Edmond Manning's Blog, page 10

I admit, I had dreamt of the moment: the arrival of the contractually- free books from the publisher, the symbol that you have been Published, capital p.

I bet there’s a Norman Rockwell painting of this, maybe famous, with the All-American White, Middle-Class Dad grinning proudly holding his first edition while all his kids cherish him, grasping for a copy. A box of first editions sits near his feet. His sensible wife beams quietly at his side, impressed with his new role in creating the American Voice.

It’s epic, I’m sure.

Yeah, I know that picture is a lie. I know that the doting wife had herself written a better novel but her American Voice would not be heard for decades. One of those Norman Rockwell kids grew up to be a cross dresser, I’m sure. Good for him for letting his American Voice get heard.

Still, I couldn’t help but want my life’s version of that moment, to feel proud, happy and somehow cherished.

I found an ordinary UPS box on the front porch and carried it inside, realizing these were my first editions. While I wanted to feel pure joy, I actually had mixed feelings. The negotiation over the number of free books went like this: they said, “Well give you five free books,” and I said, “Okay.” I had already heard from new author friends I might have negotiated that point better.

Damn. My mistake.

Though the book was barely published, I’d already made mistakes as an author.  I hadn’t prepared enough. I didn’t have guest blogs lined up. I didn’t plan my “virtual book tour” because I didn’t know what those words meant. I forgot to read and network in my genre for the past ten years. Oops.

When I discovered the UPS box, I was already late for somewhere. I dropped the box on the coffee table, saving my Norman Rockwell moment for later. I decided to get Ann on the phone and say, “They came.” We could open the box together.

Ann reminds me to be excited about these milestones. She celebrates every joyful review and listens carefully to my shy reveals about lessons I have learned. When I chide myself  for a marketing screw-up or authory stuff I am Not Yet On Top Of, she softens these moments, turns them into small victories. She reminds me I am following my bliss and that particular road means stones in your shoes. She helps me reach O wow.

I couldn’t imagine opening the box without her.

The UPS box sat unopened for a few days. I wasn’t quite ready. I wanted to feel more Norman Rockwell-esque. When I built up enough appropriate excitement, I told her about its arrival. But instead of Norman Rockwell: I got ash in my mouth.

The books were fucked up.

The one back cover detail I didn’t personally oversee was the series title. Instead of The Lost and Founds, the copy in my hand read “Book 1 of the The Lost and Found series.’ A month earlier, I had haggled over the cover art. I had insisted on rewriting the blurb they provided. But that one important detail slipped through my fingers.

You should not mess with a control freak over a single tiny mistake like that.

Not. Good.

Who was at fault: was it me? Was I not controlling enough to demand to see their finished back cover? Or did I screw up an email with the series title? Did they screw it up? Wasn’t clear. Mistakes happen and I had already made plenty. But it was hard to let go; that exact wording meant a great deal to me. If you finished King Perry, you now know the secret implied by the series title, why Lost is singular and Founds is plural.

My Norman Rockwell moment: not so epic.

I try to forgive myself for not knowing how to do this and making mistakes. I try to shrug and say, “Whatever. It’s all good. I’m learning.” Nevertheless, it’s hard for me to shrug some of this off and say, ‘whatever.’

A few days after the big letdown, I went to San Francisco for work and packed the five books, channeling New Author Determination to get those onto a booksellers’ shelves. I had a vague feeling I should hold onto one of them for sentimental reasons, but I was trying to think of things practically. The publisher had already agreed to fix the back cover for future printings. These five were flawed. I really needed books to give away while visiting the city possibly most receptive to stocking King Perry.

I took the first copy to a wonderful, independent bookstore where an author-friend experienced success walking in and getting her book on a shelf. For the first time in my life as a Minnesotan, I felt like Mary Tyler Moore.

The clerk scowled at me when I explained my intention and he went to check with someone in back. He returned and with greater distain explained that I could leave a copy. No guarantees. I wrote a friendly note thanking them for consideration, added contact information, and left. I probably approached that situation all wrong, too.

That short conversation — blatantly marketing myself like that — that was hard for me.

I’m not used to being quite this extroverted, marketing my ass off, talking about why everyone should read my book. Also, I now email chat with wonderful writers and readers who are now in my circle of friends. I love my new writer circle, but I get overwhelmed. Even though I want to chat with these people daily, I shy away. I’m a damn introvert, people.

Being a writer is more work than I imagined. I’m marking this book, writing the next, planning to attend conferences, and trying to generate interest in my writing through various online methods. Before and after publishing, I have felt my limitations, my compromises, my own inexperience and ignorance far too keenly to truly celebrate holding my first edition. A real author would know what to do better than me.

