Fan

A confession. When I get excited about a performance (i.e. play, musical, opera, concert, cabaret, reading--and anything else I haven't thought of at the moment) my adrenaline seems to send me into a mild form of mania. Bipolar is a disorder that moves from mania to depression, so something that already increases your brain chemistry levels to a heightened feeling just goes a little bit father with me. Doesn't matter if I've taken my meds or not, my excitement leads to adrenaline leads to mild mania...leads to me saying stupid things. No, not mildly curious words. Just really embarrassing shit. Those kinds of things you regret for, well, ever. The more famous, or the more impressive, or the more beloved the person, the more cringe-worthy the words that flow from my mouth. Yes, (almost) everyone says a foolish thing now and again, which is a normal part of being creatures that can speak sounds that mean things. So I'm not talking about those occasional lapses.  My penchant for cringing is much more frequent than that. At least once or twice a year, I come out with just the most ill-formed, stupifying ideas that never fail to discombobulate, irritate, offend, or embarrass the poor person (or worse, people) trapped in front of me like deer in headlights. No, I will not give you examples. Are you nuts?

Which is why I did not go up to the actors who had just finished a reading of a very interesting play at The New School, Monday night.  All of them were good, but two of the actors I have seen many times on TV or in film, and I like them very much.  I even had a small window when I could have just walked over to a group of them to say "Congratulations!"  And maybe I could have stopped it at that, and all would be well.  But the minute someone turns to look at me after I pay them a compliment, my brains does its haywire act and out blurbs something odd, tangled, puzzling, or just downright rude. The problem is that once I'm in that state, my brain works faster than my mouth, so what comes out is a part of an idea, or two ideas smashed into one, or gibberish. But they rarely seem to be harmless.  I have a gift for making it awful! And when my brain finally comes back to where I started, its too late.  No way to fix it.  So I just walked by without saying a thing. I calmed myself with the thought, "I'll send them a message on Facebook or Twitter.  Surely all actors need one of those things.  (Not to mention the playwright.)"

So the next day, I find that only four of the seven (actors + playwright) were on social media.  I wish they all had been, but I sent those four short messages of congratulations. No stupid, half formed, crazy, embarrassing insults.  Just a few words to let them know I enjoyed the experience. Nice and safe.  And I waited.  And waited.  And eventually...I heard from one!  One fucking person answered me! True, it was a very sweet answer, and it was from an actress I've been watching for decades, so that was more meaningful to me than if one of the people I knew nothing about had sent it, but the other actor, whose work I have long enjoyed, sent me nuttin'. Not a word. Not a key stroke. Not even a #.  Granted it was on Twitter, and it was in the afternoon, so I could have left well-enough alone and just chalked it up to the overload that is the Twitter universe. But I went to read his feed and there I was.  And a few minutes after mine, he answered someone else's about a completely different subject. So no such luck in the "it got lost in the Twitter universe" defense.  It seems he just chose to ignore it or think it needed no response. A childish part of me thinks, "Well, fuck you, too, Buddy. See if I ever tweet you again!" A irritated part of me wants to send another: "Should I have mentioned boxing or hockey?" (Two subjects he tweets about often.) But rationally all I'm left with is...I can absolutely be sure that he didn't think what I said was stupid.  Nor did the other three that got my tiny missive. Because, this time, I pretty much stopped at "Congratulations!"

Our Town

As we grow older, the number of deaths of people we love, or have impacted our lives in a major way, seem to accumulate, heart-rending in their finality.  They are gone.  Close paragraph.  Unfortunately, for the last six years, someone close to me has died, some years more than one.  The first reaction is sadness or grief.  Eventually I have come to accept them, though not forget the pain.  I have lost both my parents; my mother-in-law; the mother of one of my dearest friends; two brothers-in-law; the first person I came out to; my dear voice teacher and supporter and friend.  Now, just a few short weeks ago, two teachers who taught me life changing things in High School have died far too early.  Mrs. Culbertson urged me to keep high standards for myself: what was the point of doing something half-assed (she would never say such a term!) when you can do it to the best of your ability?  I’ve always tried to do just that.  And Jan Jones, whom I called Miss Jones during the day, but she was such a good friend to me and my family I always think of her as Jan, taught me to trust my instincts, and my heart, for I was a better observer of life than I gave myself credit.

