will gather round and once again whisper their stories into my drowsing ear.
May 7, 2012
Can Fiction Really Teach Us?
The other week Bill O’Reilly—who I really do want to slap—hard—complained that Glee! encourages young people to experiment with “alternative lifestyles.” Where to begin? In case you missed it, the episode he was referring to featured a transgendered (gender dysphoric) teen, and was, in my opinion, one of the best episodes they’ve done. The young man, Wade, confessed to Kurt and Mercedes that he had an alter ego—Unique—who was bold, confident, secure, and female. Now I will admit I find the whole transgender concept puzzling. Well maybe not so much puzzling, as hard to understand. Maybe because, like most men, I have a morbid fear of losing my boy parts. The very thought of voluntarily separating from them makes me dizzy.
And a Seven Year Old Makes it Clear
I follow Amelia’s Huffington Post blog. Amelia is the mother of a 7 year old self-identified gay son who has a crush on Blaine. He watches the show regularly (after his parents preview and edit what he will see). While watching this episode, he asked his mother why Wade, a boy, was wearing a dress. She explained: “… some boys, like this one, feel like they are girls on the inside , so they are more happy and comfortable in girls' clothes.” He responded: “I’m a boy on the inside and the outside.” Now here was a 7-year old I could identify with. I, too, am a boy on the inside and the outside. I’m also a boy who likes other boys. And suddenly because it was clear to him, it was clear to me: He was this; I was this; Wade was that. And that’s okay. I don’t have to understand gender dysphoria, I just have to accept it and support everyone’s right to be themselves. Seeing Wade transform into Unique, heels, dress, wig and all and sing the hell out of “Boogie Shoes” reminded me: it is only when we are our authentic selves that we can soar.
And I have to keep learning. And remain open to new experiences. The other day, a reader in the U.K. who’s been a great supporter and is rapidly becoming a friend, posted on her blog about her experience reading my book. While it’s always nice when a reader loves a book, what really caught my attention was her declaration: “I really hate romantic novels. I had enjoyed the excerpt immensely, although if I'm honest, I was at that stage also thinking 'this isn't my kind of story'.” Yet she read the book and loved it. ( Read her review here) Had she not shaken off her prejudice against romance, she wouldn’t have read the book and had the great experience she had.
Another reader wrote she almost didn’t read my book because she couldn’t wait to read another book: “This book was an afterthought purchase. I bought it on a whim while buying a book I couldn't wait to read…I didn't get to the book I couldn't wait to read…So, I went to buy a book I couldn't wait to read and found a book I had to read! Now, Larry Benjamin is added to the authors I cannot wait to read!”
So you see it is sometimes only when we step off the main road and stumble into the undergrowth, that we discover something new. Both Glee! and my book are fiction, but in fiction there is often truth and for that reason fiction can teach us. And it can open to up us a world of possibilities, to a world different to our own.
Perhaps Bill O’Reilly should step off his rather narrow path and watch that Glee! episode again. Maybe then he will understand what that episode was really about. Maybe then he will be able to shed his hatred and fear. Maybe then he will soar.
And a Seven Year Old Makes it Clear
I follow Amelia’s Huffington Post blog. Amelia is the mother of a 7 year old self-identified gay son who has a crush on Blaine. He watches the show regularly (after his parents preview and edit what he will see). While watching this episode, he asked his mother why Wade, a boy, was wearing a dress. She explained: “… some boys, like this one, feel like they are girls on the inside , so they are more happy and comfortable in girls' clothes.” He responded: “I’m a boy on the inside and the outside.” Now here was a 7-year old I could identify with. I, too, am a boy on the inside and the outside. I’m also a boy who likes other boys. And suddenly because it was clear to him, it was clear to me: He was this; I was this; Wade was that. And that’s okay. I don’t have to understand gender dysphoria, I just have to accept it and support everyone’s right to be themselves. Seeing Wade transform into Unique, heels, dress, wig and all and sing the hell out of “Boogie Shoes” reminded me: it is only when we are our authentic selves that we can soar.
And I have to keep learning. And remain open to new experiences. The other day, a reader in the U.K. who’s been a great supporter and is rapidly becoming a friend, posted on her blog about her experience reading my book. While it’s always nice when a reader loves a book, what really caught my attention was her declaration: “I really hate romantic novels. I had enjoyed the excerpt immensely, although if I'm honest, I was at that stage also thinking 'this isn't my kind of story'.” Yet she read the book and loved it. ( Read her review here) Had she not shaken off her prejudice against romance, she wouldn’t have read the book and had the great experience she had.
