Larry Benjamin's Blog: Larry Benjamin's blog - This Writer's Life, page 17
April 17, 2012
On Writing and Race
A reviewer recently made the following comment in a review of “What Binds Us”: “I also really loved how matter-of-fact Thomas-Edward’s ethnicity is mentioned and that, while of course his ethnicity is part of who he is, he is first and foremost a person who lives his life and who just happens to be black.”
She is the first reviewer to mention Thomas’ race (he narrates the story). And she is correct, race is integral to who he is but it is not all he is.
As James Baldwin wrote of “Go Tell it on the Mountain”: “It is a fairly deliberate attempt to break out of what I always think of as the ‘cage’ of (black) writing. I wanted my people to be people first, (black) almost incidentally…” I knew from the beginning that "What Binds Us" was going to be, above all else, a story about people. And because it takes place in the world, those people would be different. Yet any of the character’s races could be swapped without too much impact to their story. Just as Matthew and Thomas could very easily have been a boy and a girl.
I have wondered why no reader or reviewer has mentioned this is an interracial love story. Was this fact simply overlooked? Or, was it just irrelevant to most readers? Probably as a result, I followed the controversy over the casting of black actors in “The Hunger Games” with horror and disappointment. Did these people objecting to the appearance of black actors in a story they supposedly knew and loved, really live in the same world I did? Did they only watch Woody Allen movies and old episodes of "Friends" (remember that rather infamous subway scene where every single passenger was white?) Is that what fostered their pristine all-white worldview?
I remember at Christmas (the TSE and I host dinner for assorted friends and neighbors) looking around the dinner table and realizing mine was the only black face. At my own table. In my own house. Yet every single person was a close and cherished friend. Why? Because I choose my friends based on our commonality, on the content of their character, on the mutual respect we each have for the other’s choices; it is a choosing that has nothing to do with race.
At Penn the black kids asked me why I spoke as if I was white. That bugged me. And later, as an adult, I went out with a white guy who made the same complaint. “Why,” he asked, "do you talk like you went to Harvard?” “Well first of all I went to the University of Pennsylvania, though as far as I know the Ivy League does not have its own dialect.” He ended up dumping me because I wasn’t, he said, “black enough.” In college my friends were mostly white, in part because they were gay and out, as I was, while most of the black gay guys weren’t and seemed in fact to avoid me; I had no patience for the closeted. And the white kids didn’t question my authenticity which was, quite frankly, nice.
Years ago, a coworker on learning that TSE was white asked “What’s it like living with someone of another race?” The question shocked me, but I thought hard about it. Up until that point all of my boyfriends had been black or Puerto Rican (not that there were that many; I can still count my boyfriends on one hand, without need to employ both thumbs, and I can name them. In sequential order.) For the record there is no difference.
I’m aware that TSE is white just as I’m aware that I am taller than he is (though he claims we’re the same height). An ex-boyfriend once said, “I can’t believe you married a white guy.” I didn’t marry a white guy,” I countered. “I married Stanley who is white.” The difference was lost on him.
Perhaps it is these experiences that inform my worldview, a worldview that is reflected in my writing. And while I write fiction, I believe like all writers, my fiction is grounded in my own experience.
Thomas for his part seems to experience race only abstractly: “Dondi had visited over Easter break freshman year…The house seemed too small for him and everything looked shabby in his dazzling light.” But he is clearly aware of his race as he remarks bitterly, after being mistaken for a waiter at the White Ball, “Some people don’t see much beyond color.” And later when Dondi’s doctors ignore him, he tells them, “Do not think that because I am black I am not a part of this family.”
In "Now Voyager," Bette Davis muses, “Oh most every woman wants a man of her own and a home of her own and a child of her own.” It’s an expressed, deep seated want not unlike Matt’s desire to make a family, a home with Thomas. The deeper you look, the more similar we are. Race, sex, sexual preference –it’s all superficial differences. Perhaps one day we will reach the point where there is one race: Human.
Until then I’ll keep writing stories where the characters are first and foremost people who live their lives and who just happen to be black, or white, or gay.
She is the first reviewer to mention Thomas’ race (he narrates the story). And she is correct, race is integral to who he is but it is not all he is.
As James Baldwin wrote of “Go Tell it on the Mountain”: “It is a fairly deliberate attempt to break out of what I always think of as the ‘cage’ of (black) writing. I wanted my people to be people first, (black) almost incidentally…” I knew from the beginning that "What Binds Us" was going to be, above all else, a story about people. And because it takes place in the world, those people would be different. Yet any of the character’s races could be swapped without too much impact to their story. Just as Matthew and Thomas could very easily have been a boy and a girl.