For the last few years, I have had the privilege on several occasions to hear a fine soprano, and a fine friend, Alison Davy, sing a setting of Thornton Wilder’s beautiful words from his most popular play: Our Town. As life would have it, recent to whenever she sang this lovely piece, I was dealing with the death of one of these people so important to me.  The music is simple, touching, sad.  For so are the words.  Ironically, Jan directed me in a production of Our Town, so the lines stick in my mind. In the play, the spirit of a young woman who died in childbirth speaks them.  But though she is saying farewell, and voices what the living never seem to realize, surely her discovery is one we should, and can, take to heart.  May we appreciate what we have while we live.

Good-bye , Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?

Freedom

I was born in 1962.  My lifespan has encompassed most of the fights for basic human rights the United States has waged within itself in the 20th, and now 21st, Centuries. One by one, legal battles have secured tenuous, but still holding, victories for Americans who believe we all should have equal rights--ALL the equal rights. Another victory just happened, again a legal one. But the battle didn't start in the courts. Nor in Congress, or with the Presidency, nor The Supreme Court.  None of them did. They started in the pews of churches, the desks in front of classes, the local restaurants, the bars, the streets, the homes, the individual minds. They grew from a few voices trying to speak over the roar of bigotry, ignorance, and hypocrisy, to the sounds of collected voices leading burgeoning human rights movements that sprang up across the country, flowing forth like new rivers: city by city, county by county, state by state.  Those who believed that change could happen yelled, preached, marched, picketed, even crashed places of government to be heard. Eventually, they gathered enough support and ran for elected positions, and (finally) won--from the local governing bodies on to the national ones.  And over time, after much debate, and fierce, sometimes deadly, opposition, laws were made, and more and more equality, for more and more people, created a newer America.  These are the well-told stories of my lifetime. Some of the voices who told them have been silenced. The rest of us need to keep telling them.

This happened in the 18th Century, of course, when a revolution created a republic, with a radical declaration and constitution that promised equality to everyone. But we still don't have it. We are closer than ever, but still not there. Just over a week ago, men and women who love others of the same sex can now enjoy freedoms I never dreamed could arrive in my lifetime, when I came out as a gay man at 25 years old.  I have made a home with a loving and beautiful man for 22 years. If and when we choose to marry, we will be able to do so, no matter where in America we live. But the hate spewing forth on TV and YouTube and Twitter is loud and heated and irrational and fearful and dangerous.  True, it will never again silence all of those who have fought and won those battles, but it won't go away.  It never has. We have more battles, as the vile hatred from some of the non-entities running for President can attest. We fight on.

This July 4th, I am as proud to be an American as I ever have been. I live in exciting times. I have been shown more love and kindness this past year than I could have imagined.  But even some of those I love dearly, and who love me as well, cannot break away from what I see as their prejudices. They think I cannot break away from mine. But they listen to my point of view, and I listen to theirs. To me, that's great progress, and encouraging. The fireworks and the music celebrate both the victories and the battles fought but not won.  Like the flag, we are still there.

Life Just Changed Forever

The Great Pride March of Marvelous New York City is moving down Fifth Avenue. (That's not its official name, just mine.) And nothing could be more fortuitous. Because of one Supreme Court decision, just days ago, every person in America can marry and receive all the benefits, and responsibilities, that legally come with doing so. (Not to mention, with that other decision, they can be insured.) Before this week, many elected officials were still spouting bile about the "sanctity" of marriage between a man and a woman, using this hate speech to rouse fundamentalist conservatives to vote for them. Of course, none of them seem to mention divorce, which seems to "de-sanctify" it to me! Or claim Marriage Equality will lead to people wedding their pets. Seeing some of these morons, I'd say we already have that. Well, now they can rant and rave all they want. It's fucking done! How to celebrate where you are? Love each other.

A Beginning and an Ending

Finally, all the checking, the seemingly endless paperwork, the final "approved" bank transactions have led to the completion of the Kickstarter campaign. The money has come through. And I have had another myriad, powerful series of emotional responses: this entire endeavor has been rife with them. I started the process a year ago, before my novel was completed--well, to my satisfaction anyway. I researched and researched and researched until I felt I had gained enough knowledge to put together a workable campaign and see it through to the end.  I enlisted help from friends and family. And I continued to work on my novel while I worked on everything else. As the time grew nearer, my anxiety grew stronger. I began to have manic episodes more frequently. I even changed the beginning and ending dates twice. Mostly from fear that I was not prepared. Then I took the plunge... Six weeks of frustration and worry and thankfulness and joy were the results. It's done!