Maybe there would never be a Norman Rockwell moment, not for me. Maybe nobody gets a Norman Rockwell moment.

On that same trip, I failed at two other book stores who engaged a rigorous process to keep people like me at bay. They wouldn’t even accept a copy to ignore. I felt my MTM enthusiasm flagging.

In the Castro, I visited my favorite comic book shop and the guy who owns it is my long-distance, semi-friend while remaining a semi-stranger. I like him. He’s cute and friendly. We have fun conversations about comics and we both agree the X-men’s arch villian, Mr. Sinister, looks damn sexy in a red, flowing cape. We’d do him. I got to know him when I lived in San Francisco briefly in 2007. That day, I indicated the four books under my arm and asked if he knew any gay-friendly books stores.

Very casually, he said, “You can leave them on a shelf in my store.”

I was surprised and delighted.

We discussed how much to sell them for. I suggested a modest number well under the sales price, planning to give him half the proceeds anyway. But he flipped the book over casually and said, “Oh, there’s the price right there. Why don’t we sell them for that.”

We happened to be making full eye contact when he repeated himself, saying, “Let’s just sell them for full price.”

I secretly thrilled at the words, full price.

It’s not the money, it’s the recognition mine is a real book, one you could sell for full price in a store. On a shelf.

Cool moment.

Through his act of kindness, I accomplished my goal: books of mine sat on a real shelf in a real store. True, they weren’t showcased in the big glass panels welcoming you to Barnes & Noble, or sitting with the other indie book store employees’ Highly Recommends, but I found myself feeling cherished. I left my first editions nestled among comic books, zines, and artwork that this cool, San Francisco man promotes. He likes to celebrate queer artists and he chose to celebrate me.

Another reason to love it: comics are another lifelong love, like Ann, writing, and San Francisco.

Months passed with no word as to whether they sold.

Last week, I returned to San Francisco for work.

When I arrived last Wednesday, I skewered my courage and returned to the independent bookstore to inquire about my book’s fate. They lost it. Or maybe not. Who knows, exactly. The old book buyer quit, there’s a new book buyer, try emailing him, maybe he’s seen it. That’s what they told me. I nodded and left, dejected.

I decided to visit the remaining first editions in the comic book store. Or perhaps, I’d merely visit the wire rack where they once stacked. I was eager and nervous as I walked toward the shop. But once inside, surrounded by the potent dual smells of comics and nerds, overstimulated by the the fantastically colorful visuals everywhere, I dove right into the new comics section. I eavesdropped on two men arguing the Avengers versus X-men crossover. I love being in comic book stores. I satisfied my lust for the week’s new titles, and sated, strolled over to the register to chat up my long-distance friend, the owner.

Full of hope, I said, “Did all four books sell?”

“No,” he said. “They’re over there.”

He had rearranged the meager bookshelves from when I had last been in his store, back in April. I had walked right by them, didn’t even notice my own book cover on a shelf. That was a little disheartening. Yet my heart lifted a little when I saw three books shelved, suggesting one of these four was out in the world.

But I instantly felt sadness.

I never really honored these first five books. I blamed them for being flawed. I wanted them perfect, Norman-Rockwell-perfect, and damn it, they aren’t. Not the back cover, and come to think of it, not the words inside.

In that moment, I realized those first editions were just like me: golden with love and hopefulness, yet still flawed. I’m struggling to do this author thing. I’m doing my best and learning every day. I wrote a book I’m proud of, but it turns out that’s not enough. You also have to work your ass off and you have to make humbling mistakes along the way.

Golden and flawed, one meager copy sallied into the world. Golden and flawed, it sat on someone’s book shelves, perhaps already forgotten. Perhaps beloved. I lost the chance to hold that first edition in my hands and fully appreciate it for being it’s beautiful, fucked-up self. I suddenly wanted that copy more than anything. But it was gone.

I said, “Looks like one copy sold.”

“No,” he said. “That one’s cover got a little beat up from handling, so I put it away.”

I chuckled because I can’t even fucking romanticize one book being sold. Not one.

Whatever.

Truth is, many people have purchased, read, and loved King Perry. Some showered me with love. I mean, effusively showered.  I get goose bumps when I read what the book means to some folks, what it unlocks inside. Yeah, I’m struggling with how to be an author in the world, but I fucking love it. I love writing. I love the people I’m meeting. I love interacting with people who read it.

I love this life I am learning how to live.

Despite my struggles and mistakes, this part of my life is golden and new. Professionally, I’m wandering around like a toddler, meeting authors and then careening away, emailing them four times a week, then falling four weeks behind in correspondence. I am figuring this out.

