Writer's Life

, , ,

It Was Always Love-Repost from 4-24-16

, , ,

I wrote this post for the first time in 2016, shortly after Prince died. It’s still my story. I still feel every word. And I still miss him.

It was always love.

***********

I'm a writer. There has always been something cathartic in telling a story. So in the midst of incredible sadness I am sharing my story with you.

My partner says that she went to the movies with a friend one day to see whatever show happened to be playing and ended up seeing Purple Rain, a movie that changed her forever. From that moment on she was obsessed--still is--and thanks Prince for much of the joy she's had in her life.

My path was not as direct. He had to touch my life three times before I listened.

1979

Thank you for a funky time, call me  up...

On my way to high school driving the first of two cars given to me by my father, the song I Wanna Be Your Lover came on. The music was okay, but the lyrics made my head spin. Chock full of double entendres (I wanna be the only one to make you come...running), I couldn't get it out of my head for days. But trying to balance my perfectionist compulsion with wanting to fit in with my peers had turned high school into a three year long hurricane for me. I had a hard enough time holding on to my shit--I couldn't add one more thing to my burden.

1984

Somebody please tell me what the hell is wrong

The second time I became aware of Prince was when Purple Rain came out. I was newly married and in an unfamiliar place with no friends. I don't have memory of going to or being in the theater (my memory often fails me when it comes to very emotional moments), but I remember  buying a beta max copy of the movie as soon as it came out. I coveted that fat short rectangular box (I still have it), but for reasons I can't explain, I never watched it.

The third time, as they say, was the charm.

1987

In my darkest hour, you can be my bliss

I took a job two hours away from my home and my husband and lived with my mother. I had a great time. I loved my job, had some adventures with my mom (like driving 45 minutes to buy a pizza that boasted cheese UNDER the sauce, not over it), and spent time with my sister and brother and their families. Moreover, every other weekend I honeymooned with my husband. Life moved along pretty smoothly.

Except at night. I started having nightmares. At first they came infrequently, and I barely remembered them. As time went on they grew more frequent and more horrifying. Eventually I had bad dreams every night. There seemed to be two themes--black roses and elevators. Black rose dreams woke me up crying.  Elevator dreams were worse.

I know now that I was reliving sexual abuse I'd experienced as a child. I was in the same room, largely unchanged--the purple walls I'd begged for, music and academic awards (evidence of my hyper-vigilent perfection), and the bed. The bed.

Any time I was alone with my thoughts I thought about dying. What death would feel like. All the years of my nephews and nieces lives that I'd miss. Pieces of my nightmares started to come to me during the day. I searched continually for distractions, trying to save myself. One day I saw an ad in the newspaper about an upcoming Prince concert. I remembered his movie and that song, and how they made me feel. I really wanted to go, but not alone. My sister told me her husband was a big fan (her, not so much) and that he'd probably go with me if I had my heart set. He did.

October 1988

Do you want him, or do you want me?

We had tickets in the Nosebleed Section because we'd gotten them so late, but it didn't matter. The entire arena was filled by the presence of the little, ethereally beautiful man on the stage. I was captivated--couldn't take my eyes off of him. But the music transformed me. He sang of love and sensuality and peace and God and sex. His voice resonated, reverberated throughout my body. I sometimes make a joke, saying if he'd asked me that night for all of my worldly possessions I would have given them to him. But it was the truth.

The next day I went to every record store I could find and bought every tape Prince had ever released. I drove around for hours listening to his music. He didn't become "the soundtrack of my life". He became my reason to keep living.

1991

I want to jump for joy and thank him I'm not alone

I'd gotten a bigger and better job and moved back with my husband. While stalking a record store (my new hobby), I came across Prince's official fan magazine, Controversy. Not only was it heaven on the page with big, color, never before seenpictures of him, but it had a pen pal section. Suddenly, I wasn't alone. I'd found my tribe--men and women who experienced Prince the way I did.  Miraculously, the first person I connected with became my partner. I like to say Prince gave her to me.