This entire process has been humbling, marvelous, and personal. I've felt a little numb lately. So much work brought so much gain. How many beautiful people gave so I could finish this dream of mine! I will never be able to show them my full gratitude, because that would be impossible. But my budget is set, my post-campaign started, the long wait for publication begun. And they have ensured all of it.

As celebration, my husband Jav and I went to see the final performance of a Broadway musical, The Visit, that proved to be historic in many ways. (We bought very inexpensive seats in the balcony, lest you think we spent Kickstarter funds.) Happily, it began the final journey for a work decades in the making. Producers are already interested in creating productions around the world. So said one of the producers from the stage after the performance. It made history in two more important ways: it was the final work of the great musical writing team of John Kander (music) and Fred Ebb (lyrics.) Ebb died in 2004. never seeing his work make it to Broadway. The team worked on it for over a decade. Kander is 88. The book was written by the famed playwright Terence McNally, aged 76. But perhaps most auspicious of all, this was the farewell to Broadway of the great musical star, Chita Rivera. At 82, she was still starring in a show, singing (and dancing!) for all but a few minutes of the 95 minute  musical. Eight shows a week. She had created the role of Anita in West Side Story. That was in 1957. She has rarely been off stage since. To many of us, she is an icon of a system fading fast away. She was a stage star, not someone popular from another medium that gained enough fame to make it to Broadway. She worked with most of the great composers and lyricists. This was her fourth Kander and Ebb work, including the role of Velma Kelly in the original production of Chicago. She won Tony awards for two of them. This was the third time I saw her perform live. Delightful though the first two were, neither quite prepared me for this glorious swan song: of her close friends, of her last score, and her final Broadway performance. Many of us (including Chita) couldn't stop tears from coming. This is what all lovers of theater so rarely see. How could any of us not be moved? Shocking though it may seem, her voice is still recognizable as the young performer singing "America" and "A Boy Like That." Here she is in her final number from The Visit. She is performing with the ghost of her younger self. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypYmkev9Sfg Perhaps she'll go to London, if it moves there. But probably not. She went out at the top of her game. I was honored to witness it. In the audience were John Kander and Terrance McNally. Equally fitting, two actors were making their Broadway debuts. The torch was passed. Jav and I waited by the stage door for an autograph from her, something we rarely do. She signed our program, a picture of her backstage during the run of West Side Story. She posed for a picture with me. This is one of the great things about living in New York. Sometimes you meet royalty.

A Man Named Jimmy

This is a story I've added to other places online.  But for anyone who hasn't read it, this is a tale of friendship and inspiration and the writing of a book:

Jimmy was one of the first people I met in New York. He loved all things theater; he loved meeting new people; he loved hearing stories, and telling stories; he loved to laugh. He had been a dancer, actor, director, and admired others who do those well. I adored him instantly. His body was confined to a wheelchair, due to a stroke, but nothing else about him could be described as confined.

Being a playwright, I hatched a plan to write something he could act; surely he just needed the right part. I tried to find a good idea for a play, but I couldn’t come up with any. Then I thought about a screenplay. I was sure I could find room in a movie for all kinds of characters. And I did. Something I knew he could play. I could see his face and hear his voice when I wrote “his” dialogue. I even named him after a character in Jimmy’s favorite musical: Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. I wrote on it for about two and a half years. Along the way, I lost touch with him, as sometimes happens in life, but I kept to my writing, waiting to surprise him with my “gift”. Even if the movie never made it past the writing stage, he would know that there was a juicy part in the world, and I had written it for him. I finally finished it, and went about looking to reconnect. To my utter sadness, he had died while I was working on it. He fell asleep and never woke up. I put the screenplay away, hurting too much to polish it.

Then I had an idea. I could use the basic outline, and some of the characters, and write a novel. The character would be there as my testament to him. I worked for three and a half years, and Irish Guilt is the result. Whenever I wrote about “Jimmy’s” character, I again thought of his face and his voice, and I think the dialogue for him is stronger because of it. He’s one of my favorites in the book! I like to think that as long as this book is around, Jimmy is still around, too. The words on the dedication page will read, “In memory of Jimmy Rilley, my friend.” Because I am proud to say he was.

