Edmond Manning's Blog

I love feeling righteous.

God, it feels good. Or rather, It feels GOD! When I am righteous I connect to omniscience in my ability to judge others, and I wield the lightning in my sparkling blue eyes, like fat Thor. Truth is, I get tired of feeling unsure and unstable in an unstable world, so grabbing this lightning feels more caffeinated than chugging three cans of Diet Cherry Pepsi. (Which I do not recommend doing after you turn forty.) With righteousness, I get to feel so many feelings:

Rage.

Improved rage!

The thrill of angry surprise when I say, “how DARE they–”

I feel that silver-smooth-refrigerator-feeling of vindication. I love vindication! I get to lift my triple Thor chins to the heavens, crying out, “Called it!”

Did I mention rage? Rage almost always feels dangerous like skidding out of control but not when righteous rides it like a bronco! Nope. Then it’s fine to buck you, buck you, and buck you.

I get to feel the satisfaction of pointing at anti-BLMers and shout “WHITE PRIVILEGE,” which, if I’m loud enough, gives me permission to ignore my own white privilege. (Blogging my opinions and not worrying about the consequences to me or my family, is in fact, using white privilege to scream at white privilege. It’s dizzying.)

Righteous indignation promises to absolve me of past sins and blinds me to the knots in current ones.

When I am righteous, I do not get sloppy. Opposite. I get precise. I get small, beady tarantula eyes, two in front and three on each side, scanning the landscape in every direction for infractions. I make sure my words are accurate. My tone may not be jovial, but it is not unfair. My anger is righteous! Knowing I may have to account for my words in two weeks when tempers are less hot, I take care. I take care.

When I am righteous, I am on Facebook with my greedy spider eyes.

Last week on Facebook, I. Was. Righteous.

I’m not in the same place as then and I’ll try to articulate the difference. In some ways, nothing has changed. I want impeachment for the out-voted president and prison to follow. I want the domestic terrorists jailed. I want Republican Senators prosecuted for incitement. I do not want to tolerate Nazis. This is not a post about forgiveness.

This is not their story.

This is a story of miracle spaghetti. My sister and I ate it the a few nights before my mom’s wake.

Mom died in May of 2018. Family friends brought food. Theresa brought spaghetti, foil covered, and in one of the good baking dishes you only loan to people you know will return it.  I drove from Minnesota for the funeral and Theresa’s spaghetti was already in the fridge.

While it heated up, my sister and I discussed Mom’s favorite meals, ones we’d miss. We’d miss mom’s lasagna. Turkey dinner. Sister grieved the loss of Mom’s chop suey and I did not. I always hated that one. But her roasts! Her potatoes and gravy were second to none. Her spaghetti! Oh, that was a hard one to part with.

The spaghetti.

When she entered her sixties, I realized Mom was not immortal. When I was visiting from Minnesota, I’d make spaghetti with her, plying her with questions, like, “Why only two shakes of that, why not four? And why did you just add flour? You didn’t add that last time.” And then she’d ask me things like, “Why put the silverware on the table in a theme we have to guess before eating?”

My sister had shadowed the spaghetti-making as well. When we compared notes that sad Tuesday, one of Mom’s ingredients that surprised us both: the cheapest brand of ketchup still legal to purchase. Ketchup? Really? Clearly, Mom’s spaghetti recipe definitely included “the secret ingredient is love,” because the actual recipe was not a generations-old hand-me-down. It used basic Aldi-purchased, generic-spices ingredients.

That didn’t diffuse the sadness of knowing we’d never–in this house– eat amazing spaghetti again. We could both make our approximations of it, add the ketchup, the two shakes of Italian spice, etc. But spaghetti wouldn’t ever taste amazing and we both knew it.

Oven timer went off.

We felt gratitude for Therea’s spaghetti. Smelled good but thanks to our bummer of a happy hour, we felt sure there could be no more Mom deliciousness coming from this kitchen.

I scooped up a noodles and meat. Chewed it up.

Took a second bite and realized this spaghetti–

Looked up.

My sister’s eyes were wide with surprise, just like mine.

Theresa’s spaghetti was fan-FUCKING-tastic.

Normally, I reserve the f-bomb for discussing cheese fries, and sometimes gyros, but to experience surprise and delight literally four minutes after discussing how we’d never experience surprise and delight in this kitchen again…well, what can you say when a new color of love touches you? I experienced a moment I would describe as the Sparkling Spirit. My sister would say God’s grace. And muted by the miracle, we did not have to argue religion or terms. We just let this experiences be true.

The spaghetti wasn’t chock full of artichoke hearts or tons of fresh rosemary, or a goat-cheese crumble. All of those sound good to me. This was classic mom spaghetti. Meat, sauce, noodles. Tasted astonishing! We cheered our glasses again. Toasted Theresa. Ate more. Toasted mom. Sister quit eating. I helped myself to thirds. Stuffed with garlic bread and thrilled by the momentary escape from grief, we toasted spaghetti miracles that can happen on ordinary, sad Tuesdays.

Since then, we partied with Theresa and her family a couple times. We laugh loud on Mom and Dad’s sun porch with the windows open. Theresa’s husband loves my “Insanity Peppers of Guatemala” vodka, so we drink it and say, “Holy shit” after we swallow (when we can speak again). Last time, a neighbor texted my sister, ‘sounds like you guys are having a party.’ Sister texted back, ‘come over.’

During the first of these get-togethers, Theresa’s older son, maybe eight, wanted me to watch him play a game on his phone. I said, sure. I was sitting in a big comfy chair and he asked, “Okay if I lean back?” Nervously, I said, sure. I watched him play for about seven minutes, his body resting comfortably into my shoulder until he left to go antagonize his brother. I was so honored by that trust. I’ve never experienced it from a a child I didn’t know well. I was a bit shocked. It made me assume Theresa and her husband are fantastic parents if this kid felt so loved and safe.

Theresa and her family matter to me. When I visit my home town, I leave jars of my hot stuff on their back porch.