I have wondered why no reader or reviewer has mentioned this is an interracial love story. Was this fact simply overlooked? Or, was it just irrelevant to most readers? Probably as a result, I followed the controversy over the casting of black actors in “The Hunger Games” with horror and disappointment. Did these people objecting to the appearance of black actors in a story they supposedly knew and loved, really live in the same world I did? Did they only watch Woody Allen movies and old episodes of "Friends" (remember that rather infamous subway scene where every single passenger was white?) Is that what fostered their pristine all-white worldview?
I remember at Christmas (the TSE and I host dinner for assorted friends and neighbors) looking around the dinner table and realizing mine was the only black face. At my own table. In my own house. Yet every single person was a close and cherished friend. Why? Because I choose my friends based on our commonality, on the content of their character, on the mutual respect we each have for the other’s choices; it is a choosing that has nothing to do with race.
At Penn the black kids asked me why I spoke as if I was white. That bugged me. And later, as an adult, I went out with a white guy who made the same complaint. “Why,” he asked, "do you talk like you went to Harvard?” “Well first of all I went to the University of Pennsylvania, though as far as I know the Ivy League does not have its own dialect.” He ended up dumping me because I wasn’t, he said, “black enough.” In college my friends were mostly white, in part because they were gay and out, as I was, while most of the black gay guys weren’t and seemed in fact to avoid me; I had no patience for the closeted. And the white kids didn’t question my authenticity which was, quite frankly, nice.
Years ago, a coworker on learning that TSE was white asked “What’s it like living with someone of another race?” The question shocked me, but I thought hard about it. Up until that point all of my boyfriends had been black or Puerto Rican (not that there were that many; I can still count my boyfriends on one hand, without need to employ both thumbs, and I can name them. In sequential order.) For the record there is no difference.
I’m aware that TSE is white just as I’m aware that I am taller than he is (though he claims we’re the same height). An ex-boyfriend once said, “I can’t believe you married a white guy.” I didn’t marry a white guy,” I countered. “I married Stanley who is white.” The difference was lost on him.
Perhaps it is these experiences that inform my worldview, a worldview that is reflected in my writing. And while I write fiction, I believe like all writers, my fiction is grounded in my own experience.
Thomas for his part seems to experience race only abstractly: “Dondi had visited over Easter break freshman year…The house seemed too small for him and everything looked shabby in his dazzling light.” But he is clearly aware of his race as he remarks bitterly, after being mistaken for a waiter at the White Ball, “Some people don’t see much beyond color.” And later when Dondi’s doctors ignore him, he tells them, “Do not think that because I am black I am not a part of this family.”
In "Now Voyager," Bette Davis muses, “Oh most every woman wants a man of her own and a home of her own and a child of her own.” It’s an expressed, deep seated want not unlike Matt’s desire to make a family, a home with Thomas. The deeper you look, the more similar we are. Race, sex, sexual preference –it’s all superficial differences. Perhaps one day we will reach the point where there is one race: Human.
Until then I’ll keep writing stories where the characters are first and foremost people who live their lives and who just happen to be black, or white, or gay.
April 10, 2012
Coming out...as a friend
The other week on Twitter I came across a young man who tweeted he’d started a new site: rucomingout He described it as a valuable resource for those who are living life in the closet. Intrigued I not only followed him (I couldn’t,not: he seemed so young and earnest). Among other things the sites features coming out stories. I was instantly moved to share my own story (and let’s face it, I’m a writer and therefore a “ham.”) Only problem was I never really came out because I was never in. If anyone asked me, “Are you gay?” I would answer, “Yes.” Problem was most people didn’t ask. Maybe they were afraid to know. Or maybe they took certain truths to be self-evident—I may not have been flaming but I was definitely smoldering and you know where there's smoke there's likely to be fire.
The closest to coming out I came was sophomore year of college when we were making selections for third year rooms/roommates. At that point my roommate and I had been roommates for 2 years. He was teaching me to use chopsticks at the time because we were having dinner with his mother who was Japanese.
Me: You know I’m gay, right?”
Him: Yeah, I know. Hold them like this.
Me, dropping the chopsticks: You know?
Him: Well, yeah. I mean I figured.
Me: Does it bother you?
Him: No. Why would it?
Me: Do you still want to be roommates next year?
Him looking at me like I had two heads: Yeah. Now will you pay attention? I don’t want you to embarrass me at dinner.
