I’m writing a book about my nuclear family. Gay dude with a gay mother, a gay father, and a little brother who turned out straight, the poor guy.
I spent eight years writing the book only to leave out some really f*ck*ng batsh*t craziness to protect certain members of said family, and I ended up nearly killing myself. Seriously. You can read all about it in the gloriously crazy A Story About a Very Bad Thing (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3).
Now I’m just trying to stay a little less crazy while hashing out the 20th draft.
I’ve been yammering on and on here since 2001, which makes me Old School, or at least old. Seriously, over ten years of blogging? Normal people give up after three weeks.
I’ve been writing since the fourth grade, when the school newsletter published my first poem, full of big words that didn’t make any sense when strung together.
I grew up in Minneapolis, went to school in Florida, and settled for a bit in San Francisco.
In August of 2004 I moved to New York City for the graduate writing program at Columbia University. I moved back to San Francisco during the summer of 2006 to finish my book. You can check out an early excerpt in the anthology From Boys to Men: Gay Men Write About Growing Up. Somehow it even made it to the Kindle.
The Sienese Shredder, an art and literary magazine from New York City, published another excerpt from the running-away-to-college section. Everyone turns gay at college but I still thought I could go the other way. Guess how that turned out.
I’ve been threatening to actually finish the book before I turn 80. An advance would help.
Cast of Characters
If you hang around here long enough you’ll read all about a guy I call the Manly Fireplug. I kinda dig him, and in August of 2011 I married the dude. In real life his name is Joe, and he owns a barbershop. If you want to see what I’m like when angry, you can read about the time someone set his shop on fire.
I own a Norwich terrier, the Manly Fireplug of the dog world. His name is Finley. We usually call him Little Man. He follows Joe around like he’s GOD.
Joe likes dogs, too, which his 7-year-old niece thought was a good omen for our future prospects.
Ground Control is my therapist, a licensed clinical social worker with a Chagall print on his office wall. He knows how to talk to men like me, men with batshit childhoods who are maybe sometimes floating around in outer space, metaphorically speaking.
Hank the Blank is my father. I don’t talk to him anymore. I prefer talking to Ground Control. You do the math.