He retrieved the bruised book and handed it to me casually.

And back in my hands was my very first edition.

It was golden. Beautiful.

Flawed.

A little beat up around the cover, which is nice because I’m a little raw and beat up myself.

And the guy who handed it to me had no clue how he secretly he once thrilled me by casually suggesting full price. He suggested I honor my true value and it was hard for me, but I agreed.

I held the book in my hands.

Magic.

King Perry brings magic into my life.

Ann hauled my 370 page draft to read during an Australian plane trip two and a half years ago. She could literally see the Golden Gate Bridge out her small window as she happened to be reading the scene that takes place on the Golden Gate Bridge. In my hotel this week, I met two people on their way to Alcatraz. I shared how to find the secret second floor.

Tell me that these moments aren’t magic.

I dare you.

A few days ago, I had my Norman Rockwell moment.

I stood in a Castro comic book store, a store literally named Whatever, surrounded by homos gossiping about X-men, and other imaginary worlds. I stood in a store I love, right in the heart of San Francisco, a magic city that holds a special place in my heart. In my hands, I held my golden, bruised, flawed, first edition. I felt loved and sad and forgiving and hopeful and then swung ’round to overwhelming gratitude that I am so god damned loved.

It was epic.

Nobody told me how amazingly similar the luxurious drive along Minnesota’s north shore is to the winding coastal roads in California. Lake Superior impresses with rock-smashing waves and the coastline vistas astound in a dozen shades of blue and a full array of pine greens. I’d been to Duluth and even a little north of that, but not this far north. My jaw dropped several times; it’s that gorgeous.

A few weekends ago, I cruised this Minnesota north shore while heading to my ultimate destination: the Mangy Moose Motel in Grand Marais. Two friends purchased The Mangy Moose and I promised to be a test/worst guest.

Actually, they invited me to be a “test guest” and I insisted on being a “worst guest.” You know, to give them experience.

I’d been “helping them” for the previous six months since they initiated the motel purchase. Every time I called Dave and Don, Dave recognized my name from caller ID would cheerfully greet me with, “Thank you for calling the Mangy Moose Motel.”

“I’m staying in Room 8 and I have a complaint,” I would whine into the phone.

My complaints were varied: I’ve used up all my towels, there’s nothing good on TV, I didn’t care for the wallpaper, and my shoes were too tight. Dave would respond politely at first, sharing where to go in Grand Marais for good shoes and suggesting that perhaps I’d like to read a book instead of watch TV. But I was a persistent complainer and would demand a full refund because of the lack of quality TV programming. I felt this was good preparation for the challenges in running a botique motel.

After listening to Dave’s patient problem-solving with the Worst-Guest-Ever, Don would yell from the background, “HANG UP ON HIM. JUST HANG UP.”

I must say that Dave and Don both deserved this verbal abuse. Really.

Scan this website’s archives and you will find years of prankster wars:  battles over unwanted DVDs, the creepy Christmas doll they hung from a rafter in my garage, and more. And sure, sure, their regular complaint was that *I* was the original instigator in these nefarious deeds, but I’d say in my defense…well…you know, they deserved it on some levels, for befriending me.

And despite the years of torture, they really are friends – amazing friends.

Two years ago, I called Dave after a spectacularly bad day: a project ended abruptly leaving me with no immediate income, a contract I had been expecting fell through, and another existing contract got cut in half. All three events happened within a few hours of each other.

As soon as I finished describing the trifecta of disastrous financial news, the first words out of Dave’s mouth were, “Don and I will cover whatever money you need.”

He did not hesitate.

In the end, I did not need a loan, but I cannot describe the great comfort in knowing I have friends in the world whose first reaction is, “We’ve got you covered.”

Dave was one of the first people with whom I shared  a draft of King Perry. He read it thoroughly and treated it with respect, which I needed in those fragile days. I want friends who know how to hold others’ babies with gentleness. Bonus points if you aren’t a parent and understand a baby is sacred. Don is one of the kindest and gentlest men I know. He is hilarious and cynical, the first one to roll his eyes, but if you say to Don, “I have a problem,” his response is to pull up a chair and say quietly, “Start at the beginning.”

When I first learned of Dad’s cancer, I called Dave bawling. Dave bawled with me on the phone.

These are two of the greatest friends I have ever known.

I love them.

Our twin cities’ loss is Grand Marais’ gain.

The next chapter of their life together reads like the end of a romance novel:  “Having found each other and discovered their love and ridiculous compatibility, the two men bought a motel in a northern Minnesota town, a comfortable place where they could eat donuts on long walks together.