Present day

Can't begin to understand how I feel about you, everything I want to do I can't do without you

My life is filled with good friends who I connect with over songs and youtube clips, through marriages and divorce, through children and grandchildren, over the mountains that life put in front of our best efforts and under the bridges that we've fallen from. When we're happy, we listen to his music and watch his movies. When we're sad, we do the same. Since his passing, we cling to each other and assure ourselves we'll get through this, and that we'll find joy again.

I've seen Prince in concert over one hundred times. I have every song he's released, and sometimes multiple versions thereof. My partner and I celebrate his milestones--birthdays, awards, performances. Our annual Super Bowl parties celebrate his 2007 award-winning appearance. Many of our milestones are commemorated with concerts that hold special meaning. There is not one room in our home in which he's not evident, either in fact or by influence. (We're still trying to figure out how to put the Shower Poster in the bathroom.)

My friends and I are asking questions of ourselves and each other. Where do we go from  here? Who will we be, if not Prince Fans? How will it feel to not look forward to his next album, the next concert, the next TV appearance?

The only answer is that his music is a part of us. It's in our cells and are the songs in the background of everything. Our experiences with him and because of him live on.

  • Getting his autograph in NYC and almost fainting because we thought he'd levitated, a tiny angel dressed in white.

  • Nearly being "rear-ended" by him in MPLS because he was driving too fast and we were going too slow.

  • Hearing gunshot and fearing for our lives as we left Glam Slam, his former club.

  • Flying to England for concerts and spending a sleepless night at the only after show I've attended.

  • Going to his store in MPLS so many times the manager told his staff "Play whatever videos they want to see".

  • Grieving with him, from a distance, when he lost his child.

  • Meeting our pen pals. (LOVE YOU ALL)

  • Standing outside at 2am in line for a show, with some of the craziest and friendliest people we've ever met.

Never say the words "They're gone"

The world is off its axis. I already miss him. My heart aches, and in quiet moments it's hard to breathe. I'm not ready to watch all of the tributes. I can't even listen to his songs without overwhelming sadness. But I'm ready, finally, to say a few things to him.

Dearest Prince,

I am ever grateful for the beautiful ways you've touched (saved) my life and for all of the people that are in it because of you. I'm thankful for your music which fuels my soul. 

There was no way you could have known, but it was always love. I've been blessed to have shared the planet with you.

I wish you heaven. 

, , ,

Homeownership: The lies they tell you

, , ,

The guys that put in my furnace a few years ago just pulled out of my driveway. It was time for a tune up. I trust the company, which I need to since I do whatever they tell me to do. One of the things I learned all on my own is if you let things get bad, they will only get worse. So I try not to let tings get bad. I remember when I bought my first house. “Congratulations!” they said. “It will feel good to not pay rent on someone else’s property.” Not one person told me signing on the dotted line was only the beginning.

So many things I did not know. Like you really should check the grading of your yard. My first house may as well have been a boat with as much water flowed from my backyard to my basement. If I had checked for watermarks in the basement BEFORE I bought the house. I also didn’t know th at the second the house is yours, things start to break. Deck stairs wobbling? Check. Water heater dies? Check. Aging pipes? Check. Squirrels in the attic? Double check.

After a while, I sold that house and lived in an apartment for a few years. Then like a lunatic, I moved to Connecticut and did it again. But this time, homeownership is NOT going to get the best of me. I check the drainage and walls. I found out when the roof was last replaced. Only the furnace cost me money right from the start.And truly, the benefits outway the problems. It’s MINE. My sanctuary. I can play my music as loud as I want to. I can decorate my walls, my lawn and any other thing I want to decorate. No regrets.

At least, not until I get the furnace bill.

, , , ,

New Year, New Books

, , , ,

I hope everyone’s new year is starting off great! I’m curious about what goals you’ve set for yourself. If you feel like sharing, post a comment or send me an email and let me know.

One goal many of my friends are setting is “read more books”. If you share that goal, try to be more specific. The more specific your goal, the more likely you’ll be to achieve them.

