Reading for GAY L.A.

The reading for Gay L.A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, and
Lipstick Lesbians by Stuart Timmons and Lillian Faderman was standing room only at Skylight last night.

Stuart signing books:


I was glad that I bought my copy at the West Hollywood book fair, because the line to get a copy signed was almost out the door. It was exciting to see that many people turn out. I hope this book is very successful since it relates history that's hidden or unknown even to people who think they know LA and think they know the history of the gay rights movement. While I'm enjoying the stories of closeted Hollywood, the parts of this book that really touch me are the personal tales of everyday citizens such as the women who felt she couldn't report a car accident because she knew the LAPD would at least threaten her and possibly arrest her for being gay - a real possibility given the notorious paramilitary thug mentality of the LAPD.


Trebor Healey, who emceed, models his t-shirt for the event:



Even though I showed up to cheer on Stuart, I was absolutely thrilled to find myself standing next to Malcolm Boyd. The whole time I was thinking, "This man is a civil rights legend! How cool is it that I'm talking to him?" Hopefully my inner dork didn't shine through while we chatted. If it did, he was much to kind to mention it. I'm sure there were tons of other notable people there, and I certainly recognized a number of men in the crowd from other readings, but I haven't matched up faces to names yet. It doesn't really matter. I don't go to these readings to meet famous writers (not that I mind it a bit). I go to support and celebrate books.

Iridescence Cover

Editor Jolie du Pre let us have a sneak peek at the cover of Iridescence which is coming out from Alyson sometime this winter. The picture reminds me a bit of Jolie, who is beautiful and smart and so fun to hang out with.

For some reason, my contribution, Tamales, was one of the hardest stories for me to write. The basic idea was good, but I had to twist and turn it over so many ways before I found the right perspective. I can't remember another short story that took that much effort. Hopefully it will flow so well for readers that they won't realize how much polish had to go into it. The first draft of any story is creative, but revision is the craft of writing, and its when I'm cursing and sweating over a piece that I feel like a real writer instead of a hobbyist.

Gay Day at Disneyland

I'm not sure who picks the day, or how word gets about, but in the middle of September, I always become aware that gay day is going to be some weekend in October at Disneyland. Most years I can't go, but today, I went with a group that calls itself "The Queerkateers" or sometimes "The QueerScouts."

Most of us wore red shirts, which was how we were supposed to recognize family. Of course, there are always the ones who don't wear red, but it was sort of easy to spot them. If two guys hugged and shared a brief kiss, chances were they were part of the tribe. If a guy walked off Splash Mountain, turned his back to his friend, and asked "did I get wet," and his friend quickly cupped his ass to feel for a wet spot, chances were pretty good neither one of them was hetero. If two women were walking around the park holding hands, a red shirt wasn't necessary.

Then there were the unintentional reds. We had a great time pointing out people in red who desperately clung to wives or girlfriends, as if they'd be dragged away otherwise. I saw some cruising, but for the most part, people were just hanging with friends. You know, like people do when they go to an amusement park - even gay people. Amazing how that happens. Humans acting like the rest of humanity. Not exactly revolutionary, radical, or offensive. Too bad some people couldn't see it that way. I was beside the Main Street City Hall and overheard a couple complaining to Disney staff about gays and lesbians in the park. "They were holding hands! We shouldn't be forced to stand in line with those kinds of people." (Direct quote from the man.)

First off - Gay Day is not an official Disney event. I'm sure Disney would put a stop to it if they could. (Never mind that half their staff seems to be family.)

Second - Some of the red shirts said "Gay Days 2006," but most of us wore whatever red t-shirt we owned, so it wasn't as if Disney could stop people from coming in who wore a certain shirt. The parks has been sued enough times for discrimination and civil rights abuses that they've wised up. (Best red t-shirts of the day "Hi. You'll Do," and, "I'm NOT with stupid. We just broke up.")

Third - As I pointed out above, not everyone who was gay was in red, and not everyone in red was gay.

Fourth - I see GBLT folk at Disneyland all the time on other weekends. If it weren't for the red shirts, would Mr. and Mrs. LittleMind have known who was gay? In their quest to have the lines segregated according to their narrow-minded view of who should be allowed out in public, did they also ask that Mexican families or Muslims be shunted off to the side? And did they stop to think that red shirts were MAYBE 2% to 5% of the entire crowd? I would have loved to have a special queuing area just for the Gay Days celebrants. Fewer feral kids, better eye candy, fun people to chat with in line, and that hour wait for Haunted Mansion would have been cut down to 15 minutes.

I know it's the job of Disney employees to mollify angry guests, but it would have been nice if the lady patiently listening to the couple whine would have said, "We have a rule against unaccompanied minors in the park, and since you two obviously still need to grow up, we're going to have to ask you to leave." Hey - it was Disneyland, the place for fantastic dreams.

GAY LA

I picked up my copy of this book at the West Hollywood Bookfair, but I'll probably try to get to this reading too. I'm several chapters in and enjoying it - even found a mention of a long gone dyke bar in my white-bread slice of suburbia.

So if you're in LA, come on out for:

What: Launch Reading and Party for

Gay L.A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, and
Lipstick Lesbians by Stuart Timmons and Lillian Faderman

Who: Dramatic readings by Priest/author Malcolm Boyd; cult diva Mink Stole; performance badboy John Fleck; and stunning actor Corey Saucier

When: Wednesday, October 11, 7:30 pm

Where: Skylight Bookstore, 1818 N. Vermont Ave, (323) 660-1175

I haven't met Lillian, but Stuart is great company. I'm wishing them all the best for this book.

Dildo Diaries!

Molly Ivins has a great (long) feature here called The Dildo Diaries.

that exposes (ahem) the lunacy of Texas dildo laws. Definitely Not Safe For Work, especially if you work in Texas!!!!!

Gosh, some of my favorite sex toys are spatulas and wooden spoons. I wonder how many of those I'm allowed to possess before I go beyond being a hobbyist and become a nefarious criminal? Oh wait. That ship may have already sailed.

Sold!

My novel Chaos Magic was accepted by a publisher earlier this week.

I should be ecstatic, but I'm wary. About two years ago, a different novel of mine was accepted by a new imprint of a fairly well known publisher. After contracts were signed, they sent a curt notice that they'd decided not to start the new imprint. (Cue a series of nasty e-mails from them which seemed to blame me for making them buy a book they didn't want in the first place - as if I'd forced them to accept it. I guess the idea there was to demoralize me from taking legal action against them. I didn't, but I have a long memory, which makes for interesting moments at parties where I run into their editors who try to hand me their business cards.) Now it's hard for me to believe anything until I see it happen, so the most I can summon up is cautious joy. Hopefully, as the publishing process progresses, my faith will be renewed.

A Day Late and 3,000 Words Short

Until I finish my current novel in progress, I've sworn off calls for submissions for short stories. There were two calls I wanted to submit to a couple months ago. I was able to write something for Iridescence (coming soon from Alyson Books) but couldn't for a GBLT science fiction call.

So I'm at this science fiction convention this past weekend, listening to David Brin talk about the screenplay for his fantastic novel Kiln People, when the perfect plot for a GBLT science fiction story pops into my head. Arrrrgh! Why didn't this happen four months ago? It's not as if my idea has anything to do with movies, screenplays, Kiln People, or David Brin. Nope. Completely unrelated. So why, oh why, oh why couldn't I have thought of this sooner?

Actually, I did. One random little thought that made me raise my eyebrow, but nothing came of it. That thought must have been wandering around in the back of my brain collecting images and other ideas like a dust bunny under the bed until it was big enough that it caught my imagination.

Someone, please, put out a call for another GBLT science fiction anthology! I swear I'll submit this one.

Huh?

I'll admit to a gallows sense of humor, but even I raised an eyebrow at bags of Disney's OLD YELLER dog food. Someone at Disney didn't think that one through. I could imagine the ads: If he's a-sufferin', son, you know what you have to feed him.

*shivers*

Please pull that creepy product off the grocery shelves.

Putting it Off

Through the years, as I've gone to writer's conferences, I've learned how to answer the delicate question of, "What do you write?" The two possible answers are speculative fiction and erotica. I get the same horrified expression for both, but when I say erotica, people tend to move to another table. But this weekend I'll be in the world of speculative fiction, and I can let my inner geek hang out.

I'm on two panels for Conjecture this year. Thank goodness they always put me on the bawdy late night panel. It doesn't always start off on the topic of sex, but we can read our midnight audience pretty well and soon boldly go where no earlier panel has gone before.

I'm also on the writing track this year, which is wonderful. Last year, I was one of three published authors sitting in on round table critiques. Reading chapters, writing a detailed critique, and then holding a critique session in person is a lot of work, so I'm glad they aren't doing them again this year and instead went to panels.

The panel I was assigned was Overcoming Writer's Block. I rarely suffer from writer's block, but writer's procrastination is another story. Considering that I have the high score on every computer game in the house, I consider myself an expert at avoiding writing. I have two chapters due to my own critique group this weekend, but am I working on them? Let's just say that my Cubis score has never been higher.