If you happen to need a vacation this summer and would like to go hiking, kayaking, antiquing, or do none of the above in a small town worth exploring (boasting the world’s greatest donuts and delicious, sustainable food at The Angry Trout), you might consider staying at the Mangy Moose Motel. If you do, I would ask you to hug them, these wonderful men who decided to pursue a dream, and tell them the hug is partially from you and partially from me.

On the day you check out, I would like to advocate that you leave behind (on your unmade bed) an ill-purchased DVD, a movie you thought you might like but ended up hating, and a note saying, “Edmond sends his love.”

If you have National Treasure, that will do nicely.

I did not go to my high school class reunions: not the picnic at five years, the bash at ten, nor any subsequent ones. Like many who avoided high school reunions, I argued that back then I was not truly me, not yet, so I had little interest in revisiting that insecure kid and hearing stories about how he overcompensated.

“Oh god, remember the time you…”

Thanks, but I’ll pass.

But after re-friending high school classmates on Facebook and getting to know them all over again, I discovered that they actually do know me damn well, better than I remembered. And I *was* fully me in high school – that was my most of my true personality shining through back then. But I had not found my inner glow or maybe just lacked confidence in that flicker of who I would eventually become.

Crap. I wish I would have realized this before my ten year reunion. I probably would have gone.

Maybe I have another chance.

Ever since publishing King Perry, my life has changed in a significant and wonderful way. I now have writer friends. I email them and complain about lack of time for writing. They email back. We end up having long email discussions on publishing, marketing, how we develop characters, comment on specific details in our book, share amazon.com news, and more.

I love it.

For many years my only writing friend has been the very awesome Jenna, and she’s been super busy with her burgeoning career. We do talk once in a while and have great conversations when we do catch up. Our last three-hour Skype session included me threatening her with a giant, silver, kitchen knife and her pretending to be choked by hands off-screen.

She gets me.

With new friends, I guest blog on their site, which is high school equivalent of catching up at a friend’s locker between classes. Through emails we chat about common friends we mutually admire, sharing each delicious stories of what we like about that person. On Facebook I’ve met dozens of these new friends, and each time we start commenting on each others’ posts, it’s the high school equivalent of lingering and chatting at your locker, walking away thinking, “I could really see myself being friends with this person.”

I met Jo first (clever, British writer), and then L.C. whose sparse prairie descriptions perfectly matched her cowboy leads. I loved critiquing Lou’s vampire story. Kari answers every business question I throw her, freely giving of her time as if chatting with me is her top priority. Anne and I have a million stories to share; we learn from each other.

I’ve met “upper classmen” in this high school of writers, folks who I emailed and said, “May I ask your advice?” They have said, “Sure. What’s up.” And though we do not automatically become best buds, I am grateful for this exchange and feel respected. We shake hands and pass through the hallway, and I end up thinking, ‘I could really see myself being friends with this person.’

Lance and his partner showed up at my book release party. Alix is a writer who I enjoy running into on Facebook. I have threatened to move into a shed in his backyard so we can hang out and he can make me mac & cheese.  Joyfully Jay is someone whose website I liked and wanted to meet. We did! She loved King Perry and we got to chatting. Again, if this were high school, at cafeteria lunch I would sit at her table or invite her to mine.

Last week, I met Fen and AJ and after one or two emails, I said to AJ: “Let’s be friends. Or friendly. I’m not asking for a commitment.” and now we’re friendly. He and Fen came over Sunday afternoon to talk shop (and drink sangria). Before my book was published I contacted a near-stranger, Lloyd, and said, “Will you talk to me about marketing.” He arranged a Skype session for the next day.

This October I’m going to my first writers’ conference:  GayRomLit.

Already, I feel like I’m attending a ten-year reunion where I will meet all my old/new friends. Like an actual high school reunion, we may not recognize each other as first (having only exchanged emails), but we’ll take a moment to be pleasantly surprised.

I will say, “Oh god, is that you, L.C?”

She will laugh and say something funny, and we will hug this big, excited hug. Or, I should say, I will try to hug her.She has the option to put out her hand and say, “Boundaries, mister.” But honestly, L.C., you should probably just give in and let me hug you. I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty good at it.

I can’t wait to catch up with these old friends.

But it could be challenging, too. I get nervous around big crowds.

My new friend Dawn and I have confessed our mutual fear of not knowing what to do and where to go.  We have agreed to hang out in the corner holding hands, which will make this awkwardness bearable. We may or may not hide behind a large, potted fern. There will be snarky giggling behind the fern, I know. I suspect we will attract the other people who don’t know what to do with themselves either, until we are a mighty force, laughing hard in the general vicinity of the hotel bar.