We remained roommates all through college. And when my first boyfriend hit me, Yone kicked his ass. I can still see him standing over my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend and yelling “You do not get to hit Larry.”
I may have come out as gay but he came out as a friend.
I’ve heard coming out is a process requiring you to come out over and over again. For me it’s like being black: it’s a fact that presents and speaks for itself. When I meet new people I mention Stanley, same as I would if I had a wife and it was relevant, just as matter-of-factly. When I start a new job, I put his picture and a picture of the dogs on my desk. So yeah, I consider myself out. And proud. I’ve always refused to be anyone’s shame or dirty little secret. Yet a few Christmases ago my mother confided to me, “You know I’ve only ever told one person you were gay,” leaving me speechless and unbearably hurt.
My dad always hated my boyfriends. Years later I discovered it wasn’t because they were boyfriends but because he didn’t t think any of them was good enough for me. When he met Stanley, he pulled me aside and said,” I like him. He is what I had in mind for you. Please hold on to this one.” I don’t think I have ever loved my father more than I did at that moment. That day, my dad, like Yone, came out as a friend.
When I was writing “What Binds Us,” and I got to the scene where Thomas and Matthew come out to Thomas’s parents—and they come out not so much as gay, but as a couple determined to build a life together—I based the father on my dad. To my mind that’s the highest tribute I could pay my dad.
The closest to coming out I came was sophomore year of college when we were making selections for third year rooms/roommates. At that point my roommate and I had been roommates for 2 years. He was teaching me to use chopsticks at the time because we were having dinner with his mother who was Japanese.
Me: You know I’m gay, right?”
Him: Yeah, I know. Hold them like this.
Me, dropping the chopsticks: You know?
Him: Well, yeah. I mean I figured.
Me: Does it bother you?
Him: No. Why would it?
Me: Do you still want to be roommates next year?
Him looking at me like I had two heads: Yeah. Now will you pay attention? I don’t want you to embarrass me at dinner.
We remained roommates all through college. And when my first boyfriend hit me, Yone kicked his ass. I can still see him standing over my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend and yelling “You do not get to hit Larry.”
I may have come out as gay but he came out as a friend.
I’ve heard coming out is a process requiring you to come out over and over again. For me it’s like being black: it’s a fact that presents and speaks for itself. When I meet new people I mention Stanley, same as I would if I had a wife and it was relevant, just as matter-of-factly. When I start a new job, I put his picture and a picture of the dogs on my desk. So yeah, I consider myself out. And proud. I’ve always refused to be anyone’s shame or dirty little secret. Yet a few Christmases ago my mother confided to me, “You know I’ve only ever told one person you were gay,” leaving me speechless and unbearably hurt.
My dad always hated my boyfriends. Years later I discovered it wasn’t because they were boyfriends but because he didn’t t think any of them was good enough for me. When he met Stanley, he pulled me aside and said,” I like him. He is what I had in mind for you. Please hold on to this one.” I don’t think I have ever loved my father more than I did at that moment. That day, my dad, like Yone, came out as a friend.
When I was writing “What Binds Us,” and I got to the scene where Thomas and Matthew come out to Thomas’s parents—and they come out not so much as gay, but as a couple determined to build a life together—I based the father on my dad. To my mind that’s the highest tribute I could pay my dad.
April 4, 2012
Larry Benjamin I salute you. You are fabulous!
I’ve been depressed (reason why this blog post is late)—I can’t quite explain why, I just know that I woke up one morning a few days ago under a cloud: black, smothering, seemingly inescapable. Maybe it’s because we have a chronically ill dog and she’s been having a bad week. Pilling her, feeding her has been difficult and time-consuming. I’m time-constrained, anxious and impatient as a result. And she’s wetting herself. Not her fault but frustrating, nonetheless. And messy given her coat very nearly reaches the floor (they’re both getting haircuts on Friday).
Or maybe it’s a kind of post partum depression. The book’s out in the world doing its thing and I’m here: mute, wordless, powerless, feeling beside the point.
Then again maybe it was the bad review. It didn’t bother me so much that the reviewer didn’t like the book it was that the review was kind of mean-spirited. And I hate meanness. I’m a lot of things but never mean.
Already on the edge of depression I tumbled into the abyss.