Writer's block, to me, is not being able to create a story. I have no problem with that. There are so many stories in my head - some have been there for years - that I always have something I could be working on. My problem is having something to write but not doing it. What stops me? Different things. Sometimes it's simply a difficult chapter to write. Deeply emotional scenes are physically hard on me. While it takes a reader twenty minutes to read, it takes me weeks to write, and if it's a downer scene, then I'm in a funk that whole time. Sometimes I put off writing because I'm waiting for something to click in that scene and I don't want to waste time putting down words I know I'll delete. Other times I feel that I'm at diverging paths in the story, and I need to get some distance from what I'm writing so that I can see clearly the path that will take me where I need to go.

Recognizing the reasons why I'm not writing is only part of the solution. Finding ways around it are a bit harder. I have my tricks, like skipping scenes ahead to something that grabs me, or simply being very stern with myself, or takign a break to write a short story, but they don't always work. So even though I'm on the panel, I'm hoping to take away some ideas.

Meanwhile - I have those chapters to polish... right after I add a couple thousand points to my Cubis score.

In the Canyons

LA has been described many ways - usually by people who hate it - but here's my version: LA is like a large Japanese teahouse. Each community, each industry, each ethnic group, is a room. While you're in one, you're vaguely aware that the others exist, but it isn't until you wander the hallways that you get glimpses into these other universes that co-exist in time and space with yours. When you meet someone, you connect to all the other universes they touch, and you are their bridge to your worlds. The trick is to keep roaming the hallways and making those connections - because they can transport you to entire galaxies you never guessed existed without ever taking you out of LA.

Last Saturday, I was invited to a party in the hills south of Pasadena. It's been years since I've been into those canyons. It is a different world. A different LA.

In the canyon, at what I hoped was the right place, I found modest sign beside a nearly invisible flight of stairs. After a moment of doubt, I climbed the stairs and found myself on a steep, winding trail that supposedly lead to a house. The trail was lit by dim tubing, and halfway up (at least I hoped I was halfway up by then) I started wondering if perhaps it was a practical joke. There were some scary drop-offs from the side, and no handrail - a good reminder to be sober when I came back down the trail. A couple turn-backs later, around thick California underbrush, I found a house.

I'd met one of the hosts at the Hollywood Book Fair. He's been a music critic and the editor of a fitness magazine. Other guests included a singer, several poets, and some academics who also write, in their words, "Everything." This is the artistic side of LA, a side I seldom get to see. The movie industry overwhelms all the other arts, but they are here. This time I got lucky and looked into the right room of the teahouse at the right time.

It was fun to sit on the floor and drink wine while people read poetry to me, or sang, or offered a performance art work-in-progress. Creative people have such energy around them and I soak it in. Writers I love most, but all arts feed other arts, so it's good to connect with the creators of other artistic worlds and get a new perspective on the world - theirs and mine.

I need to keep an eye out for this niche and delve into it more often. It's probably everywhere around me. I just need to be more receptive to the signs. Or maybe I'll get lucky and friends will keep pointing to narrow trails leading to the hidden houses where artistic LA lives.

The Near Truth

The past year has been hard on truth. So many literary fakes have been exposed. The tales of JT Leroy, James Frey, and Kaavya Viswanathan made for interesting reading, but they also pointed out how publishers sell the writer's persona, not the book, nowadays, something I hate. The work is the only thing that matters. Of course, when the deception is exposed, the publishers throw up their hands and say, "We were duped! We're victims here." Uh-huh. Sob into those book sales figures, hon.

Recently, a new poster appeared on a forum I read regularly. She claimed to have breast cancer. The sad saga went on for about two months, with lapses explained away as emergency trips to the hospital. I'm a suspicious person, so I didn't get involved in her story, but many of the forum jumped right in with advice and offers to help. Over time, though, she got a little sloppy about her details. (Note to self: when carrying out some sick minded prank, keep damn good notes. Second note to self: Figure out how people make a buck off these hoaxes. There's no other reason to put that much energy into a lie.) One month she was married and had kids, the next, she was all alone in the world. When some of the less credulous forum members linked up all the inconsistencies and confronted her, she came on under a different name, proclaimed herself a close friend, and posted an obituary culled from the local newspaper. It didn't match up with any of the other info posted, but what the heck, right? Besides, a good corpse is hard to find on short notice. The forum was not amused.

Which brings me to The Night Listener. I read Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City last year. It was probably revolutionary when it was first published, but I shrugged. Every time people swore what a great writer Maupin was, I smiled, nodded, and changed the subject. Even writers I normally trust couldn't convince me to give him another try. Then someone on the forum brought up the book in a conversation about the breast cancer hoax and I thought, well, it's only two days out of my life to read it, give it a shot. Now I'm glad I did.

Everything Maupin said about being a writer made me nod in recognition. I loved the way the main character Gabriel needs to believe in Pete. Most of all, I loved the anger he felt when people around him brought doubt and doses of reality into the fantasy, and the way Gabriel kept searching for new ways to keep the faith. That was so real. That's the way people are. Bringing that kind of truth to the reader is the mark of a truly great book. So I'm highly recommending The Night Listener. Oh, I see you rolling your eyes. Maybe Tales of the City wasn't for you, but trust me on this one. It's the truth. (send me a buck?)

How Small is the World?

A couple days ago, I saw a news flash about a military coup in Thailand.

As much as I hate what's happening in the US right now - the stealth war on the First Amendment, the overt war against gays - and what the US is doing to the rest of the world - how many civilian Iraqis have died? - I fully appreciate that I can take for granted the peaceful transition of power following an election. Not so in other countries. As much as you might debate the outcome of the first election that let W get his grubby little hands on power (don't get me started), when we have an election, the results matter. Even when the party in power loses, all they do is pitch a fit. They don't send tanks into the street and nullify the outcome.

One of my editors lives in Thailand. As soon as I read about the coup, I shot off an email to her in the hopes that she still had internet access. I had no idea what I could do for her if she was in danger, but I had to at least offer. I also alerted our writing list. She got many concerned emails. As it turns out, she was a lot calmer about the situation than I was. Sort of took it in stride.

I'm grateful for the internet for a lot of reasons, but this ability to reach beyond borders out to people I know - if only through the internet - is wonderful. It makes the world smaller, more personal, and reminds me how interconnected we can be.

The Fifth Conjecture

I'll be at the Fifth Conjecture Science Fiction Convention in San Diego Sept. 29 - Oct. 1.

This year's theme is women in science fiction, so I'll be sure to wear my Mary Shelley "Who's Your Mama?" t-shirt. It looks as if I may also man (woman?) a table for Broad Universe, which is a list for female science fiction writers and their fans.

Another BroadU list member will be there, and she's talking about getting a time slot for a reading. I'm not so sure how I feel about that. I suppose you could call Red By Any Other Name and Kells horror stories, Orbiting In Retrograde science fiction, Candy Conversation Hearts paranormal, and Sex Karma and She Comes Stars speculative fiction, but Conjecture doesn't feel like the right venue to be reading those. If this other writer gets a time slot, I think I'll take a hint from my t-shirt and read from the book that started it all: Frankenstein.

Amazing Day

I went to the West Hollywood book fair today. Ran into friends who I expected to see - D. Travers Scott and Trebor Healey - and met some people I didn't expect to.

The person I really wanted to see was Stuart Timmons. I met him at a poetry reading a month ago and got very interested in the book he had coming out. Stuart (with Lillian Faderman) wrote Gay LA., A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, and Lipstick Lesbians. L.A. Always seems like a city without history, so I was looking forward to reading about L.A. history in general. I will read it soon and post a review.


Other people I met -

Ali Leibgott. Her The Beautifully Worthless is just the most amazing piece of work. I was so thrilled to tell her that in person.

Jim Tushinski. I told him how much I enjoyed Van Allen's Ecstasy.

Fiona Zedde was a pleasant surprise. After hearing so much buzz about her, it was nice to see that it wasn't hype. I like smart women. I may pick up her book.

Max Pierce's Master of Seacliff isn't coming out for a couple months, but I'm hearing really good advance word on it.

And the surprise of the day - Tony Valenzuela. He contributed to Inside Him also, so I introduced myself as a fellow writer. If we find someone else in L.A., maybe we'll do a reading, but we didn't talk very long about it. At least he's aware that I'm around.

It was a very hot day. We melted. Still, it was everything I like in a day - hanging with writers and celebrating written word.

Oh, I Get It, It's a Profit Deal!

I saw this headline on yahoo news: New prize for unpublished manuscripts, so of course I had to read the story.

I'm not big on writing contests, but I have entered a very few. Randy haiku on Good Vibes, the Rock Me Baby contest on Clean Sheets, and the typewriter contest on Desdmonas.Com. I've placed well, but honestly, I did it so that my name would appear on more Google searches. (Not a problem now, but when I started writing, I wanted my name out there.)

It's not germane to my writing, but my degree is in finance, with an emphasis on monetary theory. The finance degree allows me to make a living where my writing doesn't. Since graduating though, I have evoked the terms "velocity of money" and "money multipliers" only twice. Both times, I used them to point out to art divas that all profit is not evil, despite their starry-eyed Kum By Yah philosophies. (At that point, the discussion went right over their sanctimonious heads and they resorted to spouting more art diva "feed my inner muse" crap.)

The point here is that I'm not anti-profit. How profit is earned, and what's done with it are different matters, but profit in itself isn't good or evil. It's the reason why we bother to get out of bed in the morning.