Theresa is also a Trump supporter.

I got righteous on her ass on Facebook. She deserved it. Then again, everyone deserves it when I feel righteous.

Righteousness feels like I just worked out. Righteousness feels like a college professor said to the whole class, “In his essay on this topic, Edmond compared…” Righteous feels like the lawn mower starting after one pull. Righteous feels like getting all my shit together. I don’t know why, but it feels that way for me, like I’m connecting the dots with exceptional clarity. If you don’t see the clarity, that’s on you.

(Speaking of clarity, I want to emphasize I believe justice must occur. My politics haven’t changed. I believe treason happened. I’m not over it–we’re still in the middle of it. I blog–am blogging–will have blogged if you’re reading this later– about my own personal experience of righteousness this week. There are no lessons here for you to learn. You don’t have to soften your stance on anything.)

Theresa posts a lot.

I only got through a day and a half’s posts and I responded with my tarantula precision and accurate words. I delivered some real zingers while remaining 100% embedded in facts. I refreshed several times waiting to see if she DARED respond. I hadn’t sought to troll her. I saw an early-morning post and responded with genuine compassion and gratitude for a question she asked. Sometimes I love posts on Facebook. I started exploring her posts the day after the insurrection. By then, my sword of righteousness had been scrubbed clean in a bubble bath of shadenfreude.

Later that same evening, my sister texted with news she had assumed I had seen on Facebook. (I had not.) Theresa’s father had died on Sunday. All this week while I carefully baited her on Facebook (with verifiable data and judicious wording) she kept silent. While the whole world was having a shitty, shitty week, Theresa included, she was also experiencing one of the worst weeks of her family life, grieving a man she’d never see again. Grieving her own version of lost spaghetti.

She was a queen in my life when my mother died. A spaghetti-making queen. I could have been a king to her during this hard, hard week. And while I didn’t say any words that I had to regret, I was a jack of asses.

I’ll tell you right now, I won’t publish comments to this post which say, “Fuck her, fuck all of them, and fuck you for being friends with…” I get your anger. I share it. I support your boundaries. If I see Nazism in her posts, I’m out. White supremacy posts, I’m out. I can’t even believe how far this Trump insanity has gone. I will demand justice. I am just as outraged it took this long for two more cops involved in Breonna Taylor’s death–killed in her sleep in her apartment–to be fired. Not prosecuted, just fired. This incident is very much related to insurrection at the capital. Very much. Your outrage is welcome.

Maybe I’ll blog about outrage another time.

This post is about love.

It is hard to love me when I am righteous.

It is hard for me to love when I am righteous.

I wept when I found out Theresa’s father died. I cried off and on or two hours. For my self-congratulatory behavior, for Theresa, for feeling sad and helpless, for losing my folks, for the world, for cops left to fend for themselves in the capital, deliberately unsupported in their need for backup. I cried for kids losing their grandfather, for how shitty it is to buy a casket for someone you love. For Breonna Taylor who was sleeping. I cried over my arrogance. I cried about righteousness. I thought about all the COVID deaths, all those people dying alone. I cried because I needed that release of my rage.

Is there a place just short of righteous where I can demand justice, feel angry, say, “no fucking more?”

I need to find this place inside myself. I want this. I don’t enjoy my tarantula eyes. I must find this place. Not because the world needs it (though it does) but because *I* need this in my life and in my heart. When I am righteous, there’s no room inside me for spaghetti miracles.

 

 

 

 

It’s Release Day for my new book–a book series ten frickin’ years in the making. I had planned a huge post about the impact of writing this series, what it meant to me, what it means to me today. Insights, reflections, ponderings on next steps. After all, I devoted a decade of my life to this. However, something more important has come up.

Net Neutrality.

This is it.

This ability to share information, freely, to share thoughts with people around the country, around the world…it could all go away very, very soon. The minute a corporate sponsor decides they don’t like their sales numbers from the east coast, they start messing with the speed of certain sites, boosting their Arizona news sites (because they also own servers in Arizona). What’s happening in New York? Doesn’t matter anymore. They aren’t Verizon customers.

I suppose this could sound like paranoid fantasy, but it’s not. The scenario I outlined is a Tuesday afternoon in corporate information sharing, not the total, unregulated blackout they could do if they felt like it. Why?Because they felt like it. What else could happen? Trump says to a buddy, “Don’t publish stories about the latest thing I said.” Done and done. We lose our ability to organize. To act in support. To even know what votes are on the chopping block!

Today is a day to act, to fight the FCC & the repeal of #NetNeutrality! Thanks to John Oliver there’s a SUPER easy way to do this. Here’s what you can do – takes less than a minute.

1. Go to gofccyourself.com (the shortcut John Oliver made to the hard-to-find FCC comment page)

2. Where it says 17-108 link (Restoring Internet Freedom), click on “+Express”

3. Fill out the form. Be sure to hit “ENTER” (or return key) on your keyboard immediately after you put in your name, so it registers. (They make it a tad tricky there – you may not have to do this…just be aware)

4. In the comment section write, “I strongly support net neutrality backed by Title 2 oversight of ISPs.”

5. Click to Review, then Submit, done. – Make sure you hit submit at the end!

Because lodging that complaint took all of two minutes, please spend an extra seven calling representatives from Congress today.

www.battleforthenet.com

The only reason I have a book release day is because of the internet. There only reason there’s a home–at all–for my writing is the internet. The only reason an author like me ever finds an audience is because of the free internet. I used to think that when I finished writing this book series, I’d feel tremendous relief. A goal accomplished, ten years in the making! I didn’t realize that we’d be fighting to keep public the very source of information and freedom that makes our modern world work.

Please make time today for something important. And it’s not buying my book.

Hi. I’m Edmond Manning, author, and enjoyer of butternut squash soup with green onions sprinkled on top. I designed this series to be read in four different sequences. If you’re the kind of reader who likes to reread books, I’d like to present a few options.