Half Way

Half  way.  The worst place to be, in almost any situation, certainly the most vulnerable to doubt and worry.  Half way through my novel, I felt overwhelmed and stopped writing for a time.  Now I'm half way through the month, and I feel a bit overwhelmed again.  My mind feels cloudy.  So much work has gone into this that the two previous weeks have felt like two months!  So much to do, write, say about the same issue.  How many ways can you focus on a different aspect of the process before you run out of ideas?  I suddenly feel my age.  (I'd like to think the "inner me" is about 35.)  Of course, the generosity of so many people has propelled me this far.  I couldn't be more grateful.  I would have thrown in the towel, or strangled someone with it, had these good people not come to my aid.  But I'm stuck in the middle of the seesaw, trying not to allow one end to fall to the ground.  I'll need to get off of it sometime, but today, I'm just lucky I can balance it.  Balance.  Tomorrow, I move toward the finale of this work. That's tomorrow, no longer half way.

Gone But Still With Us

I just discovered one of my classical music idols has died last month.  Andrew Porter was a music critic, the best of my lifetime, most famously for The New Yorker magazine.  But he was so much more.  He wrote English singing translations for dozens of operas, including his universally praised version of the complete Ring Cycle of Wagner.  This was recorded in the late 70's, and is still available as I write. He staged operas, he lectured, he wrote much about music, he was on the board of musical organizations.  But he will forever be an important figure in opera because he found all the original material from the premiere version of Verdi's Don Carlos, thought to be lost.  He recreated it from orchestral parts and chorus books, and his reconstruction is now the official published version, and the one used when the original is performed, which is happening more and more.  This scholarship will outlive us all.  That is as close to immortality as a critic/theorist/researcher can get.

I got to know the music of many modern composers through his enthusiastic writing in some books of reviews collected from his 20 years at The New Yorker.  (I have reread them all, many times.) I sought out many names and recordings from his opinions.  I didn't agree with everything he said, but I agreed with much of it, and I have tried to follow his practice of giving something two (or more) listens before I make up my mind about it.  (But sometimes, something is so shitty, a second listen isn't necessary.)  But no one was free from his critical eye.  Observations of poor performances, even by singers and performers he thought were among the best in the world, were printed, often to the scorn of fans,  Lesser works were called such.  Failures--by good and bad alike--admitted as such.  And he should know.  He rarely heard (major) pieces without studying the score first, and/or listening to a series of performances, not just one.  Opera was his true love, but he never stopped listening to anything and everything, forever curious, forever understanding the importance of the new through his knowledge of the old.  He wrote often and well.  His prose is clear, his adjectives precise.  Most of all, he seemed to be forgiving when a performer, composer, or piece had disappointed him.  He tried to hear everything with understanding, without prejudice, or the closest to that I ever read.  He wanted things to be wonderful, and found that much of it was. What better epitaph could there be?

This Seemed So Much Easier In My Mind

Trying to work a month-long fundraiser is no skip down easy lane.  Every day: new posts, new sales pitches, new thank-you's--just new everything. It's a long haul, so new strategies have to be constantly created, explored, implemented, or tossed away.  Not that I'm complaining.  Already, the response has been generous and kind.  That's the part that surprises me the most. People are so happy to see you fulfill your dream.  Not a penny seems to have come from someone who felt obligated to pitch in.  I feel very fortunate in that.  I still have many more pennies to collect, but we're on the way.

The other side of the equation is the shock from some people that I am being so open about my bi-polar disorder.  People rarely talk about something so potentially off-putting.  They don't feel comfortable knowing someone has issues leaving an apartment.  Or that medication will be necessary for life.  Those are "facts" few want to hear about someone they care about.  Mental disorders scare people. They can't be seen concretely, like a broken leg, or a cancerous growth, or even kidney failure.  Cancer and kidney failure are far more dangerous than bi-polar disorder, but the world knows about them.  We've seen TV programs, read articles, seen movies, known relatives, have been diagnosed.  When a TV program like Homeland stars a character with bi-polar disorder--named Carrie Mathison and played by Claire Danes--suddenly viewers start judging if the behavior shone is "realistic", as if all people with it act the same.  These are people without bi-polar disorder, mind you. Go on Netflix, for instance, and read how many viewers complained that Carrie's behavior was too far from "reality" for someone in her position.  But they have missed the point.  People like her exist in all professions.  I can attest to her behavior swings.  I can attest to the schizoid nature of your brain, where it can be working on something extremely complex, while making your body go through all kinds of hell.  I think Danes has done a great job of showing a well-rounded person with a life-altering mental disorder.  And the writing has reflected this quite well, especially given the nature of the program.  But at least that's just a character on TV.  No one you actually know.  People like me are too real for some people.  Those kind of facts are "too much information."  Yes, things are getting better.  More is being shown on all forms of programming.  More books are out.  CBS gave a "CBS cares" segment to bi-polar disorder.  But the man who spends the majority of his time inside a one bedroom apartment is better ignored.  This Kickstarter campaign has turned the light on me.  I'm lucky that the majority of people are so happy about what I've accomplished and hope to accomplish still.  The fact that others are bothered is a whole different kind of light.