I find I’m even looking forward to the awkward parts.

It’s odd that I think of this conference as a reunion, but I do.

These are the people from high school who discovered weird kinks about themselves and learned they saw the world differently: women who spend time wondering what gay men think and do. Men, who as boys thought, ‘Oh shit, I’m gay. What should I think and do?’

And these people now dare to write their answers to those questions in fiction. These are probably high schoolers who never quite fit in. But we celebrate that now. That weird kink is now power and that not-fitting-in creates a vision for storytelling.

We now love that queer sparking light, wherever its sturdy glow comes from.

So thanks, new writer friends, for welcoming me, a freshman. That was cool.

I’ll see you guys in October for the GayRomLit reunion.

Until then, stop by my locker after class and say ‘hey.’

A writer friend on Facebook asked a pointed question:  how do you deal with rejection? How do you deal with ‘no’s from people who do not believe in your work? How to handle the thorns of professional jealousy? The idea that people out there just do not like your contribution to the world and are not shy in saying so?

Ow.

Her question jolted me because I have been wrestling with this issue for the past two weeks, and not the sexy kind of wrestling with bulging muscles and oil, but the kind where you’re suddenly pinned hard and something in your shoulder pops and with pained surprise you realize, ‘I didn’t know I could hurt there.’

I had been warned aplenty, and even accepted, that this very day would come: a bad review in a very public space.

Last week it happened.

King Perry has enjoyed dozens of gorgeous, articulate, gushing reviews on various websites. Safe to say I have been officially dazzled and left speechless. But I finally racked up a 2 star review on amazon.com and it just fucking hurt. The reviewer didn’t like narrator, Vin, and hated the approach of the entire book. He or she gets to do that. I can’t say the reviewer was unfair or even particularly unkind…that person just really could not stand the book.

Ow.

Then, someone else chimed in and agreed.

Ow. Ow.

When I wrote a few paragraphs ago that I had accepted “this day would come,” I guess my acceptance included the mental picture that when this day arrived, I would read the offending review scanning the New York Times and eating grapefruit wedges with a tiny fork. My newly-hired editor/Italian massage therapist would offer a foot massage to help me deal with this bitter anguish, and I would accept his offer, saying, “Some people just don’t get it.”

Never mind the fact that I do not read the New York Times and I don’t own those tiny grapefruit forks.

But the biggest problem is that these people who didn’t like the book are not insensitive assholes. Nope. They just didn’t like it.

I considered writing replies to the review, snarky one-liners or heartfelt passages explaining my perspective. Every writer who warned me of this day’s arrival had also warned me in the verbal equivalent of all caps:  DON’T DO THAT. Do not write a reply. Do not get sucked in.

Yes, but now that the day was here and it hurt, I really, really wanted to write a response.

The problem with hurt is that there’s nowhere for it to go. You’re stuck with it. Anger feels like action. Sadness, well, I have a plan:  cry, eat, or do laundry. But hurt…hurt just sits there like a hot coal and you watch the sizzling, inert, orange glow. As my Facebook friend asked, “Any tips for maintaining hope and self-belief when faced with The Great Wall of No and keeping the Wolf of Professional Envy from the door?”

Turns out, I have a few ideas.

1. Have a best friend named Ann.

I immediately called my Ann. Together, we explored my hurt and this was key: we made it about me. Instead of ranting about the review or the exact words in the review or how X was unfair and they should never had said Y, etc., she helped me gently uncover the hurt behind the hurt, the thing that made this a glowing hot coal instead of just a lump of coal. How had the review slapped my ego? How did I let this review define me as a person?

You may not have an Ann (and I would prefer you not steal mine). But find the friend who will do more than say, “Oh, poor baby,” and invite that friend to ask you the tough questions: what ugly parts of yourself does this touch? How are you refusing empathy and kindness to this situation? What is it about you  and your expectations about the world that made this feel like an arrow to the heart?

I know from personal experience that the answers are often unflattering.

2. Get all Pollyannaish.

We tend to treat optimism and positivity as if it’s naivete, like we must shed ridiculous silver linings before someone else points out we should be miserable.

After she read the review, Ann emailed me and her subject line boldly proclaimed, “HOW WONDERFUL!” She gleefully explained how people were debating the book in a very public forum, so fully engaged with the characters that they developed a powerful dislike. She noted that the review didn’t say, “Badly written,” or “Untalented hack,” but rather focused 100% on who-the-hell-does-this-character-think-he-is?

She asked pointedly if this wasn’t exactly what I wanted in constructing a character, someone memorable enough to rant about, to love, to think about a week later? Yes, yes it was. Wasn’t this review, in fact, exactly what I wanted as a writer?