This morning I got up 45 minutes late—because I just couldn’t gather the strength to face another day. Finally I dragged myself out of bed and upstairs. Instead of getting in the shower, I booted up my computer (another attempt to avoid the day). And there unexpectedly I found a blogpost, from an independent publisher/reader in the UK. It was a stunning review of my book. In it she quoted a scene where one character talks to another about being a writer. In truth, I’d forgotten that particular passage. Rereading it, reminded me that I am a writer, why I write, that though words may have left me temporarily, they will be back. She wrapped up by saying, “Larry Benjamin I salute you. You are fabulous!”
Now what gay guy doesn’t thrill to the words “you are fabulous?” I found myself smiling for the first time in days. Not because she loves the book (well that too) but because she took the time to read the book and say a few kinds words to me. A simple enough gesture maybe, but as a writer, I’ve found reading, requires effort, a commitment on the reader’s part, a certain leap of faith that what you wrote will be worth his or her time. Sharing your work is easier, I think, if you sing or dance, or paint. Engaging with the artist requires less effort, a more fleeting commitment. So as a writer I really value feedback from readers, appreciate the effort they made on my behalf.
She reminded me of the power of words—to hurt, to inspire, to elevate. To her I’d like to say, “Debbie McGowan I Salute you. You are fabulous.”
And to my readers I say You are fabulous. How about you? Who do you think is fabulous? And will you tell him or her?
Or maybe it’s a kind of post partum depression. The book’s out in the world doing its thing and I’m here: mute, wordless, powerless, feeling beside the point.
Then again maybe it was the bad review. It didn’t bother me so much that the reviewer didn’t like the book it was that the review was kind of mean-spirited. And I hate meanness. I’m a lot of things but never mean.
Already on the edge of depression I tumbled into the abyss.
This morning I got up 45 minutes late—because I just couldn’t gather the strength to face another day. Finally I dragged myself out of bed and upstairs. Instead of getting in the shower, I booted up my computer (another attempt to avoid the day). And there unexpectedly I found a blogpost, from an independent publisher/reader in the UK. It was a stunning review of my book. In it she quoted a scene where one character talks to another about being a writer. In truth, I’d forgotten that particular passage. Rereading it, reminded me that I am a writer, why I write, that though words may have left me temporarily, they will be back. She wrapped up by saying, “Larry Benjamin I salute you. You are fabulous!”
Now what gay guy doesn’t thrill to the words “you are fabulous?” I found myself smiling for the first time in days. Not because she loves the book (well that too) but because she took the time to read the book and say a few kinds words to me. A simple enough gesture maybe, but as a writer, I’ve found reading, requires effort, a commitment on the reader’s part, a certain leap of faith that what you wrote will be worth his or her time. Sharing your work is easier, I think, if you sing or dance, or paint. Engaging with the artist requires less effort, a more fleeting commitment. So as a writer I really value feedback from readers, appreciate the effort they made on my behalf.
She reminded me of the power of words—to hurt, to inspire, to elevate. To her I’d like to say, “Debbie McGowan I Salute you. You are fabulous.”
And to my readers I say You are fabulous. How about you? Who do you think is fabulous? And will you tell him or her?
March 27, 2012
Messy desk, Messy Eni
When my brother, Vernon, was in the first grade he had a fellow student named Enid. Vernon, an eager and rules-abiding 6 year old, reported that Enid had “a very messy desk.” In fact, said Enid, whom everyone called simply, “Eni,” was so unrepentantly messy, her desk so boldly in disarray that she’d earned her own tagline: “Messy desk, Messy Eni.” Why I should remember this particular anecdote so many years later, I’ve no idea. I never met Eni but she (and her tagline) has lived on in my memory lo all these years.
She came back to mind as I was blogging about my writing habits; I write by hand with pen or pencil on whatever writing surface is at hand, generally a purple composition note book but quite often scraps of paper, backs of envelopes—well you get the idea. Then I gather all my “notes” and begin typing into Word on my laptop. As you might imagine, this leads to a very messy desk indeed. Especially since I don’t write sequentially which means I must search among the small stacks of paper for whatever detail comes next. It’s an exercise much like assembling a giant word puzzle. As I was doing this one day, Messy Desk, Messy Eni popped into my mind. And I found myself wondering, not for the first time, what is wrong with a messy desk? I’m not a messy person but I have a messy desk.
I find the piles of paper on my desk comforting. Visible proof that I am working at my passion, that I am writing. Maybe I just love paper. In high school I abandoned loose leaf binders, adopting instead a casual filing system which was essentially a bunch of loose papers stacked and thrown in my briefcase. Yes briefcase. Yes, Virginia, I was that nerd.