Another reader wrote she almost didn’t read my book because she couldn’t wait to read another book: “This book was an afterthought purchase. I bought it on a whim while buying a book I couldn't wait to read…I didn't get to the book I couldn't wait to read…So, I went to buy a book I couldn't wait to read and found a book I had to read! Now, Larry Benjamin is added to the authors I cannot wait to read!”
So you see it is sometimes only when we step off the main road and stumble into the undergrowth, that we discover something new. Both Glee! and my book are fiction, but in fiction there is often truth and for that reason fiction can teach us. And it can open to up us a world of possibilities, to a world different to our own.
Perhaps Bill O’Reilly should step off his rather narrow path and watch that Glee! episode again. Maybe then he will understand what that episode was really about. Maybe then he will be able to shed his hatred and fear. Maybe then he will soar.
May 1, 2012
‘Twas a Crooked Unlighted Road but My Own
I was reading an interview today in which out country star, Chely Wright said: “I knew at 4 that I wanted to be a country star.” Really? At 4, I wanted to be a baker. Later, on her blog, a woman wrote “I wrote my first book at the age of six.” At six, I horrified my parents by announcing I wanted to be a trash collector then requested a trash trgck for Christmas, which they gamely bought me assuming, that desire too, would change. And it did. Several times. Remembering how fickle, how directionless I was, I thought about the jobs I’ve had. Here’s a partial list. I have been:
• a sales clerk for Bloomingdales—a weird cult-like experience in which all of the other Sales Bots seemed to worship the store, its clientele and its merchandise,
• a timekeeper for The World’s Greatest Department Store,
• a manager for a store that sold discount polyester suits—3 for $99!,
• a copy clerk—we worked in three shifts copying documents for the Exxon-Valdez litigation,
• a mail room clerk—back when fax machines used thermal paper and on Monday mornings you had to unroll the faxes and cut the pages before delivering them. I also drove the company van and famously once, when driving the CEO to the airport, I missed the exit. He yelled at me and I burst into tears.
• an assistant manager for a toy store at the height of the video game craze. I hated that job and after six weeks, I calculated that I had enough to pay the rent for two months, walked up to my boss and quit,
• a “paperboy”—I delivered the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post.
My life's path has been circuitous to
say the least. I’ve only ever been sure of two things: one, I was irretrievably gay and happy in my gayness. And two, I was, at my core, a writer. The rest has been a constantly changing blur of dreams and often conflicting desires. It took me a long time to realize that what I wanted to do, all I wanted to do, was write. I’m amazed by people who choose a path and stick to it, never changing direction or steering off the main road or stumbling into the undergrowth to see what they may find.
I think I fell in love with TSE because he was as directionless as I, both of us individually, restless, stumbling in the dark, getting bumped and bruised. Together we found rest and a common direction. I’ve been much, much better since he came along and I hope the same is trge for him. Still, I can’t say I regret my stumbling, every bump and bruise telling the story of me, which in turn fed my stories. As Geo tells the young would-be writer Thomas in What Binds Us, “Just remember: fear nothing. For a writer, there can be no bad experiences.”
A three year affair with a drug-addled hustler formed the basis for many of the stories in my next book, Damaged Angels. Adele may have set fire to the rain around her faithless, feckless boyfriends, but I had to content myself with setting fine to mine on the page, burning each in an effigy of words. Actually, it was more like capturing each one in amber, preserving a moment in time, an experience, capturing a personality, a way of being, so I did not forget.
As for the drug-addled hustler, in the fictionalized account, his story ends on the same street corner on which I’d found him: “Above their heads, pushing against the darkness, the flickering blue neon sign of the apothecary flashed a warning: DRUGS. Or perhaps it was a seduction.”
And while I sometimes wish I’d chosen an easier path, I can’t say I regret the journey.
• a sales clerk for Bloomingdales—a weird cult-like experience in which all of the other Sales Bots seemed to worship the store, its clientele and its merchandise,
• a timekeeper for The World’s Greatest Department Store,
• a manager for a store that sold discount polyester suits—3 for $99!,
• a copy clerk—we worked in three shifts copying documents for the Exxon-Valdez litigation,
• a mail room clerk—back when fax machines used thermal paper and on Monday mornings you had to unroll the faxes and cut the pages before delivering them. I also drove the company van and famously once, when driving the CEO to the airport, I missed the exit. He yelled at me and I burst into tears.