Sigh…yes.

It’s hard to love rejection.

I do not love flare ups of jealous for professional colleagues. And yet is this not part of the whole wonderful/shitty package of daring to boldly step into the circus tent marked ‘For Writers Only?’ It hurts, yes, and generally I am a fan of avoiding hurt.

But hey! After 20 years of writing in secret, I finally stepped into the big tent marked For Writers Only! Instead of bemoaning a few detractors, I have decided to find someone nearby to hug and whisper, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m finally here.”

3. Let the universe laugh at you.

As I began to feel actual gratitude for the pokes to my ego and what it revealed, I wrote an email to another friend trying to articulate this odd journey from pain to general hurt to acceptance to thankfulness. To better describe my initial reaction using as much drama as possible, I typed: ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

But as my fingers flew across the keyboard, auto-correct kept changing what I typed to: O wow O wow O wow O wow.

I love it.

O wow!

Most of the people I love like transforming themselves into better people. We try. Some days we’re successful and some days we’re not. I’ve heard these transformation challenges described as FGOs:  Fucking Growth Opportunities. Once we’ve reached the far side of a miserable life challenge and are finally gaining some perspective, we laugh (well, mutter/chuckle) about how the universe just handed us another crap-tastic FGO.

Nobody particularly wants the growth opportunity life presents. I wanted this challenge, not that one; that one is ugly. In the novel I published, Perry doesn’t like his FGO. Vin certainly doesn’t like his. And some days I don’t care for mine much either.

But the Sparkling Spirit that laughs through all of us says, “Hey. I just gave you an opportunity to say ‘O wow.’ Will you take it?”

Today, I say ‘O wow.’

I still don’t like that it’s not possible to prepare yourself for those shallow, stabby hurts. I don’t like that at all. I am still unprepared for the next one and maybe there is no way to prepare, just take a deep breathe and realize that doing what you love also offers pain.

Still, in anticipation of the next FGO, I think I had better go shopping for grapefruit forks.

This is odd. I've never written a thank you note to 150 people at once. I'm not sure how to begin.

Dear Friends, Beloved Coworkers,Cool Authors I Had Not Yet Met, Assorted Family Members, Canadians,  Book Clubians, Iowa Bear Guys and, well, Everybody.

How are you? I'm good thank you, I had a very nice Easter.

Listen, I wanted to drop you a note thanking you for coming to my book release party two weeks ago. Thank you. It meant a lot to me that you came.

Normally at this point in any thank you note, things get awkward because its decision time: how sloppy am I willing to get? Is this a polite thanks for dropping off blueberry pie or is this wow, I've been really wanting a Cuisinart, so thank you.

Or is this the type of thank you note where you explode everywhere, gushing  superlatives and as you mail it you wonder if you conveyed heartfelt thanks or did it come across as a veiled threat to stalk you if you're any nicer to me.

Me, I always err on the side of stalking, so I am going to gush a little bit. But I won't come to your house and look through binoculars into your living room. Don't think about that. Don't even bother to turn around right now, looking out your dark windows. For pete's sake, there's way too many of you and I'm too lazy.

But it's important to let you know what you did for my heart.

I've been writing for over 20 years mostly in secret, or if not exactly secret, behind closed doors. I've never published anything. I didn't think I could write very well, not the kind of writing other folks would want to read. Honestly, I don't think it was a low self esteem problem.

I believe my problem is that I've read too much writing I love. I grew up snarfing down Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, and literature my father loved. My mom read to us at night. Naturally, I became an English major in college. To this day, I read for pleasure as much as time permits. My friend Chris writes for the Pioneer Press and the amount of beautiful sentences and wistfulness he imbues into movie reviews astonishes me. I've read poetry by friends that made my heart leap. After I finished The Known World by Edward P. Jones, I thought, "Well, screw writing as a hobby. This guy already nailed it."

So, I know good writing.

For much of my closeted writing career, I simply wasn't ready; I wasn't there.

And hey, whether I am or am not there is quite debatable. But I'm ready to show the world what I've been doing on my back deck all those summer nights with low-burning candles and a glass of milk and another glass of wine. (Don't judge me.)

So anyway, last week you guys ripped me apart.

Saturday night, during the nonstop madness of signing books for two and a half hours, I looked up and found myself surrounded by favorites: cold beer, joyful laughter, fat-frosted cake, balloons, onion rings, and the radiant smiles of dozens of great friends beaming at me, expressing, "You did it. Proud of you." I cried a few times when I thought nobody was looking because it's not possible to be loved this much, to survive staggering under the weight of such kindness as if each of you thugs were carrying a brick of solid love and you had no problem wrapping it in a pillow case and showing up at a bar called Grumpy's.