#1 – Traditional Sequence: This is the sequence in which the full novels were published. (Heh. I used ‘in which.’) In my opinion, this is the second best sequence for first-time readers. It’s probably how most everyone reads this series, like books in a series are supposed to be read. The normal way. Nothing wrong with that.

 

1.     King Perry

2.     King Mai

3.     The Butterfly King

4.     King John

5.     Come Back to Me

6.     King Daniel

 

#2 – Heightened Cliffhanger Sequence: Designed to taunt and delight readers who want a little extra sriracha sauce splashed into their Vin Vanbly. I may be biased, since I wrote all the words, but for first-time readers, this is probably the best way to read the series. Seriously. Higher level of craziness and mystery.

 

1.     King Perry

2.     In King Daniel, read chapters 1-3

3.     King Mai

4.     In King Daniel, read chapters 4-7

5.     The Butterfly King

6.     In King Daniel, read chapters 8-10

7.     King John

8.     In King Daniel, read chapter 11

9.     Come Back to Me

10.  Finish reading King Daniel

 

#3 – Chronology Sequence: If you wanted to read “oldest to most recent adventure,” you could watch Vin Vanbly grow into his kinging skills. Some inside jokes and plot will be explained prematurely, and that might make it “less fun” when you come upon them later, so I do NOT advocate this for first-time readers. I advocate this sequence for readers returning to the series. Read the Chronology Sequence and you’ll see different patterns. (Hint: look at how Vin’s language usage evolves….)

 

1.     The Butterfly King – takes place in 1993

2.     King Mai – takes place in 1996

3.     King Perry – 1999

4.     King John – 2002

5.     Come Back to Me – 2005

6.     King Daniel – 2013

 

#4 –HEA Sequence: SPOILER ALERT. This sequence is close to the Traditional Sequence with one exception: Come Back To Me is read first. If you’re a first-time reader who really needs to see a Happily Ever After, try this. There are a number of inside jokes, plots, and surprises that will be a little less fun because you didn’t read the books in the traditional or heightened cliffhanger sequence—just want you to be fully warned. Also, this is probably the darkest book. But it DOES have the romantic HEA and it’s a pretty big happy, which for some folks might make reading the earlier books easier.

 

1.     Come Back to Me

2.     King Perry

3.     King Mai

4.     The Butterfly King

5.     King John

6.     King Daniel

 

 

In the final pages of my 2015 publication, King John, I promised two books in 2016. I gave this promise great consideration before committing. I usually write one book a year.

The first book of the two promised books, Come Back To Me, ended up roughly 123K, and since 80K words is considered novel-length, this was a long novel. I wrote and rewrote much more than expected. My proposed writing schedule did not account for my attending the Lambda Literary retreat in August. I wrote and revised three research-heavy chapters to have critiqued. Food poisoning knocked me out for two weeks. From May to November, I glommed onto all-things-garden with ridiculous joy, and I do not regret the evenings I prioritized gardening over writing.

There were plenty of nights I watched Netflix and ate panang curry on the couch.

Still, I tried fairly goddamn hard. Come Back To Me published in August. In October, I finished the first draft of King Daniel. Since then, I have been engaged almost daily with what can only be described as “vigorous editing.” I gave myself until December 27th to finish those edits. Today is the 28th. I’m not done.

I failed.

Again.

I failed to get two books published in 2016. Then, I failed to meet my revised schedule to finished the draft and edits by December 27th.

That’s okay.

I’m trying to eliminate the sting of failure.

I’m not sure why failure is so horrible when you tried your best. (Or close to your best, minus a Elementary marathon, first three seasons. That show is soooooo good.) I spent most of my free time in 2016 writing. I didn’t start fretting about this goal in November, I’ve been writing my ass off since January.

I pursued this goal with vigor, while maintaining friendships, taking long visits to visit Mom, exploring Minneapolis on bicycle, mowing the lawn, and remembering to order pizza and work out.

Still, I failed.

Why sugarcoat it?

I don’t need accolades of “But you got so close!” or “It couldn’t be helped.” It could be helped. I could have watched less television, saw friends less, read less comic books before bed.

No.

I want to be the kind of man who sets goals and strives. I want to be the kind of man who strives toward a goal and says, “Oooo–perfect Autumn day! I should go throw leaves in the creek.” I want interruptions from achievement in the form of Saturday morning walks, and laughing crock pot dinners. I want to make time for pranks. I want to feel sadness and let that mood carry me, even if it means no writing gets done for two days. I embrace lazy Saturdays when they are necessary and pleasing.

In my life, I’ve worked through enough personal shit to skip internalizing the words “I failed” as a claim on my humanity. I’m not a failure. I love who I am. I love my life. Sure, I missed a writing goal I knew would be a massive commitment. But I really fucking tried.

I’d like “I failed” to be invisibly followed by, “because I tried.”

I called Ann last night, freaked out I had failed again, and equally upset my new “because I tried” philosophy was sorely tested. When you’re a former Type A, attempting to harness those attributes but with a new, moderated chill, conflict happens. Ann and I often laugh at our “straight A” tendencies, our fixed mindsets, and how it ass-bites us when we’re not paying attention.

Six minutes into my high-strung explanation, she sliced through my babble to lance the true issue.

“This is how you’re saying goodbye to Vin? Racing through this high pressure, self-imposed deadline. Don’t you think he deserves better than that?”

She shocked me.

I forgot something important. I have been writing The Lost and Founds aggressively for the past five years. During this time, I’ve had amazing adventures with readers, reviewers, and characters.

I remember many years ago, one ordinary night, I thought, “If I write a book about New York, I’ll have to live there.” I knew three things about that book: the title, it needed to include a secret apartment and there would be violence. Years later, three dozen copies of The Butterfly King sit in perfect alignment on my shelf, brightly gleaming. I lived in New York before writing that book. The book had a secret apartment under the New York Public Library. And violence.