There’s some cleaning product that has the tagline “Life’s messy. Clean it up.” But I can’t for the life of me recall what product it advertises. But I have an issue with it. Life’s messy, yes. But that’s what makes it interesting and worthwhile. So, why clean it up? (WARNING: to any kids who may be reading this: you may not use this argument to get out of cleaning your room.)
TSE and I have our offices at opposite ends of the third floor. I never go into his room which is part office part workroom; he sews: drapes, pillows, dog coats. But his room is a mess. Stacks of exquisite pricy fabrics, a tower of pillow liners, a pile of sketches. There is stuff piled on every surface.
Yet everything he makes is perfect, beautiful. He's a conjurer making beauty out of chaos, disorder.
My office is neat, with a place for everything, but my desk is messy. And my head is messy—stuffed with bits of dialogue, half formed characters, the date the dogs go in for their rabies booster (May 22, if you’re wondering), memories of my first job, my first kiss. The point is my head is stuffed with my life, with stories, with memories too precious to file away neatly in some unused corner of my brain, Messy desk, messy Eni, for example.
So what’s a poor writer to do? Embrace the mess.
She came back to mind as I was blogging about my writing habits; I write by hand with pen or pencil on whatever writing surface is at hand, generally a purple composition note book but quite often scraps of paper, backs of envelopes—well you get the idea. Then I gather all my “notes” and begin typing into Word on my laptop. As you might imagine, this leads to a very messy desk indeed. Especially since I don’t write sequentially which means I must search among the small stacks of paper for whatever detail comes next. It’s an exercise much like assembling a giant word puzzle. As I was doing this one day, Messy Desk, Messy Eni popped into my mind. And I found myself wondering, not for the first time, what is wrong with a messy desk? I’m not a messy person but I have a messy desk.
I find the piles of paper on my desk comforting. Visible proof that I am working at my passion, that I am writing. Maybe I just love paper. In high school I abandoned loose leaf binders, adopting instead a casual filing system which was essentially a bunch of loose papers stacked and thrown in my briefcase. Yes briefcase. Yes, Virginia, I was that nerd.
There’s some cleaning product that has the tagline “Life’s messy. Clean it up.” But I can’t for the life of me recall what product it advertises. But I have an issue with it. Life’s messy, yes. But that’s what makes it interesting and worthwhile. So, why clean it up? (WARNING: to any kids who may be reading this: you may not use this argument to get out of cleaning your room.)
TSE and I have our offices at opposite ends of the third floor. I never go into his room which is part office part workroom; he sews: drapes, pillows, dog coats. But his room is a mess. Stacks of exquisite pricy fabrics, a tower of pillow liners, a pile of sketches. There is stuff piled on every surface.
Yet everything he makes is perfect, beautiful. He's a conjurer making beauty out of chaos, disorder.
My office is neat, with a place for everything, but my desk is messy. And my head is messy—stuffed with bits of dialogue, half formed characters, the date the dogs go in for their rabies booster (May 22, if you’re wondering), memories of my first job, my first kiss. The point is my head is stuffed with my life, with stories, with memories too precious to file away neatly in some unused corner of my brain, Messy desk, messy Eni, for example.
So what’s a poor writer to do? Embrace the mess.
March 20, 2012
I Got the Words
Two days before the release of my debut novel, What Binds Us, this waiting is what I imagine being pregnant is like: for thirty-eight weeks you carry this child and for those thirty-eight weeks everything is possible; he could be president, he could be beautiful. And then he’s born and what he is is real, flesh, yours.
Waiting, I find myself trapped by two fears—equally paralyzing—what if the book sucks? what if no one reads it? What if it doesn’t suck and I never write again? I went to bed.
I awoke at 4 a.m. because the words were coming, would not stop coming, were shouting to be heard, written down, not forgotten, wouldn’t in fact stop until pen hit paper. (These are the words that came—part of my next book, I think.)
Then it struck me: I got the words. I am a writer. Nothing more, nothing less am I. I got the words. Will continue to write them down.
After, when that rush of words, released in the writing down, quieted, I began to write this blog entry, to admit this writer’s fears.
Sunday at midnight, I bought the book on Amazon. At 1:30 a.m. I held my Kindle in my hand and did what I suppose every mother does—counted the toes, the fingers, the ears, the eyes, in this case I read the words, studied the commas (when you write really long sentences, commas are important). Again, I guessed what I felt was a feeling like that of a new mother: despite the preparations, despite what you know to be true, he doesn’t seem quite real, this child. Not yet. Not until you can hear his sound in the world will he seem real.