• an assistant manager for a toy store at the height of the video game craze. I hated that job and after six weeks, I calculated that I had enough to pay the rent for two months, walked up to my boss and quit,
• a “paperboy”—I delivered the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post.
My life's path has been circuitous to
say the least. I’ve only ever been sure of two things: one, I was irretrievably gay and happy in my gayness. And two, I was, at my core, a writer. The rest has been a constantly changing blur of dreams and often conflicting desires. It took me a long time to realize that what I wanted to do, all I wanted to do, was write. I’m amazed by people who choose a path and stick to it, never changing direction or steering off the main road or stumbling into the undergrowth to see what they may find.
I think I fell in love with TSE because he was as directionless as I, both of us individually, restless, stumbling in the dark, getting bumped and bruised. Together we found rest and a common direction. I’ve been much, much better since he came along and I hope the same is trge for him. Still, I can’t say I regret my stumbling, every bump and bruise telling the story of me, which in turn fed my stories. As Geo tells the young would-be writer Thomas in What Binds Us, “Just remember: fear nothing. For a writer, there can be no bad experiences.”
A three year affair with a drug-addled hustler formed the basis for many of the stories in my next book, Damaged Angels. Adele may have set fire to the rain around her faithless, feckless boyfriends, but I had to content myself with setting fine to mine on the page, burning each in an effigy of words. Actually, it was more like capturing each one in amber, preserving a moment in time, an experience, capturing a personality, a way of being, so I did not forget.
As for the drug-addled hustler, in the fictionalized account, his story ends on the same street corner on which I’d found him: “Above their heads, pushing against the darkness, the flickering blue neon sign of the apothecary flashed a warning: DRUGS. Or perhaps it was a seduction.”
And while I sometimes wish I’d chosen an easier path, I can’t say I regret the journey.
April 24, 2012
What Binds Us—Happy One Month Anniversary
Now that it’s been a month since the release of my debut novel, "What Binds Us," I thought I’d look back over the journey and share what I’ve learned—and here I’m betting I learned something. We shall see. First, 30 days after release, it made #1 at Carina Press. Yay me!
Now, a confession:
I admit it—in a public forum, by the light of day—I search for myself on Amazon.com. Every. Morning. When my book comes up, I am as thrilled as I was the first time I did it. Then, I get on with my day.
Lesson 1: There’s no controlling the reader’s experience.
One reader was disappointed—seriously disappointed—that Thomas-Edward did not end up with Dondi. If they had ended up together, it would l have been a very different book. Until my stalwart editor (and whip-wielder), Rhonda Helms, asked me to expand the relationship between Thomas and Matthew during edits, I had the vague notion that Thomas had remained in love with Dondi. As I expanded their story I came to learn that Thomas loved Dondi fiercely but he was utterly and irretrievably in love with Matthew.
Speaking of Dondi, I have been blown away by how strongly he has resonated with readers. Seriously, as in the book, everyone seems to be in love with him.
I came across a comment online where one would-be reader said she passed on reading the book because of the main character’s name. “Thomas-Edward,” she wrote, “Really?” I named him Thomas-Edward Lawrence, after T.E. Lawrence, aka Lawrence of Arabia. Who was also gay. The name was sort of an obscure reference (I seem to have a decided penchant for those as you’ll see later). And because, when I was a kid, people used to call me “Lawrence of Arabia.” Rather prophetic, don’t you think?
And finally, most famously (for me, anyway) one reviewer quoted a line from the book: "Dondi became my guide, my Virgil, on my personal odyssey of self-discovery.” Then added “(It was Homer, by the way; the one who wrote the Odyssey. Virgil wrote the Aeneid.)” I was irate. I was livid. I was insulted. I knew the difference between "The Iliad and the Odyssey" and "The Aeneid." I had, after all, read both. In Latin. In that sentence I was referring to “Dante’s Inferno” where, Dante, lost in Hell, is guided by the Roman poet, Virgil, through the nine circles. An author acquaintance, far wiser than I, pointed out that readers often make their own interpretations, as they have every right to. She then suggested that my reference to Dante’s Inferno might have been a tad obscure. Point taken, I moved on.
Lesson 2: Sometimes, readers totally “get” you.