The sixth book finishes the first story arc in The Lost and Founds. Even in future books where Vin narrates, I will never have the same relationship with him as I do now. He grew and changed. I did, too. We truly are saying goodbye, author and beloved character.

I wanted this book emailed to my editor by December 27th, so I could get inspired by this week’s vacation in a redwood forest. I’m beginning a new book! In my exuberance, I treated this final Lost and Founds book like an irritating, “To Do.”

Thank Hercules, I failed to reach my goal.

This means I can now take deep breaths. Celebrate. Walk with an old friend in an ancient forest, inhaling the clean miracle of telling your character’s story. I will start my new book while on vacation. I will also finish my edits on this vacation, celebrating the conclusion of Vin Vanbly’s story arc with great food, outdoor hot tubbing, and crisp red wine. I’ll get a massage in my cabin and then wrap myself in a blanket to sit on my little back porch, staring at the cold stars, impossible miles away.

I can’t thing of a better failure.

 

 

Last week was a shitty week.

Many of us expected a different president, confident in Trump’s loss. We were horrified and depressed not just by the day, but by the vision of the years stretching ahead. And while sat stunned and mourning, his supporters have been celebrating this great triumph, their candidate ascended.

For most of last week, I didn’t do FaceBook. Avoided the news. I didn’t talk to many people. But after escaping the temporary despair enough to talk to a close friend, we shared our election sadness. She told me, “I never thought he’d win. I mean, I couldn’t vote for her, of course, so I voted for the third party. But I never thought Trump would win.”

I was furious with her, throwing away her vote as she did. I’m furious with me. I should have campaigned more. I volunteered for the Hillary campaign and twice when they texted me, asking for weekend time, I texted back, yes. But when they didn’t contact me to inform me where and when, I let it slide. I’m furious with me, too.

I feel belligerent with my countrymen, and I want to protest the future. I’m worried about friends, our economy, the rest of the world, and so many more on the list. But this is not an anti-Trump message.

This post is not about my shitty week.

Cindy and Mike married fifteen years ago and stayed in love for every single one of them. Most of those years, she worked as a police Sargent in a small town. She devoted herself to serving the community. Honestly, I don’t know them. They are friends of my sister-in-law, and I met them at my brother’s wedding. This was a very happy day in our family history, because we love my sister-in-law. In fact, I mostly know this couple from the wedding video. When Cindy and Mike show up on film, we cheer, because they are damn crazy on the dance floor. They’re the kind of couple who go grab people from tables to dance. They lead the chicken dance. They danced the slow dances, entranced with each other. Mike serenaded my brother with a love song, which made us all giggle.

Cindy and Mike made these newlyweds happier on one of the happiest days of their lives. Obviously, Cindy and Mike have a soft spot in my heart. I love to see my brother laugh.

This week, while sitting on a plastic pail in the garage (her favorite enjoy-a-cigarette spot), chatting on the phone with her brother, Cindy suffered an aneurysm. Her far-away brother, concerned by the abrupt end to the conversation, called Mike.

Mike found Cindy unconscious near the overturned pail. He called 911 and administered CPR for twenty minutes. Mike is a trained EMT, which means he also devoted his life in service to others. He kept her alive, but her brain was dead.

Can you imagine? The love of your life is unconscious on the cold garage cement, and you don’t know why. In that moment, Mike did not know her brain was dead–he only knew the dawning horror at the possibility of losing his true love. But he kept breathing life into her because his love was greater than his fear.

He loved her.

They decided to end Cindy’s life support two days later.

Two other things you should know about Cindy and Mike.

First, they vote Republican.

I’m not sure if they voted for Trump–I’m not clear what day and time Cindy’s aneurysm took place. I do not intend to ask. Most likely, they would be  Trump supporters. Right now, I’m so ready to vilify people who support Trump. How could you? How could you? I never had an in-depth conversation with Cindy or Mike, but I assume we disagreed on politics. Then again, they had no intention of voting for Trump. There are flavors of Republican.

When I contemplate Mike’s future, I do not ponder “how liberal is he?” My sister-in-law, who attended the out-of-state funeral over the weekend, reported to our family, “He is destroyed.”

The second thing to know about them is that she donated her organs. She and Mike did this one last amazing dance together. She gifted her body. He kept her body alive–obviously hoping for more of her to live–long enough that her wishes could be honored. Obviously, he wanted more of her to live. Together, Cindy and Mike gave six families in the world a reason to give thanks this month.

Six families changed because of the love Cindy and Mike had for each other.

Puts my shitty week in perspective.

November’s killing frost is upon us, once again. My two remaining beets shrink underground, like Nature’s shriveled nutsack, dormant until May makes the earth climax once again. Which means it’s time, gentle readers, for the 2016 Gardening Awards.

 

Biggest Diva Award: tomatoes

There’s a reason why tomatoes represent the best of summer:  fat and sensual, like biting into a tiny beam of juicy red sunlight cooled in a stream. Yes, your reputation is deserved. Every red cherry tomato plucked from the vine represented the best children of sunlight and dirt. You win. Every year. But you also took up a fuckload of space and other veggies suffered for your need for more sunlight, more space. Okay, that’s my fault for not obtaining the vegetable diva her (or his—gender unclear) the equivalent of their own trailer. My bad. I’d be angry at what you did to the celery, but you’re tomatoes, and I will applaud you under every growing circumstance.

 

Career Tragically Ended Too Short: celery, carrots, and red peppers

My bad. I planted diva tomatoes near you, which outgrew and overshadowed your careers. Sorry about that. The celery was amazing for two weeks, but then…tomatoes. I ended up crunching delicious stalks and a two bowls of celery soup, so, you didn’t die in vain. (In the same way, I screwed over the carrots and red peppers. Sorry.) I learned what to plant near each other, this year. Next year will be different.