But since I am a financial type, the first thing I did was throw some numbers into a spread sheet and have a look at this contest. Hmmm. The payout - $100,000 to the winner, $25,000 to second place, $10,000 to runner up, and $7,000 in other prizes, - adds up to $142,000 in expenses, assuming no administrative overhead, PR costs, etc.
A maximum of 50,000 manuscripts will be accepted, at $85 a pop for an entry fee.

He probably won't get 50,000 entries, but there are a lot of desperate writers out there. If he does get all 50,000, his income is $4,250,000. Minus the cost of prizes, he walks away with $4,108,000 profit. All he promises is that:"As the winners' agent, we will nurture them, introduce them to publishers and negotiate the best deal for them," Shomron said.

That doesn't mean you'll be published. It only means you'll have an agent.

You know, for $4,108,000, even minus the taxes, I could start one hell of a small press. For 4 million dollars, I could have a print-on-demand house print your book, slap a sticker on it with the name of my small press, distribute it for free, and still have money to hire a sexy cabana boy for my new swimming pool (outside my new McMansion).

But what if he doesn't get 50,000 manuscripts? What if there are only 45,000 desperate writers with $85 to blow on a shot at $100,000? Profit of over 3.6 million. Even at 1/10th of his limit, 5,000 entries, he clears $283,000 after expenses. Not too shabby. How much do you earn per year? His break even point, by the way, is 1,671 entries (leaving $35 dollars of profit.)

Come to think of it.... where's my spread sheet? Let's think of this as a lottery with an $85 ticket price with a 1 in 50,000 shot at winning the $100,000 top prize. If you were to enter 1,000 manuscripts, and you won, you'd walk away with a profit of $6,500 before taxes. I doubt your entry fees would be tax deductible as expenses, so you'd probably want to max out at 600 entries, which would leave you a tidy after-tax profit of $24,500. Not bad. Is that more in the range of your annual take home pay? Probably. Purely on the odds, if 50,000 people enter, you have a one in 83 chance of winning. But if only 1671 do, your chances pop up to 1 in 2.78. That's better than the California lotto! And hey, with this guy as your agent, you might even possibly sell the book to a real publisher and make a couple thousand on top of that. Sweet.

Who's in?

This Just Added

Trebor Healey sent this announcement to me:

Hope you can stop by and see us if you're at the fair. I'll be reading from my new poetry book, Sweet Son of Pan.


dennis gill healey kearns
mac kinnon valenzuela vavasseur


q u e e r renegades


weho book fair

robertson salon
sunday sept 17
2:30--3:30
spread the word

West Hollywood Book Fair

I'm looking forward to this coming Sunday and the West Hollywood Book Fair. Friend D. Travers Scott (One of These Things Is Not Like The Other, contributor to the comic The Book Of Boy Trouble) is on a panel with wunderkind GBLT writer Fiona Zedde and the talented Jim Tushinski (his Van Allen's Ecstay was very good.)

There are a lot of great panels, many for speculative fiction and comics, so I'm having to make hard choices between panels I'll attend. That will get tossed out the window when I meet up with some of the writers I've promised to meet. And that plan will probably change if I run into Trebor Healey (Sweet Son of Pan, Through It Came Bright Colors). My only non-negotiable panel is titled Legacies: Word from Legendary LGBT Authors because Stuart Timmons will be on it. I met Stuart at a reading at Skylight Books by Justin Chin (Attack of the Man Eating Lotus Blossom) and Trebor. Even though I didn't have much of a chance to talk to him, I was impressed. He has a book coming out on the gay history of LA - titled Gay L.A: A History of Social Vagrants, Hollywood Rejects, and Lipstick Lesbians, that is on my must read list when it's released.

Even though this book fair is in WeHo, GBLT writers are (sadly) only a small part of the offerings. If you live in LA, and you love books, check it out. You intrepid reporter will, of course, blog about it, but that's nothing like being there.

Now all I have to do is figure out how I'm going to lug around all the books I know I'm going to buy.

The Murk In The Middle of the Novel

Two years ago at Saints and Sinners, I went to a master class taught by Jim Grimsley titled: The Murk In The Middle Of The Novel. I don't think there's a better word than murk to describe how muddled things get when you're two months and ten chapters into a novel. Or as I'm now visualizing it - the forest for the trees.

Writing is sort of like hiking. For most people, the destination is where they begin mentally. "I want to get to this place. How do I get there?" Next they find the trailhead, the place where the path begins. Then they start to hike. The problems arise along the way when the trees close in. It's easy to loose sight of both the beginning and the end.

Referring to my notes from the class, Jim mentioned that one of the problems of writing a novel is that you can't hold the whole novel in your head the same way you can a short story. Exactly! You have to pay attention to where you are while keeping the destination in mind, but there's no room in the brain for the minute details of the entire path. Jim also reminded us that the only direction is forward. Every sentence has to move the story towards the end. No scenic routes, no interesting but useless asides, no looping back stories - just keep moving towards the end.

So where the hell am I?

I knew the story I wanted to tell, which means I began with a clear destination in mind.

Finding the trailhead was tricky. I wrote (and discarded) at least 7,000 words before I knew the best time frame for the story. But once I stumbled on the right opening, the pacing fell into place.

Everything flowed so well the first several chapters. I was in the zone. My vision of my destination was still clear in my mind, and I knew I'd chosen the best beginning.

After that, things began to bog down. I hit the murk.

I realized that I'd packed too much, and plot was weighing me down. Time to rummage through the story and discard everything that was nice, but not essential. If it didn't focus on the MC, I chucked it. If it didn't move me forward, I deleted it. Painful, yes, but essential. Out in the middle of the wilderness, it's survival of the fittest, baby. Only a streamlined, unencumbered story can go the distance.

There are writers who believe in beginning a story with no exact destination in mind. They simply head out into the wilderness with blind faith that if they wander around long enough they will eventually stumble onto a story. "It's out here," they mumble, "I'm bound to pass it." They call themselves organic writers. I believe that if you have no idea where you're headed, you won't recognize your destination even if you should, by some miracle or sheer dumb luck, run into it 250,000 words later. It seems so inefficient. (This from the person who wrote 7,000 words before she knew where to start.)

Then there's the opposite side of the coin - the outliners. They plan out each step of the journey before the first step. The problem there is the lack of flexibility. If you march along and never deviated from plan, you can miss some cool, unexpected stuff along the way, like themes your subconscious weaves into the story that only jump out at you during the rewrite. It also assumes that you planned everything perfectly from the start, and no surprises will happen (such as having to dump scads of secondary characters and side plots).

Usually, I have a mental outline, but I keep it very flexible. If it isn't on paper, it can't be set in stone. This time, I put down general plot points and pacing notes in chapter order in my working document, sort of as a head's up of where I needed to go next. It wasn't a full outline, but at least it was a decent map that gave me some idea of the terrain I'd be passing.

As I flounder around in the murk, I realize that the sequence of events needs to change so that I have a steady emotional uphill climb to the end, with a few plateaus to give myself and the readers a chance to absorb the view and catch our breath. But no matter what, I'm keeping my eye on the destination. I'm not letting it move to suit the path. I'm forcing the path to stay on target to the destination.

Now all I have to do is find my way out of the murk and move forward. The end is in sight. Only four more chapters to go! At least I know I can get there from here.

Mixed Feelings

Zane is a fabulously popular black erotica writer who is fast becoming a cottage industry for ethnic erotica. She put out a call for submissions for short stories for a new erotic anthology titled Caramel Flava, which was to feature Hispanic, Latino, and/or brown main characters. Many writers were put off by the tone of the call for submissions. I was too, but damn if I didn't think of a story, Tomorrow's Saints, so I submitted it. Writer friend Teresa Lamai also submitted something. As far as I know (or anyone would confess) we were the only two from the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association lists who did.

Later, Teresa happily reported that her story was accepted. We all did a happy dance for her as the pay rate for Flava is better than most anthologies, the number of copies being printed approaches a mainstream release, Zane's name has enough power to put those books on the tables at the entrance of a bookstore, and the book might even grab a coveted "featured" display.

Since I didn't receive an acceptance letter, I assumed my story was rejected. Writing rejection letters might not be fun for editors, but it's part of their job, damn it. Was I supposed to wait until I saw it in a bookstore to find out- nearly a year later- when I could have been submitting that story to other publishers? That seems to be the general idea. It truly angers me that some editors treat writers with such disregard. (Which is why I'm usually so careful about who I submit to. Every editor I've worked with so far I'd happily work with again, even some who have rejected stories.)

As I said, I assumed my story was rejected, but to make sure, I sent an email and mailed a formal letter requesting the status of my story. They never bothered to answer. Another serious breach of professional manners. Ugh. So I put them on my "Do Not Submit To In The Future" list. End of story, right? Nope.

A couple months ago I got an email telling me that my story was being seriously considered for Flava II. They didn't ask if it was still available, or if I had any interest in letting them publish it. As irritated as I was, because of the positives listed above, I bit my tongue and decided to wait to see what happened. Strangely enough, Teresa Lamai got the same email. She commented that she thought they had her story in Flava I, but apparently not.