I can help you get started! Take a look!


, ,

A Sacrifice for Convenience

, ,

A plate of quesadillas.

I’m sure I’m not alone in occasionally eating take-out food. There are those days when I’m too tired to think about cooking. Or too busy to have time to make a meal. And I’ll admit it—sometimes, there just isn’t anything in the fridge that is even remotely appealing.

My partner and I are not very adventurous when it comes to food. Once in a blue, we’ll try a new restaurant after thoroughly vetting it through friends or reviews. When we find one, it goes on the list of options.

There was a time when we could count on these select places to give us delicious, beautifully present food in exchange for money. Since the pandemic, we tip for take-out because given the circumstances it felt like the right thing to do.

But our list today is short and growing shorter. Restaurants that we have had great food and experiences with are disappointing us in a myriad of ways.

  • An item (or two) missing from our order.

  • A presentation so poor as to be unappealing.

  • Badly cooked—burned beyond edibility or worse.

Just yesterday, we ordered from a place that we have gotten food from many, many times. It’s gotten progressively worse. For instance, at some point we ordered a bean burrito that had no beans in it. Seriously. But we decided to give it another chance. This time we ordered quesadillas. It was the trifecta of awful: Sloppily constructed and presented. Chicken so dried out it it was unrecognizable as chicken—or anything edible. And—you guessed it—burned tortillas.

At this point, the only three places that have not disappointed us—yet—are our local McDonald’s, a pizza parlor with amazing zucchini fries, and a little breakfast place. As a business person, I have an idea what is happening and it has to do with training, oversight, lack of pride in a job well done, etc. But a question remains: WHY is it happening? I have no idea but if you do, I’d like to hear it.

Take out no longer seems worth the convenience. I think we’ll stop eating out for a while, and instead plan simple meals that we can make even if we’re tired or have little time. To be sure, it’s healthier and less expensive this way. But it sure is disappointing.

, ,

September : Pain Awareness Month

, ,

People who experience chronic pain are very good at pretending to be okay. Even if every step feels like grinding glass. Even if standing upright takes herculean effort. Even if they are holding their breath so they don’t whimper…or scream.

My partner spent many years trying to get doctors to believe that yes, I am in immense pain and no, whatever treatment you’ve given me hasn’t worked. Finally, she found two brilliant doctors, both women, who believed her from the start and set out to find a way to help her. And to some degree, they have.

It’s easy to understand how people get addicted to prescription medicine. J.R. once told me that she could imagine a level of pain were she knows she would do absolutely anything to make it go away.

Anyway, the point of all this is that you never know the burdens that someone is carrying. You never truly know how someone feels. It doesn’t cost a thing to be kind.

So be kind. Please.

,

Dancing Shards of Light-The Perseid Meteor Shower

,

A very long time ago, my therapist—I’ll call her H— invited me to watch a meteor shower with her. I didn’t want to. Since I was an obsessive worrier, why she invited me to watch the sky falling was beyond me. But I was very connected to this woman, so I agreed. I would be brave.

We hunted for a place as far away from direct and ambient light as possible—No easy feat in the 20th century. Luckily, we found a small, empty field. I’d never been anywhere in the outdoors that was so bereft of light. It was difficult to see well enough to set up our chairs. Luckily, H brought a flashlight.

At first, nothing happened. We sat in the dark, talking in whispers for no reason at all. And then, there it was. I was mesmerized. The sky wasn’t falling. It was dancing. A sparkling cloud of dust, the remnants of a comet, danced above me and, at the same time, encompassed me. In those moments, I felt the vastness of the universe and the gift of light those small particles offered. I also realized two things:

  • Compared to the vastness of space, most of my worries were not so big.

  • Even in consuming darkness, there are shards of light. But you have to let yourself see them.

Although we never talked about it, I’m pretty sure that was what H had planned all along.

The Perseid meteor shower is scheduled to peak on August 12-13 this year. If you’ve never had the experience, I strongly suggest it. You might have to do a little work to find a dark enough spot, but even if you don’t have epiphanies like I did, the shower of light is worth it. You can find out more about it here. Enjoy.