 

Biggest Comeback:  beets

I planted everything early in May, and that decision bit me in my proverbial beet. One cold, cold night—not quite freezing but almost—blackened the flourishing beet leaves to a crisp. But they came back! By August, they were flourishing. Not every single one, but most. I harvested enough to cook two batches of beeets, and still had enough to give mom, as well as gift their greens to friends who value such things. A surprising performance, given the May damage. You made it, beets. You made it.

 

Biggest disappointment: basil

Sorry, basil. You’re a perennial fan favorite (see what I did there) and you had a few good moments in June and July, chopped up into a fresh salads and a cameo in a Caprese salad, but your big scene was scheduled for August, when you stepped into pesto. Because of excessive rain and root rot, you cancelled your public appearance, which pissed off everyone. Well, everyone in my house. The academy looks forward to your next year’s presence, but this year, you let everyone down. The academy voters are tough. Better luck for your limited run in, The Winter Vegetables.

 

Best Supporting Vegetable: cucumbers

Who saw this coming? Not me. I don’t love cucumbers. My mom makes good pickles, and I made her pickle recipe with the first few cukes, but the giant bastards kept growing and growing and growing, like spokesmen for those giant penis emails. (Which I have never answered. Ahem.) Disclaiming phallic interpretations, I gave one to my coworker, Tom, who shocked it into the spiciest, most dangerous pickle wedge I had ever tasted. Three bites, and instantly, I understood the massive potential in this inconvenient surplus. My cucumbers hadn’t been given a big enough role, a big enough platform to shine! Spicy cucumbers, you were a contender for best vegetable. But early on, you were miscast in a smaller role.

 

Best Impersonation: green beans

This year I canned dilly beans, which did an amazing impression of pickles. They tasted like pickles, had the crunch of pickles, were overall as refreshing as pickles. You surprised me. Delighted me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need to plant even more green beans in 2017.

 

Best Surprise Performance: butternut squash

You dominated my entire backyard, stretching your tendrils into alarming expansion week after week. Had you sentience, you could have (and would have) snaked into the garage and strangled me while I tinkered with the lawn mower. There were definitely times in this summer’s performance when I doubted your ability to make good, especially after squirrels decimated your entire first class. But during The Pantyhose Strikes Back, you found a role suited to your strange sensuality, sexy undergarment vegetables. Weirdos. Still, the squirrels couldn’t chew through the second class, and I’ve enjoyed eating you in soup, risotto, and oven toasted. Did not expect you to live through the season. But you triumphed.

 

Best Vegetable: green onions

Normally, a surprising ordinary role, a supporting vegetable to other more impressive, outlandish tastes, green onions stole the hearts of vegetable eaters throughout my household, night after night. I had no idea how much pleasure I would gain, June through November, walking into the back yard, yanking up some green onions, and chopping them up for that night’s dinner. Other vegetables held more dramatic roles (butternut squash, tomatoes, cucumbers), but green onions showed up every night for dinner, green little wisps politely asking, do we jump into that frying pan? Yes, little greens, please do.

 

Underwhelming Performance: the crimson (red) onion and the white

Neighbors to this summer’s Best Vegetable, these onions simply did not hold their own. Their bulbs never really grew to anything impressive. Hell, some of the green onion bulbs were bigger. I found out from a coworker they like lots of constant fertilization, so, there you go. They weren’t nurtured. Awww, poor babies. Beets weren’t extra-fertilized, and the cold burned their fingertips off. You don’t see them shirking their garden responsibilities. C’mon onions. Do your job. Next year, I’ll try more tough love (and nitrates).

 

Best Ingenue: sugar peas

The ingénue is a stock character in literature, film, and theater; generally endearingly innocent and wholesome. Snow peas appeared in late May, early June, crunchy and pure of heart. I almost never cooked them in anything, because eating them right off the vine was too tempting, every time. So sweet. So innocent. So digestible.

 

Solid Performance: acorn squash

Two beautiful orangey acorn squash were harvested, when nothing was expected. They were planted in an odd spot and received the same watering as other plants, but were expected to fruit in the shadow of all those raspberry canes. Nevertheless, they persevered. They didn’t explode with eleven squashes, but hey, two is solid, bro. *brofist here if you had hands*

 

Ingrid Bergman Award: cantaloupe

I checked on these fragile souls daily for a month and a half, encouraging their growth, weeding around them more than other plantings, and they hung on, but did not flourish. They were forced to compete for growing space with the aggressive butternuts, so, I’m not surprised they quivered and withered. Still, after leaving them alone for the next two months, three skittish cantaloupes appeared, a nervous trio, not sure whether to grow into themselves. One survived, and she was juicy.

 

Best Extra: green peppers

These veggies never stole center stage. They were shapely, familiar, chopped into a dozen dishes, and during canning, a bright spot of green against my pale spicy cukes. The green peppers were the Best Supporting Vegetable’s background friend. I’m not sure if I’ll plant these again next year. They are plentiful and cheap at farmer’s market, and I think I’d rather experiment with orange and red peppers, as well as the variety of Hottie McHotterson peppers. But the green peppers were a great extra in many popular dishes.

 

Best Performance From A Foreign Garden: plums

The plums were donated by fellow Minnesota gardener, and an extraordinary author, Jenna Blum. I picked them from the tree in her backyard. The thrill of picking fruit right from the tree is not to be underestimated. These lovelies made my lunch better for a week, but most of them are currently soaking in vodka in my basement, turning into a plum liqueur. Should be ready for a Christmas release. Honoring the fruit (or green beans, or tomatoes) from someone else’s garden is to experience the thrill of generosity. Whenever I sip this plum drunkedness this winter, I will recall my friendship with Jenna, our amazing reconnection, the chicken cordon blue squirting butter, the astonishing chocolatey cake, and the party she threw me for my book release. This plum liqueur represents friendship and love.

 

The Academy would like to thank all its voters.

In last year’s release of King John, in those final author pages after the novel concluded, I promised something mighty: I would finish The Lost and Founds first story arc (Book 5: Come Back To Me and Book 6: King Daniel) in 2016.