Last night, Teresa posted a comment to the list that she'd received copies of Flava I and her story was in it after all. But - I'm cringing for her - they edited grammatical errors into the first two paragraphs of her story. This is a serious problem. We writers only get a paragraph or two to grab our readers. If the work is unreadable, the reader moves on. While Zane's reputation rests on the sales of several books, Teresa's professional reputation is on the line with that one story - a reputation that the editor working for Zane's publisher damaged. And the insane part is that it's a sin of commission, not omission. The editor changed Teresa's words from beautiful to illiterate. It was done on purpose by people who supposedly know their way around a copy of Strunk & White's.

I'm seriously considering withdrawing my story from submission. These people have not impressed me with their professionalism, and now I fear what they might do to my story. Since they have yet to respond to a letter from me, I doubt they'd notice a formal withdrawal from consideration though. The other choice is to red-line the contract (if I get one) so that I have final say over edits. That won't make me popular with the publisher, but at least it will save me the humiliation Teresa is facing.

By the way - Teresa's story will also be in next year's Mammoth Book of Erotica which is edited by Maxim Jakubowski. I suggest you wait to read it there, where it will appear in it's original, unmutilated, form.

Pere Lachaise

I'm writing about my travels out of the order that they went in, so it seems appropriate that the last entry I plan to make is about our first day.

We got to our hotel five hours before we could check in. As is our usual habit, we checked the bags, and went out to scout the city. Instead of wandering aimlessly, I had a destination in mind. It didn't look at far on the map. I should have checked the scale. An hour later, we found the front gates of Pere Lachaise cemetery.

(Some images from the cemetery before my camera died)


There were many gravesites I wanted to visit. Proust, Balzac, Isodora Duncan, Gertrude Stein, Chopin, Seurat... After climbing the first two hills, which were quite steep, the SO admitted that he didn't care to see Oscar Wilde's final resting place. I went on alone. Near Victor Noir's rather well endowed memorial, an older man walked alongside me and talked. My brain was mush from the trip, and my very limited French is atrocious, so I wondered if I should even try to tell him that I didn't understand a word he was saying. Finally, I decided I had to. Apparently, I'm more charming in French then I am in English. Either that, or he has a thing for jet-lagged, unshowered, rumpled women who hike around graveyards. Whatever. I was a little relieved when I finally lost him.

Oscar Wilde's gravestone was a trip. If you go to the Pere Lachiase website, you can see the art deco carving on the top of the monument, but what they don't show is the four feet of smooth granite below it which is covered, on all four sides, with lip prints. Absolutely covered. Unfortunately, my camera died before I got to it, so I don't have my own pictures. I didn't even get a shot of Jim Morrison's unimpressive memorial stone, which I would have missed if it hadn't been for the goth chick in red fishnets leaning against a nearby family tomb.

I found the SO alseep on a bench in the middle of the cemetery, right where I'd left him. We hiked back to the hotel, and even though we were there a little bit before check-in, they took pity on us and let us into the room. I have to say, every person we dealt with in Paris was very helpful, sometimes above and beyond the call of duty, and reasonably friendly. We did mind our French manners - greeting waiters and clerks as soon as we entered a place, and always starting off speaking French - but no one was rude. That being said, I probably won't go back. Italy, however... I'm counting the days until I can get back to Rome.

Good Luck Charms

I must have a natural homing instinct for these kinds of things. Our tour guide in Pompeii never mentioned the proliferation of penis carvings outside buildings, but I found quite a few. It turned into a scavenger hunt for me, which made the whole Pompeii experience much more entertaining. Since our tour guide pretended not to hear my question about the carvings, I had to look up information when we got home. A penis was a good luck charm, (No doubt. Being female in those days sucked.), or to ward off evil (Beware, I wield the dick of death!).




I wondered if these also served as directional arrows. (Hangs right, straight to head - er - ahead.)



Oh look- wine, penises, and food! Talk about a full service restaurant. Or maybe it was a craftsman's shop. The finest in goblets, cutlery, and cock.

I know that the Romans loved their erotic art, and during the excavation of Pompeii, archeologist found quite a bit. We asked our surly tour guide where we could view some of the collection. (Many of the adults on the tour sidled close to hear her answer, but tried very hard to act as if they weren't listening. Pussies.)After giving us a withering glance, she curtly told us that it was housed outside of the main area in a building that was only open on the weekends. Curses! Foiled! I would have liked to have seen prancing Priapus and satyrs knocking it out with nymphs. That was probably my only chance. I don't think I'll ever go to Pompeii again. It was interesting, and worth the visit, but it was touristy as hell, hot, muggy, and I broke out in hives from the volcanic ash in the dust. It isn't a true vacation unless I have a violent allergic reaction to something. I guess I should have brought along my penis good luck charm to ward off evil dust devils.

Past My Comfort Zone

Obviously, I like to travel. I'd rather have experiences than things, which is good, because the hovel is stuffed to the rafters with books, and there's no room for anything else.

The best thing about travel, especially outside the US, is the way it forces me past comfort zones. Going to a grocery store in Rome is not the same as a trip in the US, and the one in Rome is completely different from the one in Paris. I can't take anything for granted. In a small Italian town, they wanted us to put on plastic gloves before handling the fruits and veggies. In another town, we weren't even allowed to touch the stuff until we bought it. In France, we had to weigh everything in the produce section and put price stickers on it before going to the checkout.

Being forced to rethink every small detail of daily life is a great hands-on lesson in point of view. Some people find that unnerving and get angry - huffing about how "they do it all wrong here." That defensive attitude makes learning from the experience impossible. You have to be open to it. Not comfortable, simply open. When I'm pushed past my comfort zones, my heightened awareness makes time seem to slow and everything takes on a ritualistic feel. I have to concentrate on the process. I have to be more observant.

It's a humbling experience to realize that you, not them, may be the one doing it all wrong- for that place. There is no one right way to do anything. There are many ways. Accept that, and it's a whole new world, even when you get back into your comfort zone.

Montmarte

A view of Montmartre from the Musee D'Orsay after the rain stopped:


We ate lunch in Montmarte between rain showers. Our authentically surly French waiter tried to talk us into going inside, but we wanted to people watch. The waiter shrugged and sat us outside. Immediately, artists swooped down on us like articulated pigeons. Did we want a sketch done? No. They'd do it for free, and if we liked it we could buy it, they cooed. Our waiter came by and shooed them away, but as soon as he went inside, a new flock descended. Our waiter muttered colorful curses (if our French speaking friend was to be believed) and threatened to kick the artists in the ass each time he came by. He was the best part of lunch.



It was late, well after eleven, when we headed back to our hotel. A violinist serenaded us in the tunnels leading to the Metro. There was an accordion player in our car on the first Metro train, and a puppet show in the aisle of the third one we took. The kids were asleep on their feet, but they clapped and begged for coins to tip the puppeteer and musicians. We emptied our pockets into their hands and set them over to drop the coins in the hat. That's my favorite memory of our time in Paris.

Museums in Paris

I suppose you don't have to go to the Louvre while in Paris, but it's such a huge structure that it's hard to miss.

I love museums, but I wasn't all that impressed with the Louvre. There. I admitted it. Said the unthinkable. It simply has so much and is so big that I quickly got burnout. A lot of the collection is artwork Napoleon (and his army) looted while he was terrorizing Europe, and even though the Louvre building is very grand, I had this feeling of being in a plundered booty warehouse.

After a couple hours of that, we strolled through the Tuileries and took the squirrelly nephews and niecelet to a carnival there. While they bounced off the walls of a huge trampoline, we sipped espresso at an outdoor cafe. I noticed a rainbow angle statue, and then a small rainbow flag on the espresso machine, and also a rainbow bear flag on the cooler. Hmmm. Was tempted to ask, but our (very nice) Parisian bartender spoke no English and my French is limited to "Excuse me, Madame, for butchering your beautiful language and taking your valuable time, but could you point in some vague direction that will supposedly get me to a bathroom? I'd be ever so grateful."

After we rested, the member of our party who knew Paris hiked us across the Seine to the Musee D'Orsay. He took us straight up to the 5th floor, where the impressionists paintings were displayed. If I had known, I would have skipped the Louvre and just gone to that museum. Monet, Degas, Van Gogh... it seemed as if every other painting was one I'd seen in an art book. It was simply the finest collection of art I'd seen anywhere. If I had to make the choice, I'd never set foot in the Louvre again.

The Ruins of Pompeii

There was so much to see in Pompeii.






I may not be into fashion, but I'm all for this gondolier's Dolce and Gabbana look.






And proof that Paris is for lovers....

Vacation Reading

With the heightened security, we were afraid that we wouldn’t be allowed to bring anything onto the plane with us. Restrictions changed daily. We had only carry-on luggage, but were forced to check it. Our traveling companions went through Heathrow and weren’t even allowed to bring books on board. I vowed to one friend that I’d be willing to take a nibble from every page of a book to prove it was real if security demanded it. Lucky for me, I wasn’t forced to eat anyone’s words, and I got to have my books.

Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty got me from LA to about the middle of the Atlantic. It's a good novel, and I understand that BBC made a movie from it, but I had a hard time being truly interested in the main character.

Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go was my companion from Paris to Rome. In the finest tradition of science fiction, this story uses alternate reality to examine the definition of humanity. Strongly recommended.

While in Rome, I read Jim Thompson's The Grifters. This was one of the few times I'd say the movie was better than the book. The novel has an extraneous character that gets in the way. The screenwriter was smart to tighten the focus to a triangle between Moira, Ray, and Ray's mom, Lily. Jim Thompson could write a plot, but he sure tells everything, never showing - which is a big no-no in contemporary writing.