Wow. That's a little more violent than I had intended, but you get the message: I was dazed, dazzled, lambasted, shocked, disoriented, and then flabber and ghasted both at the same time. I had five dozens intense conversations over the evening, which was both heaven and hell, heaven to be delighted by every next person in line and then hell to end a new conversation scant minutes later.

I'm not sure, but I think I saw:

An ex-boyfriend with a shy, winning smile. He brought me a book on our first date.

An apartment building friend I knew 13 years ago when our paths crossed daily on dirty hallway carpeting.

My book club pals, whom I guess I should simply call 'beloved friends' because after 10 years of loving these people, I think we've moved beyond book club. Allison showed up despite an exhausting flight from Hawaii earlier that day. People the next day texted me to say, "Your book club friends are cool."

My family, Mary and Heather, hugged me hard. With a smirk, Heather said, "Next time, your goddaughters would like you to write a children's book so they can attend the party."

We laughed together and then I told Heather, "Seriously, they can never read King Perry. Not even at 30."

Too often the conversation ended with my brain pleading, Wait, don't go! More to say! Don't go — oh, hello, oh hello! How amazing to see you standing there, I didn't know you were right there — thank you for coming!

When it was his turn, my quiet friend Erik raised his eyebrows at me to say, 'way to go,' and then followed it up by saying, "Way to go."

I was touched that he decided to make a speech.

Especially since the night prior as he and his amazing girlfriend and I ended an evening of giggling together, I proposed a three-way. They were not shy in their rejection, which only spurred my greater advances. I promised to "do things" and I used air quotes, prompting all three of us to groan and turn away in disgust. In my final seduction, I unbelted, unzipped, and dropped my camo pants to the sidewalk saying, "This is what you'd be missing." They remained firm in their resolve.

Actually, considering my behavior, Erik and Rosa, thank you for coming. Seriously.

My younger brother who lives in Chicago appeared at my side at one point in the evening, unannounced. He sipped beer from a frosty mug and nodded at me, saying, "Hey."

I really should introduce him to Erik.

Zipping through the crowd, my friend Stephen held the night together. When more than eight people showed up at the party's beginning and I started getting wide-eyed by the prospect of talking to more than eight people, Stephen took charge. With no prior notion that he might have to help out, he made everything happen. Stephen sold every book, demanded $5 bills from the Grumpy's bartender as needed, flirted outrageously with our server to keep drinks and appetizers flowing, and at one point he briefly appeared at my side with the giant cake and commanded me to "Smile."

After a dizzying array of photo flashes, he darted through the crowd to cut and serve.

I don't know what I would do without him, without his love. I didn't even chat with him until the night was over and he was exhausted.

I spent four minutes with one of my best buddies from high school. I miss him.

I spent three minutes with a man who I see twice a year for chicken pad thai and cranberry cream cheese wontons. It's never enough time. I love his big heart.

My friend Tony flew down from Canada. Shortly after he read an early copy of King Perry, he told me his king name. He had always known his true name but never thought he'd get the chance to say it aloud. My king, my king.

When I came out of the closet a few decades ago, there was no party, no joy. Relief, and yes, a new chapter of life. But no balloons, no cake. Maybe I should have rented a bar and thrown a bash. Because the night I came out as a writer, so many people showed up to love me, and through their joyful party chatter and beaming faces, they loved each other. All these amazing people.

I would like to thank you in advance.

When the day comes that I must close my eyes for the last time, if I get a few seconds to let life pass before my eyes, I am going to replay this night, this golden, sparkling night that you showered me with an insane amount of love, so much that I think you possibly broke me. In those final moments of life, you'll be right there with me, but this time, we'll have a lot more available time to hang out.

I hope that doesn't sound too stalkery.

I get a little gushy in thank you notes.

When reading fiction, I like happy endings as much as the next guy.

Really.

I love it when the star-crossed lovers get together, the nefarious murderer is apprehended, and the plucky kids find a way to save their family home. I find tears in my eyes every time at the charming conclusion of the awesome sci-fi classic movie Galaxy Quest.

But when the story toboggans into a sloppy happy ending without any build-up or a deus ex machina gets dropped so hard on my head that I see stars, well, then I'm irritated. The characters get a happy ending and I end up pissy.

Case in point: The Road.

Throughout the apocalyptic future world constructed by Cormac McCarthy, the author spends 400 pages presenting a colorless hell hole: cannibals who keep pantries with live humans, women who get pregnant for the sole purpose of spit-roasting newborn flesh, thieves, killers, cut-throats…. Even the father in the story is an asshole, and his innocent son begs him to remember his own humanity.