Yowzers.

For a guy who produces one novel a year, that seemed deludedly ambitious. (Plus, if you use words like deludedly, let’s go ahead and assume you have issues constructing sentences.) I justified this bold proclamation as achievable because I had already completed a shitty draft of Book 5 (written in 2008), and more than 50% of Book 6 has been written and released (in chunks) since 2012.

This goal seemed do-able.

Might still be.

We will find out. The year, 2016, isn’t over.

Come Back To Me took two months longer to rewrite than expected. Then, there was July’s Lambda Literary retreat, for which I wrote two new chapters of a future book. Then, food poisoning. Factor in my unexpected romance with gardening, which constantly stole time for weeding, watering, thinning, researching, cooking, canning, and photographing every goddamn green thing I pulled out of the ground.

Whew.

Quite a year thus far.

The October goal was to finish the first (non-shitty) draft of King Daniel before I attended this year’s Gay Romance Lit conference.

I did it.

Tonight, I finished the first (and pretty decent) draft of King Daniel.

Tomorrow morning, I drive to GRL.

I finished in the gazebo on my back deck, under my twinkling summer lights.

I had already packed the car, finished a few small errands around town, including visiting the library for a Batman graphic novel. The house is clean, mail is on-hold. Kitty sitter arrives tomorrow. I photographed squash-colored leaves this afternoon. Tonight, after writing, I ate stuffed peppers (including some surprising green onions which sprouted after my final harvest!), and after a neighborhood walk soon (and who am I kidding–porn), I’ll go to bed early.

This all sounds very Gay Norman Rockwell, and it was. Tonight, at least.

For the past two months, I have declined some pretty amazing invitations–autumnal cookouts, backyard fire pits drinking beer, horror movie nights screaming on the couch, and even a trip north to hug my motel-owning friends. I didn’t realize how much time would be required to meet this goal. My field of vision narrowed to one thing: the October goal.

When I started this series, I didn’t know if I could achieve it. I had a vision. A wall full of ideas and concepts, thematic arcs but completely lacking connective tissue, the only connective tissue essential for a writer: words. I envisioned grandiose plots spanning all six books (and beyond), with inside jokes relevant in the final pages, set up years earlier in the first book, King Perry. I had no idea how to accomplish some of these deludedly intense goals.

When I began, I didn’t know who I was as an author.

I have a better sense now.

I am someone committed to this craft. I’m committed to writing, to words, to storytelling. I make professional goals, and–vegetables permitting–I keep them. This is who I am. I do my best to honor my commitment to readers. And yes, it’s a little early to gloat, considering King Daniel needs reworking. And editing. And proofreading. Then, more proofreading.

I’m not sure this book will come out by late December.

Maybe.

Maybe early January.

I can live with that.

I’d rather break my promise by a month to create an amazing conclusion. I know a little more about who I am as an author these days. I know what kind of books I want to write.

Lest I stray too far portraying myself as some holier-than-thou word tapper, sipping my sarsaparilla root tea, clacking out THE END on the same typewriter Hemingway used, let me say this, gentle readers: fuck that. This past weekend, under pressure, I wrote 11K and the weekend before, 9K. I was frantic. I was in big danger of not making my October goal.

Accomplishing a goal like this isn’t exclusively about the deadline. It’s about committing to yourself. Having a dream of writing novels isn’t enough–you’ve got to commit. Sacrifice some awesome opportunities. Align your life to your priorities. If you’ve ever said, “I’m not smart enough/dedicated enough/whatever enough to write a book,” accomplishing a massive writing goal is more than words on a page.

I’m headed to GRL tomorrow morning.

A huge weekend party to celebrate writers, to celebrate readers, to celebrate readers who are writers, and writers who are readers. We will dance, drink, quietly talk in corners, ask questions of panels, exchange favorite book recommendations, fan-girl and fan-boy and trans-fan all over our favorite word-driven heroes. We will celebrate our successes. We will transform online friends into real-world ones.

Me?

I’m gonna drink some beer and chill.

I deserve it. I made my October goal. I am a professional writer.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pack my feather boa.

 

 

I’m writing on the back porch, the sunroom. The sun abandoned this side of the world an hour ago, a screaming periwinkle streaking across the sky before darkness finally caught up and blanketed it.

Years ago, I painted this room in cool colors, sea-foam greens, and blueberry sponge prints, interspersed with grape vines dancing along the room’s seams. There’s a Latin inscription YELLING ACROSS THE BACK WALL that makes you wonder if maybe the Roman’s went extinct because of hoarse voices. All that Latin yelling E PLURIBUS UNUM, and such.

The phrase wasn’t originally Latin.

The phrase came into my life as a fortune cookie from Rainbow Chinese. I had been so touched by the simple words, I taped the fortune in the kitchen door frame, somewhere I would notice but others might not. Over the next year, I grew so attached to the fortune, I asked my dad to help me translate it into Latin to go with my grapevine-themed, Romanesque sunroom.

“You have the capacity for enjoying life.”

Beautiful. Simple.

Insert a theological sermon about life-is-short, or why-not-love-it-all, but I have no patience for the simple morals dispersed at the end of TV sitcoms. Life can suck. People fall in love and then out. Children die unfair deaths. People wither from cancer all the fucking time, and then they’re just gone. You’re left with this person-shaped hole that only one person will ever, ever fit.

Life can be violent and brutal.

But the capacity is there. The capacity joy life.

I thought the phrase would look cool in Latin, so I asked Pop for assistance with the translation. Before his retirement, Dad taught high school Latin and English. In fact, he was my English teacher and also my Latin teacher. I saw him a lot during the course of a school day.

HABES FACULTATEM AD VITAM LAETARANDAM

After the words were stenciled, outlined, and painstakingly painted with a tiny brush, I was proud. I liked seeing those muscular words whenever I passed through the room, the room hoarding the most sunlight and breeze. I photographed the final resulted and printed out the photos, mailing them in a letter. (Yes, this was pre-cell phones.) I called him to discuss our collaboration, and like every hungry son, silently hoped for a father’s praise.