In preparation for Venice, I then read John Berendt's City of Falling Angels. Like his Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, this is more a collection of anecdotes about a city and the people who live there than a single story. Still, he has the talent to pull it off - in style. If you’re headed to Venice, I strongly recommend this. My only disappointment was the difficulty of finding English translations of Mario Stefani's poetry, as the story of the poet’s suicide and will captured my attention. Having finished City of Falling Angels the day before we went to see the Peggy Guggenheim collection, I was amused to find books written by Jane Rylands, who came off as a near villain in Berendt's story, for sale in the museum gift shop.

Due to a train schedule problem, we had to head back to Paris the long way - Venice to Milan, Milan to Nice, Nice to Paris. 20 hours. I meant to sleep most of the way, but when you’re traveling along the Mediterranean in Southern France and Monaco, it’s hard to ignore the scenery outside the window. Once the sun set though, I pulled out a book.

I like Raymond Chandler's prose, but his homophobia is laughable. I must read his biography and see if he was gay. His lingering, lavish physical descriptions of men and throw-away details of women raised my eyebrow, but in every one of his novels, he has a beautiful boy but then makes some nasty comment about gay men just to prove his detective isn't turned on. Internalized homophobia? I smell a closet.

After I finished The Big Sleep, I still had hours of train travel ahead of me. Our traveling companions had a galley of Patricia Marx's Him Her Him Again The End of Him. They took pity on me and passed it across the aisle. I think it will be released in early 2007. Patricia is a former SNL writer and other TV shows, as well as pieces in Spy, The New Yorker, Vogue, Time, etc. By the time I finished her novel, everyone in our compartment was dead to the world, so I shut off my reading light and got some sleep too.

Our vacation was almost at an end by then. Good thing. I was down to one book - Raymond Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely - and the SO was reading it. The nerve! So I read his Steven Saylor novel, Roman Blood. I got the SO hooked on Steven's series. I'm hooked myself. I love detective novels, and the ancient Rome setting makes it all that more interesting. After I devoured that, I impatiently tapped my foot while the SO finished my book. Incompatible reading speeds do not make for happy traveling companions. The SO was lucky I didn’t rip my book out of his hands. I dangled my copy of the Grifters in front of him, to no avail. As I said, I like Chandler’s prose, so I’m reading through his list. If you’re offended by racism, misogyny, or homophobia, I wouldn’t suggest his work, because it’s rife with it. If you can grit your teeth and get past it, and you like your detectives hard-boiled, go for it.

Museum of Erotic Art - Venice

Two weeks without telephones, computers, or e-mail. Lucky for me, there were plenty of other distractions.



The Museum of Erotic Arts in Venice is one block off Piazza San Marco. The four-storey building features many ink drawings, pictures, photographs, and art. Most of it did nothing for me, but the SO quite liked a series of modern photos of women in Venetian Carnival garb by Alexander Dupouy. I felt that the two best pieces were in the lobby, before the ticket counter. They were glass goblets with incredibly detailed 4-inch high figurines in S&M garb. Dominique Regnier's sculptures invited me with "Please DO Touch" signs, and it was wonderful to run my hands over the cool stone.

Worth the visit, and the entrance fee included a glass of wine.

Much Ado About Lost Girls

Writer Amanda Earl posted a query about Alan Moore's upcoming Lost Girls graphic novel that follows the adult lives of Alice (of Alice in Wonderland), Wendy (of Peter Pan) and Dorothy (from the Wizard of Oz)to the ERWA writer's list, and posted this bit from an interview about the book:

"Certainly it seemed to us [Moore and Gebbie]
that sex, as a genre, was woefully
under-represented in literature. Every other
field of human experience, even rarefied ones like
detective, spaceman or cowboy, have got whole
genres dedicated to them. Whereas the only genre
in which sex can be discussed is a disreputable,
seamy, under-the-counter genre with absolutely no
standards: [the pornography industry] which is a
kind of Bollywood for hip, sleazy ugliness."Alan
Moore, interview with Science Fiction Weekly
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lost_Girls


While I am a fan of Mr. Moore's work, I surprised, and disappointed, that someone who works in a medium that is maligned by people who have no idea how its changed and the quality of current work would turn around and malign another genre. It also makes me wonder which Bollywood movies he's seen.

Erotica has come a long way in the past ten years, but quality erotica has been around a long time. The Story of O was published in 1955. Other wonderful works have been around for some time. Justine by the Marquis de Sade, Venus in Furs by Sacher-Masoch, Fear of Flying, Fanny Hill, Lolita, The Sleeping Beauty Series, Lofting... And that's just the novels! Anais Nin, Lisabet Sara, Greg Wharton, Kate Dominic, Mike Kimera, M. Christian, and Ian Philips have published quality collections of erotic short stories. Best Women's Erotica, an annual anthology from Cleis Press, showcases quality writing, as do Susie Bright's Best American Erotica and Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Erotica, also annual editions. That only scratches the surface. There are gay and lesbian erotica anthologies, BDSM, cowboys, motorcycles, vampires... None of which are sold "under the counter." Sleaze, I suppose, is in the eye of the beholder. To me, ugliness is blatant prejudice and willful ignorance.

Of course there's crap work out there. Many beginner writers assume that anyone can be published in erotica so it's a good place to start, and there are websites that will take any content, so some of those beginner writers do get "published." While I hate to see that out there dragging down the image of the genre, I believe that people have a right to read poorly written crap if they want to. They certainly deserve to if they don't seek better. But it isn't hard to find quality either. Clean Sheets, The Erotica Readers and Writer's Association, and Velvet Mafia, to name a very few, showcase well written stories.

As for Lost Girls - I might read it, I might not. But I assure you that I will approach it with a far more open mind than Mr. Moore.

Hell of a time to be flying

I can sure pick a week to have lots of air time ahead of me. Thank goodness we aren't flying out of London. They won't even allow books on board. Hours on a plane with nothing to read but the sky mall catalog. Shopping while in a plane. Two things that are bad enough alone, but combined? *shudder*

Maybe I'll write sonnets on the back of an air sickness bag. To the Dude in Front of Me Who Just Had to Put the Seat Back so That I Have Zero Leg Room or, You Fucking Self Absorbed Bastard - a love poem.

Argh!

No, I have not turned into a pirate.

Is there anything more annoying than losing a book? It's a trick question. Right now, there's nothing more annoying. Tomorrow in traffic, I'm sure that the car riding on my back bumper will take that honor.

My first priority for my upcoming vacation was my reading list. I thought tonight would be a good time to gather those books and dump them into the suitcase so that I could feel as if I were making packing progress.

I bought a book several months ago that hasn't floated to the top of my reading stack, but vacation seemed like the perfect time to tackle it, given the long train and airline hours ahead of me. It should have been simple, but there are stacks of books everywhere in the hovel. I went through them all. I found three more "must read" books, but not the one I wanted.

I'm not against buying another copy if I have to. But I shouldn't have to. It's here somewhere. The worst part is that I have visually keyed memory, so I can picture where I last saw it, but not well enough to home in on it. It's somewhere safe. Probably next to the Amber Room and the Ark of the Covenant. Damn it. This is going to bug me for days.

A Reader Writes...

Honestly, you can post questions on comments. I do usually answer them there. Not that I mind the hidden correspondence with some of you... (And by the way, thank you for reading. We know that every time you go on the internet, you have a choice of blogs to read, and on behalf of myself and your blog crew, we'd like to thank you for reading us.)

So, I just got an email from someone commenting on my Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms post. (That was quick!) Since she obviously reads my blog, I'm going to answer her here. She said (paraphrasing) "You must like everything you read."

Not so. I read a lot. I read a lot of dreck. I fling dreck under my bed and go in search of something else to read. There are piles of books around my house. It isn't hard to stumble onto something better.

The main reason I don't do negative reviews is that no matter what reviewers in the NY Times lead you to believe, a good book is one that you enjoy reading. It all comes down to personal taste, which is why when everyone in the world is going on and on about some wonderful book that enthralled them from page one until the end, you can't get past the first chapter. It isn't the book. It's you. But that's nothing to feel bad about. It simply isn't a good fit.

Oranges Aren't The Only Fruit is a good example. Readers and writers on several lists recommended this book. I read it, and it was okay, but it didn't capture me. That doesn't mean it's bad. It simply means that I finished it, shrugged, and moved on to the next book on my stack. Didn't hate it, but I didn't have that good book experience either.

When I read something and days after I finish it it's still in my mind, I'm enough of a book geek that I have to say something. It's exciting to find a book that sparks my brain. I like to share the possibility of that experience with others.

So I guess my answer is, "No, I don't like everything I read, but I'm not enough of a literary masochist to finish reading, much less comment on in detail, the growing pile of discarded books under my bed. Besides, wouldn't you rather hear about a good book?"


P.S. I just saw that Aaron Hamburger has a novel out, Faith For Beginners. I met him at Saints and Sinners two years ago. I really enjoyed his collection of short stories The View From Stalin's Head, so despite my promise to the SO to tame my Amazon habit until I've read every other book that I've bought already, I'm going to get it. Maybe I should have it delivered to my work so that he doesn't know.....

Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms

I never got to see Justin Chin perform his pieces in San Francisco, but I did go to two readings here in LA from his new book, Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms. The book contains scripts from his shows as well as stage directions and commentary.