And then you hear his sound in the world and you don’t care if he’s president, if he’s beautiful because he is, above all, yours.
What Binds Us
Waiting, I find myself trapped by two fears—equally paralyzing—what if the book sucks? what if no one reads it? What if it doesn’t suck and I never write again? I went to bed.
I awoke at 4 a.m. because the words were coming, would not stop coming, were shouting to be heard, written down, not forgotten, wouldn’t in fact stop until pen hit paper. (These are the words that came—part of my next book, I think.)
Then it struck me: I got the words. I am a writer. Nothing more, nothing less am I. I got the words. Will continue to write them down.
After, when that rush of words, released in the writing down, quieted, I began to write this blog entry, to admit this writer’s fears.
Sunday at midnight, I bought the book on Amazon. At 1:30 a.m. I held my Kindle in my hand and did what I suppose every mother does—counted the toes, the fingers, the ears, the eyes, in this case I read the words, studied the commas (when you write really long sentences, commas are important). Again, I guessed what I felt was a feeling like that of a new mother: despite the preparations, despite what you know to be true, he doesn’t seem quite real, this child. Not yet. Not until you can hear his sound in the world will he seem real.
And then you hear his sound in the world and you don’t care if he’s president, if he’s beautiful because he is, above all, yours.
What Binds Us
March 13, 2012
Control
Less than a week out from the release of my debut novel, What Binds Us and it occurs to me that, unlike Miss Janet Jackson, I am not in control. I realize that this sounds like a revelation but it’s not. Not really. I haven’t been in control in years. And I’m fine with that. I’m pretty much content to let people do what they want/feel they need to, especially TSE* and quite often the dogs.
Let me explain to you how our household is set up: it consists of me, TSE and 2 dogs; each person (canine or human) has his own agenda. Coco, our aging Lhasa, is slow, stubborn, independent. She’s a lot like TSE. Toby is clearly more like me, fiercely loyal, loving, easy going and slightly out of control. If anyone is in control it’s Coco. Don’t believe me? Stop by our house at the dogs’ dinner time: there’s an untoward amount of pleading and bribing with cheese, lunchmeat, and chicken because Coco often refuses to eat but she takes a variety of medicines that must be given with food. I’ll do anything to get her to eat so she can take her medicine. All I care about is getting from Point A to Point B. I don’t care how we get there or who’s driving. I just want to get there and be done with it.
I’ve started to wonder why I have so little interest in control. I’m not disengaged or particularly passive, but I am exhausted. Let me explain: I write so I have an active universe of characters whose every move, mood, thought and interaction I control; after that I hardly have the energy to try and control any actual living being, Coco for example.
It’s a heady, powerful feeling this being an author, a writer. You dredge up characters from dreams, from imagination, from nothing and give them life and words, if not breath. With words I can evoke a mood, maybe elicit an emotion: laughter, tears, a nod of agreement. As release day inches closer I know that I will relinquish control of What Binds Us. I created the characters and wrote the story they told to me, a story I controlled to a great extent. But I cannot control the reader’s experience, the reader’s reaction to my story, to my characters. Nor do I want to. I write to make people see, to make them feel, but what they actually see, feel, think is hidden from me. I do, however, want to know what their experience is. And that’s what worries me—that readers won’t share their thoughts. So I’m issuing an open invitation: if you read the book, let me know what you think. Post a comment here or on my Facebook page, or email me.
Thanks.
* TSE = The Spousal Equivalent, aka Stanley
Let me explain to you how our household is set up: it consists of me, TSE and 2 dogs; each person (canine or human) has his own agenda. Coco, our aging Lhasa, is slow, stubborn, independent. She’s a lot like TSE. Toby is clearly more like me, fiercely loyal, loving, easy going and slightly out of control. If anyone is in control it’s Coco. Don’t believe me? Stop by our house at the dogs’ dinner time: there’s an untoward amount of pleading and bribing with cheese, lunchmeat, and chicken because Coco often refuses to eat but she takes a variety of medicines that must be given with food. I’ll do anything to get her to eat so she can take her medicine. All I care about is getting from Point A to Point B. I don’t care how we get there or who’s driving. I just want to get there and be done with it.
I’ve started to wonder why I have so little interest in control. I’m not disengaged or particularly passive, but I am exhausted. Let me explain: I write so I have an active universe of characters whose every move, mood, thought and interaction I control; after that I hardly have the energy to try and control any actual living being, Coco for example.