The first words out of his mouth were, “I think I gave you the wrong word for enjoying. I don’t think it’s supposed to be laterandum.”

I screamed, “WHAT?”

“I’m kidding,” he said. “It’s the right word. Room looks nice, by the way.”

My dad died of cancer.

There’s a hole in my life where he stood. Brilliant men I love have stepped through this Joseph-Leon-Manning-shaped wound and held my hand, so I’m not complaining about how there’s “no love” left for me. Far from it. I’m one of the most fortunate people I know. But my dad is gone and while I am adult enough to spend a whole weekend doing those same chores he often performed, I will always love him unreasonably, as if I were ten.

My book, Come Back To Me, releases today.

I wonder what dad would say.

It’s easy to romanticize him now that he’s gone but I prefer to remember the hard truths. He was not what anyone would call “supportive” regarding things of a homosexual nature. When I came out, he wept. When I was in my teens, some local Chicago alderman was getting an award taken away from him because the press found out he was gay. My dad glanced over the top of the newspaper he was reading, and said, “Good.”

Over the next twenty years, we argued. I disagreed with his priorities. His religion. His hypocrisy in that religion. I treasure those fights now, because I sharpened my courage with that man. I argued for greater love. He argued for greater love, too, but with different rules. It’s hard when you love people who see the world so differently from your own world view, but you know that. You love people like that.

I’m not sure he’d send flowers for this latest book release.

But he might be proud of me.

Come Back To Me has an odd history.

This is the very first book I wrote in The Lost and Founds series. I created this story (well, a shittier version of this book) in 2008, and despite it being shitty, I loved what I wrote. I loved this strange narrator so much, and his insane manipulations, I decided I could write another book about him. There was a sentence in the original draft that had stuck with me.

In speaking to another character, Vin said, “Want to hear the story of King Perry? There was a baby duck involved.”

I kept returning to that sentence, sensing a challenge. I wondered, could I really write a whole novel in which a baby duck was a central character?

As the vision for a book series became clearer to me, I filed away this shitty first draft and focused my energy on writing King Perry.

I hadn’t finished King Perry before I started writing key scenes from King Mai. In fact, one night while returning to Minnesota from visiting my parents in Illinois, I was seized by a thrilling idea on how to resolve the second novel. Despite the late hour, I pulled over at a Wisconsin rest stop off I-94. Under the fluorescent glow of bug-swarming lights, I wrote frantically at a picnic table until the computer battery died.

Then, The Butterfly King.

King John.

There have been a lot of release days.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped celebrating.

There somehow feels like less to celebrate when a total of twenty-four people purchase your book during an entire sales quarter. (A GOOD sales quarter.) Don’t get me wrong, those twenty-four are incredibly loving readers who have gushed love back to me, so much so, it makes me feel guilty for writing this sentence. The reviews are incredible. The friendships I’ve made are lasting. People have wept with my characters, which is what an author secretly wants.

I feel blessed.

But when you spend a year writing and polishing your sentences, and it’s the very best you can offer, and those sentences are not mentioning on The Tonight Show…you feel a little slighted. (I felt slighted.) Where’s the parade? Why hasn’t someone told Oprah “there’s a new author you should read.” It’s not even about book sales (although it would be cool to make money doing this thing I love). It’s the dreamer inside who thinks “I can change the world.” And the world doesn’t even notice you exist. Over the years, I’ve gone through a process of adjusting expectations. Growing up. Accepting the world as it is.

After King Perry, I stopped celebrating my releases. It wasn’t an angry, pouting decision. I just felt silly celebrating something that five people would purchase on release day.

Grow up, I would tell myself.

But then there’s that Latin phrase in my sun room: you have the capacity for enjoying life.

Today, I am celebrating.

Celebrations are sometimes quiet and sometimes loud. I’ve been waiting soooooo long to share this book that perhaps this time should be a slightly louder celebration. I’m toying with an official book release in a few weeks, done at a local bookstore.

Maybe.

I might not. But I love that I’m considering such an extraverted party.

Then again, this book’s release might require a quieter celebration, spent eating carrot pie in the sun room, letting a chilly August breeze delight me.

Today, I’m choosing to enjoy my life–this life–not an imaginary one where Jimmy Fallon says, “Hey, did you see there’s a new Lost and Founds book out today?” Then, he rips me a new one.

Nope. I’m celebrating this life. This release day.

I think my dad would be proud.

Maybe he’d even yell at me in Latin.

 

 

I invited subscribers to my newsletter to give me some blog topic ideas for my Come Back To Me blog tour.

They did.

One idea was to summarize what’s happened in the first four books. This person suggested I do not reveal all the secrets, but at least give the relevant backstory to remind those who read the books (perhaps the first one as long as four years ago), what’s happening in this world.

This idea was perfect for new readers, too.

Come Back To Me is new reader friendly. Yes, there will be plot points and character references that won’t make sense. Sorry. But probably 89% of the book will work as a new reader. (This percentage was calculated using the rectal database, i.e., I pulled it out of my ass.)

So.

Here’s the story thus far.

In the first book of The Lost and Founds series, the strange, lonely narrator, Vin Vanbly (though it is revealed this not his real name) meets Perry Mangin at an art gallery and gives him an invitation: spend the next forty hours with me, doing everything I say, and I will help you remember your kingship. I will help you remember the man you were always meant to be.

Perry agrees, beginning forty hours of insanity in the Bay Area—Alcatraz, a homeless shelter, the Golden Gate Bridge, one of California’s secret beach coves, and a mountain top experience that changes Perry’s life forever.

Perry gets kinged.

The series never really directly answers “what does it mean to get kinged?” Well, unless you consider four (now five) novels discussing the concept of “kingship” as an answer. The reader must decide what kingship (and of course queenship!) means to them.