I figured that even though I had to imagine the lighting and slides, when he read, I'd get a feel for what he did on stage. I was a little worried that sitting home reading the rest of it, I might get lost.

Not a problem.

Justin frets about his reputation for anger, but what comes across so well in this book is his incredible sense of humor. Okay, his An Invocation for Mr. S___ and People Like Him in the Hopes That Their Moist Eyes Would Blind Them So They Stumble Off The Pavement Into the Path of a Beer Truck is a little angry. Maybe more bitchy than angry, but that rare witty bitchiness that only truly intelligent people can pull off. Cover your mouth and snicker along, but don't pretend you aren't laughing.

Parts of this collection are serious, but it takes me a lot longer to mull over (I'm sorry - process would be the artsy-fartsy word to use here) serious stuff. I wanted to get this review posted before I go into my two-week long self imposed computer exile though, so you'll only get my reaction to the parts that made me laugh.

The Casey Kasem Top 40 dedication, Solid Gold Dancers fixation, Day-Glo apologies, 80's hair tales, and Fagtown Bingo card are wonderful. (I used the Fagtown Bingo Card on one of my forums the other night. If only my Holier Then Thou Bike Fag who was also an Evil Vegan Fag, and Super Angry to boot would have ADMITTED that he handed out flyers, I would have had a blackout!) The text on the slides from Go-Go GO! was brilliant.

I watched the rest of the audience while Justin read I, Documentary or I Buy A Camera and Document My Love Life, and besides the laughter, there was a lot of head nodding. It's a piece anyone can relate their fucked up relationship history to.

So be a little adventurous. If I can handle the stage directions, so can you. Treat yourself to this book. Justin isn't performing any more, but you can enjoy what he has to say.

Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Clue?

I’ve been having an interesting but unpleasant email exchange with a writer. I’m calling him a writer because he writes. I don’t believe in making a distinction between published and unpublished, even though he prophetically commented that “anyone can be published. That doesn’t mean the person can write.” *ahem* But he did make sure I knew he was published. He even offered to help me with my writing. What a generous soul.

In the past few months, it seems I'm finding more stories from writers who obviously despise their characters. More specifically, these are straight people writing queer characters and the contempt they have for their characters is breathtaking. So I had to ask, “It’s obvious that you think that gay men are effeminate, lisping, shallow, perverted, addicted, promiscuous, stupid oxygen thieves, so why write them? If you’re writing a novel, you have to live with your characters for a long time. Why not write characters who interest you?”

The answer I got back from this one guy was, (paraphrasing) “Well, the main character feels contempt for other gay men and the gay culture and they way they always act. He’s showing the way they should act. Like men.”

After my blood pressure settled back into the non-lethal range, and I’d deleted every other response I wrote to him, I picked this one apart.

ME: “All men are men. But all men do not act like each other. Do you know any gay men? (you probably do and don’t even know it) Do those men act like your characters do?”

TSW: “You know what I mean.”

ME: “I know that relying on tired clichés is lazy writing.”

TSW: “It’s that whole gay culture thing.”

ME: “What gay culture? Circuit party boys, or middle-aged, middle-class suburbanites raising their kids? How do gay always act? And by the way, Will and Grace, the L Word, and Queer as Folk are not documentaries.”

TSW: “I know that.”

I’m not so sure he did. He thought it was impossible for a gay man or woman to have a biological child.

ME: “Why should any gay man take your main character- a self-loathing, bitter, insecure straight guy- as a role model?”

TSW: “My character is gay.”

ME: “He thinks straight.”

TSW: “He’s dating men.”

ME: “Trust me, only a straight man fantasizes that every gay man in the world worships his cock. Gay men know better. Your character walks into a club and claims that every man there hits on him. In what world? The words “highly selective” don’t even begin to describe the bar scene in WeHo. A cock is a mediocre commodity in a gay bar. Everyone has one. Your character has to have more than that going for him. He doesn’t. Not the way you’ve written him.”

TSW: “Well, he’s a total top.”

ME: “Sure you are, hon.” (I bit my tongue and did not send that reply)

After rounds of emails, I was finally able to get him to admit why he chose to write a novel with gay characters.

TSW: “Gay fiction is like erotica – anyone can get published in it.”

ME: *choke. gasp.* "grrrrr"

TSW: “I’m sure YOUR writing isn’t complete garbage. But you know what I mean.”

ME: (Thanks ever so much for “isn’t complete garbage.” I’m glad you feel my work’s just MOSTLY garbage) "Do you read erotica?"

TSW: “No.”

Oh, well at least he’s competent to judge the genre.

ME: “What queer writers are you reading? Capote? Hollinghurst? Burroughs? Do you have any idea what level of writer you're competing against?”

TSW: “Read ? I don’t read gay stuff. I have no interest in that.”

ME: *rolling eyes.* "Whatever."

EVIL ME: *chuckling* One less writer I have to worry about.

Baby Talk Cover Controversy

I will never stop shaking my head at this. Yet more proof that Americans need to grow up about sexuality.

Baby Talk magazine recently showed an infant breastfeeding on it's cover, and the readers went ballistic.

One claimed she had to turn it over quick before her husband saw it. Huh? An adult man, father of a child, and she had to protect his innocent eyes? I can't believe someone with the sexual maturity of a 10 year old is a mother. Has her husband never seen her bared breasts? I guess if she's a complete frum it's possible, but unless they're conducting marital relations through a hole in a sheet, chances are the mister's seen her breasts before. Or is her problem letting him see it being used for the purpose for which it was designed? How separated is she from the reality of her body?

Humans are the only mammals with engorged mammary glands when the female isn't lactating. It's that whole butt cleavage/breast cleavage primal turn-on thing to make up for upright walking. But to equating breastfeeding with pornography is really stretching it.

I've always thought so, but now I truly think there should be a mandatory emotional maturity test for anyone thinking of becoming a parent. It would save the children of this world years of trauma at the hands of their preadolescent parents.

Make Cum, Not War

I am so tired of the Red State/Republican/Christian hard-on for violence as the only acceptable sexual release outside of marriage.

Take the young, dumb, and full of cum, complete the Christian/Patriot brainwash in bootcamp, and then send them off to die in wars we start for the sole purpose of testing our military readiness and weapons. This is nothing new. We've been doing it ever since the Civil War. If we only fought wars on our soil, barring WWI and WWII involvement which I agree was necessary, our Veteran's Hospitals would be quiet places, and our Veteran's cemeteries emptier. So what do we gain by wounding, sacrificing, and emotionally maiming the youth of our country? Well, at least their sex drives are sublimated, which presumably makes them better Christians. Shooting off bullets instead of cum. Too bad the soldiers don't realize that the Constitution they are sworn to defend is under attack here on US soil, not thousands of miles away.

I'm thinking about this a lot lately - partially because of Trebor Healey's poetry, partially because I was raised military and am revisiting that life in a novel I'm working on, and partially due to the underground war the US Government is waging agaisnt sex and our first amendment rights.

While I was at Trebor and Justin Chin's reading at Skylight book, I had a chance to talk with Kate Dominic, who writes a lot of stories that sell to for-pay erotica sites. She told me that her most consistent customer, who owns a few sites and manages a few more, warned her that the credit card companies, under duress from the government, were refusing to process credit card payments for the sites because of objectionable words found in a few stories.

Objectionable words. What they really mean is objectionable ideas. There's nothing a government fears more than ideas, which is why the Bush administration has gone to war against the written word.

Let me be clear - these site were for-pay, available only to adults. The stories, while fetish, portrayed IN WORDS consenting adults doing what consenting adults enjoy doing. Republican adults even seem to enjoy this, as sales per capita in red states for smut are higher than in blue states. (For this blog, I can track what states viewers are from, and what search words they use to find it, and believe me, with the exception of Saudi Arabia, the kinkiest search strings I've seen have come from Alabama, Ohio, Virginia, Kentucky, Georgia, Missouri, and Texas. You Alabama people got a thing for panties, don'tcha? Sunday morning too. That's when you all drop by. And you sure leave my blog in a hurry when you realize there are no smutty panty pictures for you to wank to before you go to church.)

There were several key words that got those sites into trouble. Words. Not pictures. Words expressing ideas of age play - which is when consenting ADULTS pretend in a sexual fantasy to be younger than they really are - like men in convertibles with hair pieces, only sexy instead of creepy.

No kids involved. And yet, this censorship is being done in the guise of protecting children. It makes for good sound bites, but it's like taking a shotgun out to kill a flea. Kate warned me it was coming, but I was surprised to see it happen so soon. Less than two weeks later, and the owner is shutting down most of the sites.

I strongly support the efforts to end kiddie porn. Put people who abuse kids in prison - forever. But for the love of the Constitution, let consenting adults make their own bedroom decisions. And please - US Government - quit policing our fantasies. No matter how much you enjoy playing bondage games with our words, ideas are impossible to restrain, and they submit to no one.

Conspiracy Theory

I think there may be a conspiracy to make me a fan of poetry.

It began innocently enough. I read Ali Leibgott's The Beautifully Worthless, which is part prose, part poetry, and really liked it. I've picked it up a couple times since, read a few pages, and crushed over it again.