Off to the Kickstarter Races

After a year's planning, gathering information, making videos, making contacts, and a billion other irritating things, my Kickstarter campaign to fund the publication of my novel is finally up and running.  I even have my first pledge!  Check here to read all about it: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/914886440/irish-guilt-a-novel-of-mystery-and-thrills
Thanks!  And may the luck of the Irish be with you!

Society Made Me Write A Novel

No one knows why so many people with mental conditions, such as bi-polar disorder or chronic depression, do creative things in their lives: writers, composers, singers, actors, etc.  No one knows why so many gay people gravitate to the performing arts.  No one knows why so many great musicians/composers/performers of the Twentieth Century were Jewish or had Jewish ancestry.  (Didn't know that?  Think about it, even using just a small sampling.  Who's the most famous violinist in the world today? Itzak Perlman, whose fame goes back to the last century. Who was the most famous conductor of the last century? Leonard Bernstein, who was also a great pianist and a brilliant composer.  Two of the most famous composers of the early Broadway theater were George Gershwin and Irving Berlin. We still sing their songs. Gershwin was also a brilliant pianist. Who doesn't know Stephen Sondheim by now? The movie version of Into the Woods made $128,000,000 in the US alone. Worldwide?  That should double or triple.  Not to mention, there have been many many thousands of productions of his work around the world.  Performances of his shows are playing somewhere every day of every year, which has been happening for decades.  Stephen Schwartz is the composer of Pippin and Wicked.  And to really seal the deal, search through the names of the pianists who were part of the massive CD collection of Great Pianists of the 20th Century. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pianists_of_the_20th_Century  Rubinstein, Horowitz. Janis. Argerich. Ashkenazy.  That's just five off the top of my head.  You'll see what I mean.  And that's just pianists.  If you searched for the musicians who made the most classical recordings between 1900 and 2000, you'd find that the majority are of Jewish ancestry. Amazing!  Isn't it?)  I've thought about it all very much.  Many people have guessed.  Here's mine:

Culture.  Aspects of society make it happen.  Make it.  Because this involves how people feel.  Not just think, but feel.  You feel love.  You feel attraction.  You feel depression.  You feel mania.  You feel isolation.  You feel acceptance.  You feel success.  You feel failure.  You feel connection.  Culture is constantly telling us how everyone should be feeling about all of these.   And culture is so massive, everyone has to find his or her way through it to find safety, first, then success, of some form or another.  And all that differentiation causes friction.  The more a person mirrors the most popular "truths", the more that person can survive quite well without questioning very much of it. After all, the majority of people in America are white, are straight, are Christian, are somewhere on the spectrum of middle class, want children, send them to school, expect a core belief system to be taught there, have jobs, drive cars, eat at restaurants, buy the things in life they feel important, instill these beliefs into future generations, which become a system for their lineage, a proven path to follow, Nothing is wrong about any of this per se.  We see the benefits of it all around us, in our homes, in our neighborhoods, on TV, in movies, and online.  But what about those of us who do not fit any of the more dominant social paradigms? We are left to ponder our public differences.  (Everyone has private differences.)  In my observations, to skip over that stage is to become trapped in a form of limbo. You learn nothing about yourself, you cannot change anything about yourself, you continue doing (usually) destructive things.  The riots in Baltimore are a form of this happening. What is really showing in those videos?  I see young black men who feel they have no choices, no alternatives, nothing to contemplate, other than their own combustible rage.  And a match was lit, and now that rage is on fire.  The worst horror is not the buildings on fire but the men destroying them.  Look at their faces!  Most of the media that I've seen has been trying to keep from showing them beyond a minimal amount expected for "good" journalism.  They know their audience doesn't want to see the cruelly tattered humanity.  An aerial view of a city aflame is a much easier video to watch.  And makes it easier to dehumanize them yet again.  But I can't stop looking.  THIS is happening in America.  And parts of our culture have created it.