In the second novel, Vin Vanbly returns, but this book is set three years before King Perry. The participant is a small-town farmer named Mai Kearns who has been corresponding online with Vin. Vin leads Mai on a treasure hunt all weekend, seeking ways for Mai to save his soon-to-be-foreclosed farm. Through Vin’s eyes, readers again explore Mai’s internal life and what power is needed to become the king he is meant to be.

Throughout these novels, Vin reveals a sparkling fairy tale of The Lost and Founds, featuring the Found Kings and their counterparts, the Lost Ones. Their ridiculous antics and anecdotes guide each of Vin’s men on their King Weekend.

In the third novel, set a few years before the first two, Vin is younger and less experienced. He makes some big mistakes. Will he succeed in kinging this strong New York businessman, Terrance Altham? In The Butterfly King, Vin’s abilities are put to the test. Also in this novel, we learn more about the backstory of The Lost and Founds…maybe Vin’s crazy tale has some historical context. Maybe this “fairy tale” has mysterious origins older—much more ancient—than Vin’s imagination.

Magical realism is an element of each book, but in The Butterfly King, readers glimpses into the unique mythology. A street fortune teller tells Vin “a king named DC is going to destroy you. And for the Lost and Founds mythology to come true, you have to let him.”

Things look grim for Vin Vanbly.

In the fourth book, which takes place in 2002, Vin attends Burning Man, that crazy and insanely beautiful desert festival that happens every year in the temporary city of Black Rock, Nevada. During this desert adventure, readers witness the wear and tear these kingings take on Vin. Giving “all his love” to each man devastates him, leaving him even more lonely and desolate than before. How much of him is left? The novel ends on a jarring note—a police report reporting destruction of cemetery property, a tombstone with the last name of Vanbly. The date of damage was St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th, 2011.

Come Back To Me begins in the year 2005.

It ends on March 17th, 2011.

Do not expect all mysteries to be solved by the end of Come Back To Me. Some mysteries (such as Vin’s name and the secrecy behind it) are revealed, as well as Vin’s relationship to his adopted, older brother. But some secrets remain.

The sixth novel, King Daniel, is the final novel in this story arc. In this book (due out late 2016), the mysterious king known only as “DC” is finally revealed, and Vin’s fate—as well as those he loves—is now decided.

Welcome to The Lost and Founds.

***

Blurb for Come Back To Me

After years of lying, scheming, and dangerous manipulation, Vin Vanbly finally gets what’s coming to him: love.

How can he survive unstoppable, uncontrollable love when his very nature demands he control everything? Clues about his one true love—tantalizingly hinted at in each of the books in The Lost and Founds series—come together in four life-changing stories.

In No Kings, a sex hookup with a parking lot stranger reveals more about Vin’s life as a Lost King and his destiny than he could have dreamed. In King Fitch, Vin meets the last king in his long legacy, one final weekend before he withdraws from the world to an anonymous Latin American jungle. The Lost Ones recounts a terrifying kidnapping by street thugs from Vin’s past. In King Malcolm the Restorer, Vin’s mysterious relationship with his older brother—and the soul-crushing secret which drew them together—is finally revealed.

Through it all, Vin Vanbly struggles to survive. But what if he is destined for more than mere survival? Is he finally ready to embrace the truth and remember who he was always meant to be? Once there were a tribe where every man was the one true king and every woman the one true queen…

Amazon link:  Come Back To Me

 

This is gonna be weird.

When I reread favorite books, I love discovering details I didn’t see the first time, clues that somehow revealed the direction of the story. I love that shit! As an author, I wanted to write a series that would provide this fun for readers. As I brainstormed how to write these books, I realized I could make the books even MORE entertaining not just by integrating fun clues…but also by providing a different tale depending on the sequence. That got me excited.

Depending on your choice, you will uncover clues and revelations in different ways, giving you a very unique perspective.

 

#1 – Traditional Sequence: This is the sequence in which the full novels were published. (Heh. I used in which. Very adulting.) Personally, I feel this is probably the second best sequence to read the series, first time through.

 

King Perry
King Mai
The Butterfly King
King John
Come Back to Me
King Daniel

 

#2 – Heightened Cliffhanger Sequence:  Designed to tease and taunt readers who want a little extra thrill (sriracha) splashed into their Vin Vanbly adventures. In my option, this is probably the best sequence to read the series, first time through. You get the distant past! You get the more recent future! Who is DC and what is he up to?

 

King Perry
In King Daniel, read chapters 1-3
King Mai
In King Daniel, read chapters 4-7
The Butterfly King
In King Daniel, read chapters 8-10
King John
In King Daniel, read chapter 11
Come Back to Me
Finish reading King Daniel

 

#3 – Chronology Sequence:  The tales in The Lost and Founds are told out of chronological sequence. If you wanted to read “oldest adventure to most recent,” you could read them in this sequence and watch Vin Vanbly grow into his kinging skills. Some inside jokes will be explained early, and that might make it “less fun” when you come upon them in King Perry. I probably wouldn’t recommend this sequence unless you’re re-reading the series. In that case, shake things up and you’ll new patterns emerge.

 

The Butterfly King – takes place in 1993
King Mai – takes place in 1996
King Perry – 1999
King John – 2002
Come Back to Me – 2005
King Daniel – 2013

 

#4 – HEA Sequence:  This is very close to the traditional publishing sequence with one exception: read Come Back To Me first. Come Back To Me finishes with a happy ending (although the last ten pages might make you scream aloud at your Kindle). If you’re the kind of person who wants to see everything turn out okay and with great love (and lots of sex), try reading CBTM first. Then, start the rest of the traditional sequence after that. It will comfort your heart to know good things are eventually coming for Vin Vanbly. (But there are a number of inside observations/comments/jokes you may not get because you didn’t read the books in the sequence they were published.)

 

Come Back to Me
King Perry
King Mai
The Butterfly King
King John
King Daniel

 

However, you read this series (and thank you, if you do), I hope you enjoy yourself.