My introduction to Trebor Healey's writing was his novel, Through It Came Bright Colors- absolutely the best book among the Violet Quill nominees that year, so it was no surprise to me when it won. That's how these poets suck me in, I've decided. They write astounding prose and then next thing, I'm holding a copy of Sweet Son of Pan in my hand and listening to Trebor read these amazing poems, and I say, "Wow. If it's like that, I think I can get into this."

Sometimes I think there's a space/time continuum anomaly surrounding Trebor, because every time I talk to him it feels as if I have to think at the speed of light just to keep up with him, but physical time stands still. Then I look at my watch and two hours have passed. This space/time mystery surrounds his writing too. I meant to pace myself this weekend and read only a couple of his poems a day. Then I read a few more. Next thing I knew, it was Sunday evening, and I didn't have any more to read. Now I'm carrying hia words around in my brain, and a few in my heart, and I have a feeling that I'll be taking this collection out into the backyard on other weekends and passing pleasant hours reflecting on his work. Which -egads - makes me a fan of poetry. It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

Psst. You wouldn't be holding, would you? Whitman? Auden? I just need a taste.

Limitless

When I first started writing erotica, I had two personal limits: no straight vanilla, and absolutely no vampire stories.

The vampires taboo got chucked first. But I want to be clear about this - I sold out for money. Well, I wanted to work with an editor I admired, and the only anthology she had open was titled Blood Surrender - obviously vampire themed- so you could argue that I did it for artistic reasons, but it was really the cash that lured me.

I subsequently wrote another vampire story that I have yet to sell, but that one would not get out of my head until I wrote it down, and I had another deadline coming up for a different anthology, so I got it out of my system and went on to write something that paid. That was sheer self-preservation. I do not break my limits on spec. Please - I'm a professional. (If you're another erotica writer, even though you know I'm full of it, stop laughing. I'm trying to be serious here. Okay, not really.)

After I'd been writing erotica for a while, I got a bit of fuck fatigue. Erogenous ennui. Jism jaded, as it were. It took stranger fantasies to excite my imagination. Hardcore BDSM? *yawn* Puppy play? *meh* Anal sex? *sigh* Enema play? *been there, done that - on paper* So I was looking for something really kinky and twisted to rev my engines again. I had to push my envelope, all the way to a tale of a hetero, married couple enjoying vanilla sex. I know - I'm such a rebel.

Anyone who has read bondage stories knows that being restrained can help a person move beyond limits, so once I destroyed my existing boundaries, I felt as if I had to set new ones. So I decided I will never, ever, under no circumstances, edit an anthology. It's too much work, takes up valuable creative time, and I'd have to deal with writers. No way. Never. Not gonna happen.

So, I've been brainstorming anthology ideas with Kate Dominic. It's all just talk though. Just talking is fine, right? It's not as if I'm actually going to do it. At least until October, because we're both booked solid with other projects until then.

Uh, Okay

Headline on Yahoo news today:

Payphones Suffer As Cellphone Use Rises.

*snort*

Payphones are targets for all sorts of nasty things. Slugs instead of coins jammed into their delicate slits. Eviscerated. Receivers ripped away. Vandalized. Phone books stolen. Graffiti. Their booths used for illicit sex... The mean streets are a hard place to survive. And now, the coupe de grace, cellphones. Makes me want to go pat a payphone on the, er, head, and say, "There, there." If only I could find one. Wait a second- my cellphone has internet access! I'll just Google an address.

And somewhere, a payphone suffers indignantly, yet stoically, this final humiliation.

Oh, the humanity... of inanimate objects.

A Milestone, Of Sorts

I updated my submissions spreadsheet today when I received an acceptance letter for a story.

For the first time in ages, I counted how many stories I've published. 30. It's a nice round number. Sure, it pales in comparison to the 300 plus Kate Dominic can claim, or the 200 or so M. Christian has, but I'm happy with my 30. No. Not happy. Truly, deeply astonished and thrilled. Time for a happy dance.

The Social Writer

Trebor, Justin, and Trav at Equal Writes reading.



Air conditioning. Ahhhh.

I went to Trebor Healey and Justin Chin's reading at Skylight Books in Hollywood last night to meet up with Kate Dominic, and to spend some time chatting with the guys. The air conditioning was a huge bonus during this heat wave. We sweltered the day before in Long Beach at Equal Writes at another reading that included D. Travers Scott. (I'd never been to Equal Writes before, but now that I know about it, I'll go back. It has a great room for readings, and I strongly support independent book stores.)

It's always fun to watch D. Travers Scott while he reads, because he puts so much body language into it. I also love to hear him try to sum up the complicated plot of his Lambda Award winning novel, One of These Things Is Not Like The Others. It makes me feel better about my inability to summarize my plots in two-line Hollywood style pitches.

This is the first time I've heard Trebor read his poetry. Had to buy his newest collect, Sweet Son of Pan, because I liked what I heard. I'm just getting back into reading poetry after years away from it, but with work like this to read, I'll become a fan.

I'd heard of Justin Chin but never met him before. I'm completely in love with his sense of humor now. When I bought my copy of Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms, he gave me a bonus cum rag, took it back, told me I looked slutty and probably needed a bigger one. I could listen to this man talk for hours.

All of these guys are Suspect Thoughts writers. It's so nice to chat with writers who are happily published. Gives me hope.

Another reading

Going to Equal Writes in Long Beach this Saturday to hear Justin Chin, Trebor Healy, and D. Travers Scott read. Who schedules a reading at 3PM? Ugh. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. Oh well, guess we'll just have to go out drinking afterwards!

On a completely different topic - last weekend I caught the David Hockney exhibit at LACMA It's only showing at two museums, one in Boston, and here in LA. It's his portrait work, which I don't like as much as his other stuff, but I still thought it was excellent. Hockney has such a way of capturing the southern California landscape. Except for people, everything he draws is draftsman straight with harsh lines, which takes some getting used to, but it's what you see when you look at LA. Not to be missed - the oil of the dachshund. I was cracking up about the expression on that dog's face for a good hour. I most liked Hockney's pencil and crayon work (especially Peter 1966 - a nude who, thanks to the application of pink shading, looked freshly spanked), but they had textiles, photos and watercolors too. If you can make it, go.

Lars Eighner

Lars Eighner's Elements of Arousal is my favorite book on writing smut. Many erotica writers rave about Susie Bright's How to Write a Dirty Story, and maybe if I'd read it before I wrote my first smut I would have found it helpful, but by the time I read it, I found nothing useful in it.

Usually when I find a writer I like I hunt down everything s/he writes and devour it, but sometimes I have to be reminded. Frank Herbert was like that. I've read Dune a million times, but only recently picked up his Dosadi Experiment. (Highly recommended, BTW) While I was at Saints and Sinners, I went to a master class with Steven Saylor, and he mentioned Travels with Lizabeth by Lars Eighner.

It's been on my reading stack ever since I got back from New Orleans. Less worthy books were on the top of it. Under threat of having my book buying habit cut off unless I actually read the collection I amassed, I tackled the others first. Call Travels With Lizabeth my reward for enduring everything that came before it.

A reviewer on Amazon sneers at his prose, but it flowed for me. His observations of the mental health system, which he worked in, and the arbitrary rules of public aid are enough to make you angry and make you laugh at the same time. While I might have enough in me to survive prolonged homelessness, this books made it clear that I don't ever want to find out. And yet, as often as I gritted my teeth at the things he endured, he never made it seem like a pity ploy. Just reporting the facts. This book is a real eye opener. No matter how many pancake dinners and hand-me-down Christmas presents we had, I realize that I had a good life while growing up. An address and clean water are true luxuries. Highly recommended reading.

Searching for Valentino

(As promised, Keziah)

Keziah Hill, an ERWA writer and member of staff, visited from Australia. I don't often get a chance to play tour guide. As fashionable as it is to despise LA, I love it here. Yes, it's a travesty of land management. Yes, if you want to find examples to prove up your worst opinions, you'll find them. Yes, it's crass, harsh, isolating, and unforgiving. So don't move here. But I will take you around when you visit.

The first thing I ask visitors is, "Which LA do you want to see?" It sounds like a silly question, but my vision of Los Angeles is that it's a series of parallel universes occupying the same space and time. There's natural wonders LA, queer LA, botanical LA, art LA, movie industry LA, Mexican LA, Japanese LA, Goth LA, Catholic LA, Historical re-enactment LA, theater LA, street hustler LA, beach city LA, academic LA, musical LA, roller coaster LA.... You can be so absorbed searching for one that you drive past all the rest and don't see them.

Lucky for me, Keziah was into the a la carte LA approach. A little tacky tourism, some art, a smattering of history, and a bit of other things. I like someone with a sense of adventure. And a sense of humor.

My plan was to take pick her up in Santa Monica, cruise PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) to Sunset, and then drive Sunset into Hollywood - which would have worked if I'd paid more attention and turned on PCH instead of 1st Street. So we got an unintended tour of the Santa Monica canyons and Brentwood, but eventually I got us back onto Sunset.

The city made a real effort to clean up Hollywood, so outside Grauman's Chinese Theater, and the Kodak Theater, was almost sanitary. I remember when it was the textbook definition of scummy. I kind of miss that. The place was packed with squeaky clean American families and tourists from around the world. Across the street is Disney's El Capitan, and they had their marquee tricked out for Pirates of the Caribbean. That got old fast, so we headed for our next stop on the tour.