Why are we not the same?  Why aren't we seeing ourselves projected?  Why are these groups of people over here very accepting, while these groups of people over here are rarely accepting, while many groups move about some amorphous middle ground?  As a gay man, as a very liberal/progressive believer/voter, as a man with an "incurable" disability, as a man with talents in the arts, I've had to ask such questions to survive.  Often.  Art is about talent (within certain boundaries) so people with that kind of talent, or people who can foster that kind of talent, go where that talent can thrive, even if it's on a small scale.  Parents and grandparents--and back and back--that have seen how a life in music, say, can give their child a profession to last a lifetime (or close to it) and a respected place in their culture, will try to make that happen.  In other terms, if we feel empowered to make choices, we make choices that we can see work, especially in historic patterns.

The disability issue is the same, but from a negative perspective.  How do you protect yourself? Who will hurt you?  What will hurt you?  Where is danger?  Where is safety?  How can you prosper?  How do you manage relationships with so much difficulty doing basic tasks?  How do you live with a prognosis of "no cure"?  Alas, for us, most cultures are not mirroring much of anything but bewilderment, skepticism, fear, and containment.  So those of us with major health problems do not feel empowered to make choices. We may find fellow "sufferers" or our relatives, but no real social support system is there:obvious, well-used, known.  We have medicines and therapy--which are essential, as far as I'm concerned, so don't get me started--but the emotional wounds, and eventually, scars, do not have an obvious outlet.  So we are left to make our own.  We find what we are skilled at, and pursue that, until we cannot.  I was a singer, actor, speaker, director for most of my life.  But my bi-polar disability has brought about mental issues I can no longer resist with any certainty.  And you cannot perform with uncertainty.  You have to know you can perform the work...or you can't.  So I made a choice to do something that I could be uncertain about half the time, while being quite certain about the other half. All the while "safe" in my apartment.  Eventually, I'd get to the end of it.  Which is where I'm headed.  I have a finished novel that needs to be printed and sold.  And that accomplishment has been as healing as any medicine or therapy I've yet encountered.  Just seeing the happiness in the eyes of your loved ones or the happiness in their voices when you tell them you're finished... Nothing like it.  Not even singing at Weill Recital Hall (the chamber music auditorium where most of the great classical musicians have played) at Carnegie Hall, which was its own sort of joy, but not as rich.

So on Friday, the process of getting help for that final push commences.  It will take a buttload of work to accomplish.  Nothing is certain.  But I can do it all from that apartment I have so much trouble leaving, which for better and worse, is my bi-polar certainty.

For anyone interested, here's a link to an older version of this blog.
http://fredchamberplayers.blogspot.com/  I know it's out of date, but you might find something interesting to read there...especially if you're fond of opinions!

The next few days will be busy getting everything ready for Friday.  This all seemed so damned easy when it was just a list of things to do!  Of course, Friday is just the beginning.  I have a whole month of work to raise my funds.  Shit!

One of the important reasons why I wrote this novel was a form of, well, therapy is the closest word I can think of.  You see, I have bi-polar disorder (for any of you who don't know).  If you follow the progress of my campaign, you'll probably hear and read a lot about it.  My issues include difficulty leaving my apartment for long periods of time.  So writing was an obvious choice to pursue for something to help me live more productively.  It was a tough three and a half years.  And I'm not quite finished: I have to get it published.  But I'm one day closer!  Ready or not, Friday, here we come.

Kickstarting Kickstarter

The work has been difficult (and long in coming) but my Kickstarter campaign goes live this Friday, May 1, and ends on Sunday, May 31.  You see, I've written my first novel, and I'm trying to get it published!

The book is a mystery/erotic thriller titled Irish Guilt.  The cast of characters is large, including two gay men as protagonists, but every one of them has a secret.  Some of those secrets are a matter of life and death.

It's not a "gay" novel exactly.  No one is closeted.  No one is assaulted by homophobes.  No one is being blackmailed.  Sexuality is just one aspect of these characters.  The vast majority of them are straight.  I'm a fan of gay literature, but many fine writers are exploring those avenues.  I wrote what I would want to read.

Like a good mystery, details of the lives of these people are uncovered little by little, giving clues to the guilt, or innocence, of each of them.  Like a good erotic thriller, the book is chock full of action: violence, danger, and of course, steamy sex.  Yes, it even has straight sex!  This is definitely not for kids.

A fan page should be up and running tomorrow or Tuesday, and a Twitter account should show up along with it, so you can be kept up to date on everything that's happening.

So more soon.