It’s a heady, powerful feeling this being an author, a writer. You dredge up characters from dreams, from imagination, from nothing and give them life and words, if not breath. With words I can evoke a mood, maybe elicit an emotion: laughter, tears, a nod of agreement. As release day inches closer I know that I will relinquish control of What Binds Us. I created the characters and wrote the story they told to me, a story I controlled to a great extent. But I cannot control the reader’s experience, the reader’s reaction to my story, to my characters. Nor do I want to. I write to make people see, to make them feel, but what they actually see, feel, think is hidden from me. I do, however, want to know what their experience is. And that’s what worries me—that readers won’t share their thoughts. So I’m issuing an open invitation: if you read the book, let me know what you think. Post a comment here or on my Facebook page, or email me.
Thanks.
* TSE = The Spousal Equivalent, aka Stanley
March 6, 2012
Life is Change, Changing
I had lunch with a friend last week. A senior human resources professional and an ethnographer, she is a woman whose formidable intelligence leaves me breathless…and slightly anxious. She asked me how I would finish the sentence “Life is…” I said “Life is not for the faint of heart.” Now that I have had a chance to think about it I would change what I said to: “Life is change.” All things change. All things flow. What we are today we will not be tomorrow. Life is change. I am change.
Like a lot of people, I have been many things: secretary, copy clerk, retail store manager, strategic communications professional. Each job, each job title adding a piece to the puzzle forming the terrifying, unexpected whole of me—the whole itself a motley, unreasonable compilation of my parents, my experiences, people I’ve known, or read of, and admired, characters from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels. As I approach publication of my first book, What Binds Us, on March 19, I can add another piece to the puzzle of me: author.
I am an author, a writer, a wordsmith. I am a man. I am black. I am gay. I am a gay, black man. I am a writer. Though, that is not all that I am, it certainly informs who I am just as every other facet of me informs, enriches each of the others.
I am a writer. I see the world not in colors or shapes but in words. If you see me staring at you on the street, don’t be offended for I don’t mean to be rude. I am merely trying to see you, trying to see into you, to capture and describe your particular youness, trying to describe the essence of you. Perhaps you will become a character in that other world inside my head, that other world that will eventually make its slow way onto paper.
No matter what I do next―even if I never publish another word―I will always be a writer. I. Am. A. Writer. That I am, at my core, a writer is as immutable, as constant a fact as my race, my orientation.
I am a writer…I scratch on the wall of my prison, daily, nightly, for I am a writer. These scratchings, they tell a story, if only you will listen, and like all prisoners, words set me, set us, free.
Like a lot of people, I have been many things: secretary, copy clerk, retail store manager, strategic communications professional. Each job, each job title adding a piece to the puzzle forming the terrifying, unexpected whole of me—the whole itself a motley, unreasonable compilation of my parents, my experiences, people I’ve known, or read of, and admired, characters from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels. As I approach publication of my first book, What Binds Us, on March 19, I can add another piece to the puzzle of me: author.
I am an author, a writer, a wordsmith. I am a man. I am black. I am gay. I am a gay, black man. I am a writer. Though, that is not all that I am, it certainly informs who I am just as every other facet of me informs, enriches each of the others.
I am a writer. I see the world not in colors or shapes but in words. If you see me staring at you on the street, don’t be offended for I don’t mean to be rude. I am merely trying to see you, trying to see into you, to capture and describe your particular youness, trying to describe the essence of you. Perhaps you will become a character in that other world inside my head, that other world that will eventually make its slow way onto paper.
No matter what I do next―even if I never publish another word―I will always be a writer. I. Am. A. Writer. That I am, at my core, a writer is as immutable, as constant a fact as my race, my orientation.
I am a writer…I scratch on the wall of my prison, daily, nightly, for I am a writer. These scratchings, they tell a story, if only you will listen, and like all prisoners, words set me, set us, free.
February 28, 2012
An Editor, I have an Editor
I’d thought the news that Carina Press had agreed to publish my book was big. Then I learned I’d been assigned an editor. I’d been assigned an editor—editor with a Capital E, I was sure. I was filled with a shaking terror as I imagined this formidable personage (surely he or she would have a British accent!)—a ruler-wielding mother superior ready to rap knuckles over every split infinitive, misplaced comma and dangling participle (though really what is, I wondered, an m/m romance without a few dangling participles?)
But she was surprisingly gentle with me (it was my first time, after all) as she beat, shaped and twisted this wordsmith into a writer then an author and a manuscript into a book.