I first heard about Hollywood Forever when a friend was running a political fundraiser. They set up an outdoor screen at the cemetery and showed a movie. People sat on blankets on the lawn. Kids ran around. Hot dogs and popcorn were eaten. Most Americans are aghast at the idea, but other cultures view cemeteries as places for the living too. I didn't make that fund raiser, but it stuck in my mind as a place to go, so when Keziah said she was up for it, I had to drag her there.

The cemetery is right next door to Paramount Studios, and it has an excellent view of the Hollywood sign, so it was worth going there just for that. I don't know why, but we picked Rudolph Valentino's crypt as our destination. We could have just as easily chosen Bugsy Siegel, or some other celebrity, but we were off to find Valentino.

I used to do some orienteering, and I'm a decent navigator, but the map we had just about defeated us. We hiked outside the huge building. I tried to recall footage I'd seen on the news of the ritual rose the mysterious lady in black used to bring to his grave. Memory told me that it was an outdoors mausoleum. We stepped over squishy newly laid sod (not a grave). Rudy, where are ya? It was 107 degrees. I was tempted to run through the sprinklers spritzing a vast lawn. A flock of ducks gave us an earful when we disrupted their nap. At some point, I realized I'd never even seen one of his movies, so traipsing around a cemetery under the midday sun without a hat or sunblock trying to find his final resting place was sheer lunacy, but that just made the quest into a mission. And damn it, I never fail at a mission! With burning determination, we continued our trek through the cemetery. In the distance, I saw a statue that looked like a guy holding a guitar, but we were in search of Valentino and would not turn from our task. Sweat skidding down my spine. Finally, the light dawned. Valentino didn't have a big mausoleum to himself. That news footage was a dramatic re-enactment - faked! We went inside the huge building. Under the filtered light of a Tiffany-esque window, on a white marble wall, a plaque with his name. And like all sagas, the quest was the thing, not the grail. In other words - total let down. Not even a rose.

We decided to check out the guitar player. Turned out to be Joey Ramone. I wished I had a guitar pick to place with the others in his hand.

Hmmm.

Got an interesting e-mail today. The publishers of Zane's Caramel Flava anthology said that the story I submitted to Caramel Flava 1, Tomorrow's Saints, was being "seriously considered" for Flava II. They didn't ask if it was still available. They simply told me to wait for a follow-up e-mail if it's accepted.

Usually, when a story is rejected, I get it back in the hands of another editor as soon as I can. But that editor never rejected my story. I had to figure it out on my own.

Editors who can't be bothered to send out rejection letters really irritate me, because it means that I sit on a story I could sell to someone else. Most editors I submit to do act with professional courtesy. Then again, I rarely submit to an editor unless s/he has a good reputation.

After my experience with the editor of Caramel Flava, I made a decision not to submit there again. The thing is, I haven't sold that story elsewhere. It took me a while to realize the story was rejected, and since then I haven't seen a call for submissions that it fit. If I had sold it, I would relish writing the editor a note saying that it wasn't available. Right now, I'm thinking that I might politely decline the "honor" they've seen fit to bestow on me. But the devil on my shoulder is reminding me that a buck is a buck, my story will have a lot of exposure, and I shouldn't get so pissy just because some people have no professional manners.

What to do? (This could all be a moot point if I figure out a year from now that they rejected it again.)

Happy Happy Joy Joy

It may only be the sixth, but I’m having a splendid writer’s month.

I sold three stories. Two anthologies I’m in have been released. And I’ve had some very nice fan letters this week – not stalkerish.

D. Travers Scott and Trebor Healey have a reading I’m going to later this month, and an ERWAster is dropping into town for a quick visit.

Plus – I’ve started writing again! Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh damn it, what year was inter-racial marriage legalized in Ohio?

Duped, Again.

I’ve mentioned many times before that I belong to the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, which is a website as well as running three very active lists. One of the lists, Story Time, is for posting stories or chapters of novels and receiving critiques from other writers. It is the best writer’s workshop in any genre. I’ve visited a lot of online and real life critique groups and none have come close to the level of support and depth of knowledge available in this group.

I rarely post stories anymore because I don’t have a lot of stories to post. However, since ERWA is an important community to me, I put in citizen hours critiquing other writer’s works. Yes, it gets a bit tedious when you’re pointing out the same grammar or style mistake to the same writer week after week. At some point, I usually stop reading his/her work. Yes, reading the same “impossibly hot girl with red hair, huge tits, and emerald eyes walks into a bar, hits on Joe Schmo, much to the barkeep’s disbelief (and there’s usually a bet riding on it between Joe and the barkeep), and they go knock it out with physically impossible sex, she comes ten times, Joe gets it up again seconds after coming, and oh, by the way, totally unoriginal twist – it turns out they’re married,” story offered up by a lot of new writers, but hey, they think it’s original. (It would be nice if people read the genre before writing it so that they knew how tired that story is, but eventually they do figure it out.) And yes, I get really tired of female submissive stories with perfect rich dominant masters who live in mansions. Zzzzzz.

But what drives me crazy is when I fall for a call for help. A writer friend told me that she no longer critiques because of being burned by one too many of these pseudo calls. After this weekend, I know how she feels. Someone posted a story with a header that read something like: “Help, I’m trying to get this published, but I need to drastically cut word count and I can’t see where I can cut. Please oh please oh please help me.” I’m always willing to lend a hand to someone going for publication, so I set aside several hours to go over her story line by line. It wasn’t a bad story. It wasn’t poorly written. It simply asked too much from the short story format. She had too many scenes. Too many characters. Too many plotlines pulling in different directions. I told her – it’s a novella, or you cut X,Y, and Z, use them for another story, and hone this down to your main plot and characters. Her reply? "I don’t want to do a novella. I like X too much to cut it even though it has nothing to do with the rest of the story. I’m keeping Y because I like the extraneous plotline. And by the way, I’m keeping Z too, because I think it’s a hot scene." The funny thing is that a few other writers I admire gave her essentially the same critique. (I didn’t read theirs until after I sent mine.) And she answered them the same way she did mine. She didn’t want help, she wanted to be told that “Yes, this is the greatest story, EVER!” I hate being duped when someone cries wolf (or editor, or publisher).

I won’t be critiquing her work again any time soon. And I doubt the others will either. It’s one thing to ignore our advice, quite another to boldly tell us that we’re all wrong. *rolling eyes* Writers….

What a Game!

I didn't have any favorites between Germany and Italy, (My Fabio Cannavaro lust aside.) so I sat down to this match with a determination to cheer for the beauty of the game, not a side.

People complain that soccer is a low scoring sport. It is, but that should prove to them how precious each goal is, how hard fought, what an accomplishment it is, not that the sport is boring. When I watch TV for an hour and a half, it's because I'm riveted, not because I don't have anything better to do. Did you see the footwork? The brilliant passes? Did you notice how exceptional the referee was? I sure did. When Italy put the ball in the net, I was on my feet. Not because it was Italy, but because it was the beautiful game at its finest.

I'm so glad it didn't go to PKs. I think any fan is. If it had, Germany probably would have won. It was evenly matched. Both teams were awesome. It's too bad it wasn't the final, because I can't see it getting any finer that this.

What a game!

All Hail the Internet Gods

I love doing research for my stories. It's a great excuse to burn hours getting nothing done and pretend that it's work.

A story I'm working on is set around 1978 to 1980. Music plays a small role, but I had to be certain what dates Oingo Boingo and AC/DC had songs out. This set up a great debate with the SO. I moved constantly while growing up, and songs have strong geographic links in my memory. He spent his entire life in one place and the years meld together, something he will not admit. It truly irked him that I was right almost every time about the years Saturday Night Fever, Blondie, and the Police charted. In retaliation, he followed me around the hovel serenading me with every song he knows I hate down to the core of my being.

The Pina Colada Song. *urp*
Undercover Angel. *hurk*
Anything by Foreigner. *spew*
Air Supply. Leo Sayer. Hall and Oats. Captain and Tenille. Starland Vocal Band.
At that point, my ears were bleeding.

Call me a rock snob, but... Well, I am a rock snob, if that's synonymous with having taste. The SO had the gall to throw STYX in my face, until I reminded him that he gave me the album. Besides, he was a bigger fan than I ever was. (I believe that "preachy and pretentious" was my summation of their work post Grand Illusion.)

For my story, I also needed a band that got a lot of hype in People Magazine, and featured truly wretched lyrics, canned music, and over-produced vocals. I needed a band that was Bay City Rollers bad. Alas, according to Wikipedia, Bay City Rollers were much too early for my story. That lead to a great conversation with the SO about crappy one hit wonders. We spent hours on the internet finding top 100 lists from the right years, singing the songs, and debating which band came closest to my needs. We've just about settled on Jessie's Girl by Rick Springfield. I know, I know. Rick Springfield is no Bay City Rollers. But who is? Maybe Christopher Cross....

Wow. Just... wow.

Brasil eliminated. England eliminated. Argentina eliminated.

My oh my. Who do I cheer for now?

Miroslav Klose



Michael Ballack




Fabio Cannavaro

(Note: 5/23/07 - I had to delete this photo as I'm getting a couple hundred hits a day on my blog from it, and it throws my other stat counters off)



Christiano Renaldo




Oops - I meant to say Germany, Italy, or Portugal. What was I thinking?