And then there are the readers who totally get your story. Which I discovered unexpectedly when one reviewer wrote of the mother of two of the main characters: “Mrs Whyte is so distant, even her children call her ‘Mrs Whyte,’ in fact I’m not sure if we ever learn her first name.” Mrs. Whyte doesn’t, in fact, have a first name. She was based on my father’s half-brother’s mother who was quite distant, quite formidable. I was a kid when I met her but the memory of her coldness, of her distance has always stayed with me. Probably because I was stunned that Uncle Ishmael called his mother “Mrs. White.”
Enjoying the ride.
When I recently went in for jury duty, I proudly wrote “writer” under occupation (okay, there were two lines for occupation, and suddenly doubtful, I also listed my full-time job). When I was called in to be interviewed by the attorneys, the court clerk, squinted at my paper work then at me: “You’re a writer?” he asked. “I am,” I answered trying not to sweat or melt under his gaze (he was devastatingly handsome).
“What do you write?” he asked. I tried not to mumble my responses to this handsome man, sat up straighter. Suddenly I felt great: I had readers, I could search myself on Amazon and I got the attention of a handsome man who otherwise probably wouldn’t have noticed me. Yeah, life is good. I love being a writer!
Now, a confession:
I admit it—in a public forum, by the light of day—I search for myself on Amazon.com. Every. Morning. When my book comes up, I am as thrilled as I was the first time I did it. Then, I get on with my day.
Lesson 1: There’s no controlling the reader’s experience.
One reader was disappointed—seriously disappointed—that Thomas-Edward did not end up with Dondi. If they had ended up together, it would l have been a very different book. Until my stalwart editor (and whip-wielder), Rhonda Helms, asked me to expand the relationship between Thomas and Matthew during edits, I had the vague notion that Thomas had remained in love with Dondi. As I expanded their story I came to learn that Thomas loved Dondi fiercely but he was utterly and irretrievably in love with Matthew.
Speaking of Dondi, I have been blown away by how strongly he has resonated with readers. Seriously, as in the book, everyone seems to be in love with him.
I came across a comment online where one would-be reader said she passed on reading the book because of the main character’s name. “Thomas-Edward,” she wrote, “Really?” I named him Thomas-Edward Lawrence, after T.E. Lawrence, aka Lawrence of Arabia. Who was also gay. The name was sort of an obscure reference (I seem to have a decided penchant for those as you’ll see later). And because, when I was a kid, people used to call me “Lawrence of Arabia.” Rather prophetic, don’t you think?
And finally, most famously (for me, anyway) one reviewer quoted a line from the book: "Dondi became my guide, my Virgil, on my personal odyssey of self-discovery.” Then added “(It was Homer, by the way; the one who wrote the Odyssey. Virgil wrote the Aeneid.)” I was irate. I was livid. I was insulted. I knew the difference between "The Iliad and the Odyssey" and "The Aeneid." I had, after all, read both. In Latin. In that sentence I was referring to “Dante’s Inferno” where, Dante, lost in Hell, is guided by the Roman poet, Virgil, through the nine circles. An author acquaintance, far wiser than I, pointed out that readers often make their own interpretations, as they have every right to. She then suggested that my reference to Dante’s Inferno might have been a tad obscure. Point taken, I moved on.
Lesson 2: Sometimes, readers totally “get” you.
And then there are the readers who totally get your story. Which I discovered unexpectedly when one reviewer wrote of the mother of two of the main characters: “Mrs Whyte is so distant, even her children call her ‘Mrs Whyte,’ in fact I’m not sure if we ever learn her first name.” Mrs. Whyte doesn’t, in fact, have a first name. She was based on my father’s half-brother’s mother who was quite distant, quite formidable. I was a kid when I met her but the memory of her coldness, of her distance has always stayed with me. Probably because I was stunned that Uncle Ishmael called his mother “Mrs. White.”
Enjoying the ride.
When I recently went in for jury duty, I proudly wrote “writer” under occupation (okay, there were two lines for occupation, and suddenly doubtful, I also listed my full-time job). When I was called in to be interviewed by the attorneys, the court clerk, squinted at my paper work then at me: “You’re a writer?” he asked. “I am,” I answered trying not to sweat or melt under his gaze (he was devastatingly handsome).
“What do you write?” he asked. I tried not to mumble my responses to this handsome man, sat up straighter. Suddenly I felt great: I had readers, I could search myself on Amazon and I got the attention of a handsome man who otherwise probably wouldn’t have noticed me. Yeah, life is good. I love being a writer!
Larry Benjamin's blog - This Writer's Life
The writer's life is as individual and strange as each writer. I'll document my journey as a writer here.
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