She introduced herself via email. All of our meetings would be virtual as I was in Philadelphia and she worked from home in Cleveland, Ohio; “so I’m in the same time zone as New York (though without the super-cool night life, haha),” she wrote.
Virtual? What? What about my dreams of Very Important Meetings in walnut-paneled New York offices overlooking the Hudson? What about drinks at the Algonquin?
For first round edits, we focused on elements such as story structure, plot, characterization and pacing. The first scene she wanted to cut was one involving ice cream. She said it slowed the pacing and it was irrelevant to the story. It was not, I thought defensively—I wrote it and it’s a key scene, a glimpse into the very soul of Dondi. She was gently insistent. I thought about the anecdote some more and realized it was actually an inside joke, a sly reference that only my college roommate and his girl friend and I would understand. She was right it was irrelevant to the story. Out it went.
One of the main characters, Dondi, had a very distinctive way of speaking (think Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show , yet when he was around his mother he was different , even his manner of speech was different. To convey this, I wrote: “If he spoke in italics to his friends, to his mother, he spoke lower case Times New Roman.” Rhonda would have none of it saying, “Italics isn’t a font, to be technical. It’s a tweaking of a font…change this…Also, you can’t speak a font type.”
Now I loved that description. In the end I saw she was right and that sentence was excised from the manuscript. Still it haunts me like a lost love: we’d still be together if we had just done things differently. Maybe…If I had just written that sentence a little differently…maybe…
I’m working on my next book and looking forward to working with Rhonda. I’m thinking of slipping that sentence in just for old times’ sake. Maybe she’ll let me get away with it this time. Maybe…
But she was surprisingly gentle with me (it was my first time, after all) as she beat, shaped and twisted this wordsmith into a writer then an author and a manuscript into a book.
She introduced herself via email. All of our meetings would be virtual as I was in Philadelphia and she worked from home in Cleveland, Ohio; “so I’m in the same time zone as New York (though without the super-cool night life, haha),” she wrote.
Virtual? What? What about my dreams of Very Important Meetings in walnut-paneled New York offices overlooking the Hudson? What about drinks at the Algonquin?
For first round edits, we focused on elements such as story structure, plot, characterization and pacing. The first scene she wanted to cut was one involving ice cream. She said it slowed the pacing and it was irrelevant to the story. It was not, I thought defensively—I wrote it and it’s a key scene, a glimpse into the very soul of Dondi. She was gently insistent. I thought about the anecdote some more and realized it was actually an inside joke, a sly reference that only my college roommate and his girl friend and I would understand. She was right it was irrelevant to the story. Out it went.
One of the main characters, Dondi, had a very distinctive way of speaking (think Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show , yet when he was around his mother he was different , even his manner of speech was different. To convey this, I wrote: “If he spoke in italics to his friends, to his mother, he spoke lower case Times New Roman.” Rhonda would have none of it saying, “Italics isn’t a font, to be technical. It’s a tweaking of a font…change this…Also, you can’t speak a font type.”
Now I loved that description. In the end I saw she was right and that sentence was excised from the manuscript. Still it haunts me like a lost love: we’d still be together if we had just done things differently. Maybe…If I had just written that sentence a little differently…maybe…
I’m working on my next book and looking forward to working with Rhonda. I’m thinking of slipping that sentence in just for old times’ sake. Maybe she’ll let me get away with it this time. Maybe…
February 20, 2012
On Writing
I scratch on the wall of my prison, daily, nightly, for I am a writer. Nothing less, nothing more am I. These scratchings, they tell a story if only you will listen, and like all prisoners, words set me, set us, free.
I find myself 29 days out from publication of What Binds Us, my debut novel from Carina Press and I find most often people―writers and non-writer's alike―ask most often about the experience of writing. Here is my somewhat feeble attempt to explain my writing experience.
God whispers in the open shell of my ear. Words fall like tears, like snow, piling up, forming a soft carpet, impossible as a dream; or harder, an ice-packed snowball. Words fall, louder, faster―almost faster than I can write them down―forming sentences, the sentences anxious, rising up: a story waiting to be told.
I find myself 29 days out from publication of What Binds Us, my debut novel from Carina Press and I find most often people―writers and non-writer's alike―ask most often about the experience of writing. Here is my somewhat feeble attempt to explain my writing experience.
God whispers in the open shell of my ear. Words fall like tears, like snow, piling up, forming a soft carpet, impossible as a dream; or harder, an ice-packed snowball. Words fall, louder, faster―almost faster than I can write them down―forming sentences, the sentences anxious, rising up: a story waiting to be told.
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