It's a little grim.

And in the last few pages as the father lay dying in the middle of the road (Hey, the book came out 6 years ago, so yeah, spoilers. Get over it), a kindly stranger emerges out of the gray, ashen landscape to offer to raise the about-to-be-orphaned son. The mysterious rescuer claims to have his own wife and daughter nearby and what's one more in the family? Once Dying Dad knows his son will be cared for, he kicks. Son weeps. New Dad escorts the son away to his new happy family.

What the living fuck was that?

Seriously?

Throughout the entire book we didn't meet a single decent person, not one. The impossibility of finding food drove people to insane inhuman behavior. And forty-five seconds before the father's death, out of the fog waltzes stalwart Mike Brady eagerly accepting the challenge to feed another mouth.

Perhaps this happy ending could be tolerated if there had been one decent person in the book.

I read another general fiction book recently that was brutal and beautiful. The characterizations were great, the plot realistic, convincing. The financially-troubled protagonist was a 13-year-old girl doomed to her poverty, her family. But lucky for her, right at the end, a second-string character who disappeared from the novel 50 pages prior inexplicably writes an enormously fat check that allows her to go to college.

Again, chamomile tea at my side, afghan over my legs, I must yank off my wire-framed glasses, and ask, "WTF?"

I wonder.

Do you think reader demand forces authors to consider happy endings? Do they to it to increase sales? I have to believe Cormac McCarthy's publisher said, "Dude. Human pantries? Yer killing us…and forget having any book sales."

Or perhaps it's an odd, misplaced mercy when the writer looked at the bleakness that he/she hath wrought and decides, "What the hell, I'll throw in a little sugar."

I must admit, I was originally afraid my publisher might read King Perry and insist on a traditional happy ending. I mean, there are no cannibal pantries or anything like that, but not everything gets wrapped up neat and tidy. One review on goodreads said:

"I can't recall the last time I was so delighted and uplifted by a book that doesn't have the traditional romance ending. This is coming out under Dreamspinner's Bittersweet line because of that ending – but believe me, there's nothing bitter about it. I was left with a huge smile on my face and joy in my heart."

Sweet.

I was delighted that my publisher made no such request; the ending stands as I conceived. I was really glad for that. Sometimes life doesn't wrap up neatly. And yes, sometimes it does, which makes those endings all the sweeter.

I think my favorite happy/unhappy ending comes from Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. Dickens' researchers explain that in the original draft, Pip meets Estelle many years after this childhood sweetheart crushed his heart. From her carriage, she shakes hands with him and he learns she has been abused and suffered, that she understands now what it is to have a broken heart.

Dickens' pal, Wilke Collins, thought the ending was too sad and encouraged a rewrite.

In the published version, Pip and Estelle meet in the charred ruins of the estate where she played her cruel games under the supervision of Miss Havisham. Pip concludes the novel by saying, "I saw no shadow of another parting from her." I love it. I see three possible conclusions:

Those who crave a happy ending see Pip and Estelle together at last.

The slightly more cynical might see Pip getting dumped again, but once again he doesn't see it coming.

And for those who recently finished reading The Road and believe the absolutely worst about humanity, well, they realize that Estelle is merely tricking Pip to go into her human pantry.

I bet Pip tastes a lot like chicken.

The End.

Magical San Fran:

poets, artists, dreamers shine!

Golden Gate is blue.

"Once in a blue moon you come across a book that just blows you away. For the better part of this story I had no idea what was going on but despite that I couldn't stop reading. The story flowed from the pages and made me laugh and then cry (literally cry, which doesn't happen very often).

"Vin is an enigma, even having finished the book you are unsure who he really is or what his motivations are but you love him all the same. Watching Perry struggle to journey from lost to found it is hard to believe that the entire book takes place over the span of a single weekend. This book is packed with emotion, beauty, fantasy, realism and love.

"If I recommended one book to my friends this year it would be this one and I would hope it would touch them as deeply as it touched me." – Susan, Goodreads.com

Why, hello there.

I see you're looking to purchase an adventurous read that makes you laugh, makes you cry, and reminds you of growing up on a horse farm in Kentucky. Well, good for you. King Perry does not have anything to do with horse farming, but if you'd like to purchase a copy anyway, check out any of these links below.

Amazon.com link to purchasing via Kindle

Amazon.com link to purchase paperback (pre-order for the next day or two…)

Purchase eBook from Dreamspinner's (publisher) website

Purchase paperback from Dreamspinner's (publisher) website

Terrible. Just wrong.

Shockingly awful writing.

Kirkman, how could you?