, , ,

Gale Stanley's The Bathhouse

, , ,

Join me in welcoming Gale Stanley and her book, The Bathhouse!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE BATHHOUSE is a gay, multicultural, second chance romance. Enjoy!

BLURB

Reed Barton is a millionaire who can have anything he wants, except the one thing he desires most. His first love. He’s spent years trying to recreate the night they met in a San Francisco bathhouse. The image of the beautiful Filipino man who took his virginity is never far from his thoughts.

Reed’s life is turned upside down when his long-lost love reappears -- and not in a good way. Joseph Castro is not quite what he seems. Time and experience have changed both men, and there’s no going back. But maybe, together, they can go forward.

Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/167085037-the-bathhouse

EXCERPT

The service center looked much as Reed remembered it. His eagle-eyed inspection didn’t miss much as he made his way around the crowded cubicles. Some workers weren’t as attentive as others and he made note of them.

Glancing up, he caught sight of a man entering a cubicle at the end of the aisle. Their eyes met and a shock of recognition hit Reed like a tidal wave.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it? Oh, God, let it be him.

The Filipino gave the barest nod of recognition and disappeared behind the wall of his workspace and just like that the years melted away and their night together seemed like only yesterday.

Reed’s heart beat fast and hard. Foolishly, he wondered if Babyboy felt the same electric charge that he did. Wishful thinking. More likely, the Filipino remembered him as just another encounter from the distant past. Did Reed want to find out? Yes, he needed to know. Reed took a few deep breaths and pulled himself together. It would be wrong to show too much interest in an employee. He forced himself to continue his tour and when he reached the man’s cubicle, he looked inside. The nameplate on the desk said Joseph Castro.

Joseph Castro had his headset on, apparently helping a customer. Reed stood transfixed, watching the Filipino at work. Joseph spoke calmly in slightly accented English that seemed to caress each word. It had been years, but Reed found himself getting hot just thinking of how that voice had whispered dirty talk in his ear.

Joseph ended his call and looked up. “Hello, Pogi.”

The words were so soft, Reed wondered if he’d really heard them. He mouthed back. “Babyboy.”

Joseph sighed, but didn’t speak another word. They stared at each other and it felt like a scene from a cheesy movie, where the room fades to a blur while the two heroes connect in a powerful silent dialog. Despite the intervening years, the emotions that washed over Reed were familiar. Caught in a time warp, Reed felt as if summer had finally arrived after a long severe winter.

, , , ,

Love is all we need…And books, of course.

, , , ,

In celebration of Pride Month, here is a selection of books, many with LGBT themes and/or protagonists. Let's let June 2023 be a reminder that we all deserve affirmation and the right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Love, afterall, is love, isn't it?

, , ,

The Business of Writing

, , ,

I’ve been a writer for a long time. It started with journaling, then publishing and writing for a free, underground fanfic newsletter called Hot Chocolate. For me, writing has always been a necessary joy. Stories roll around in my head all the time and sometimes, they consume me. The result? House of the Rising Son, After Midnight, and the soon to be released, Waiting for the Son, and every short story I’ve ever written.

In looking to have House published, I discovered an unfortunate truth: Writing is a business.

Of course, I knew selling was part of it. I didn’t know the first of that selling was selling the story to a publisher. Most people think that publishers do everything. They sure do a lot, but most publishers don’t help much with marketing. But for a writer, marketing is Job #: Planning, Promotion, Social Media, and more.1. I had a lot of learning to do. At this point, I spend 5-10 hours a week on one marketing activity or another. I’m getting pretty good at some of them. Still don’t like marketing much.

I’m currently planning the launch of my 3rd novel, Waiting for the Son. I’m also working on a new short story, plotting the next book in the Living After Midnight series, and plotting another series. It’s too early to say to much about it except that the working title is Six +1. Look for it in the next year!

Onward. I have a launch to organize.

.
The Alliance of Independent Authors – AuthorMember