"For the ♥ of David," Chapter One, Scene One

My goal, for a long time, has been to publish Chapter One, Scene One of my novel on my blog.  I'm happy to say, here it is.

Here's what I've literally been working on for years.  Here's the one thousandth version of this scene.  Here's what I've spent the last two days working on, fine-tuning, trying to get it just right, in anticipation of publishing it.  Here's what I know is far from perfect, but as good as I can make it–for now.

I hope you enjoy reading it.  I also hope I'll make you care enough about the characters to want to know what happens to them.

If you have feedback, good or bad, I'd appreciate hearing it.  I've received feedback from two beta readers so far, but I could always use more.

And if you're interested in being a long-term beta reader, even better.  Perhaps, if you're working on something, I could be your beta reader too. 

Happy reading.  

*

ONE

October 1988

I would never have met David, if he hadn’t had a hairy chest.
    Early on a Wednesday evening, the phone rang.  Its sound was out of place in my apartment, like alcohol would have been.       
    As usual, I’d arrived home late from work.  I’d finished dinner and was cleaning up.  Entertainment Tonight chatted away on the TV–about a movie, Clara’s Heart, with Whoopi Goldberg and new child actor Neil Patrick Harris.
    Tea towel in hand, I walked into the living room.
    “Hello?”
    “May I speak with Bryan, please?”
    “This is Bryan.”
    “Oh, hi.  I’m David.  I put the ad in The West Ender.  The one you answered.”
    My heart raced.  I felt lightheaded.
    For months, I’d browsed the personals, in The Georgia-Straight, The Buy & Sell, and The Vancouver Sun, finding nothing.  No future husband.  Not even a deal on a stereo.   
    Then, Friday, nearly two weeks earlier, I saw this in The West Ender:
                            GWM, 30, good looking, NS, SD,
                            employed, seeks same for LTR.  Likes
                            long walks on the beach, quiet times
                            at home, and chili.  Must love hairy chests.   
This one was different from the rest.  It sounded like me, like what I was looking for.  Especially the hairy chest part.
    Over the weekend, I left the newspaper open on the kitchen table, looking at it from time to time.  Should I, or shouldn’t I? 
    Finally, Sunday evening, I sat down to hand-write a response–see what I came up with.  If it was good enough, I might even send it in. 
    Late the following morning, I rode the Skytrain downtown.  I walked to Davie Street and hand-delivered my letter to the newspaper office (I hoped the woman there wouldn’t recognize the box number belonged to a gay ad, or misplace my envelope).  I wanted whoever had run the personal to receive my response right away.  Maybe then he’d call sooner.
    But he didn’t.  Several days went by, then a week.  Nothing.     
    Finally, I gave up.  He wasn’t interested, and I didn’t blame him.  He’d figured out I was uptight, boring, and needy.  Who’d be interested in someone like that?
    Still, I hoped.  Maybe…
    “Uh, I didn’t think you’d call.”  I tried to keep my voice even, cool, though it was shaking with nerves.
    “Oh?  Why is that?”
    “I don’t know.  Um, I guess, ah, I guess I thought if you were interested, you’d…you’d’ve called by now.”
    “Oh, it’s been hell at work lately.  This is the first chance I’ve had to get on the phone.  Well, not on the phone.”  He chuckled.  “That could be fun.  Might be a cheap thrill.”  His comment threw me.  I laughed too.
    Unfortunately, my excitement soon turned to disappointment.  The longer I listened to David talk, the less he sounded like I’d thought he would, like I’d hoped he would.
    I’d hoped he’d sound masculine.  His chest was hairy, after all.  Weren’t hairy-chested men masculine?  Didn't they have manly-sounding voices? 
    Not David.
    “I work for a beauty supply company downtown,” he told me.  I didn’t know any masculine men who worked for beauty supply companies.  Come to think of it, I didn’t know any masculine men?  “We supply salons, from Vancouver to the Fraser Valley, with everything from combs to chairs.” 
    Not only was his voice not masculine, but it sounded…gay–his words too carefully enunciated, his pitch sing-songy, like a woman’s.  And, worse, you’d have thought he had a chronic bad cold.  Everything came out nasal.
    “Oh, please, Louise,” David said.  “Don’t get me started.  The stories I could tell you about salons.  They’d curl your hair–no perm needed.”  I cringed at David’s campiness. 
    He was talking about what he did for a living, but what I heard him say was, I’m not the man for you.
    “Your letter makes you sound like a barfly.”  David laughed.
    “I guess I am.”  I laughed too.  “If going to the clubs every weekend, hoping to meet the right guy, makes you a barfly.” 
    “What clubs might I have seen you at?”
    “I usually go to the Gandy.”
    “Me too.  I was there just last Saturday.”
    “So was I.”  David and I might have seen each other.  Had we given the other a second look?
    “Please tell me you didn’t have a tie-dyed T-shirt on.”
    “No, I didn’t.  Why?”
    “Thank God.  Did you see her on the dance floor, wearing that shit-eating grin?”  David chuckled.  “She bounced up and down like she had a pogo stick up her ass."   
    I busted into laughter.  "No, I missed that.  Sounds like she was something.”
    “Oh, she was something, all right.  Just what, I’m not sure.  Lady Tie-Di–that’s what I called her.”  I caught the reference to Lady Diana Spencer.
    “I wish I’d seen her.”
    “No you don’t.  Believe me.” 
    “Okay, maybe I don’t.”
    “And Princess Foo.”  David chuckled again.
    “Who?”
    “Not who.”  His voice was louder.  “Foo.  Princess Foo.”
    I laughed.  “Never heard of her.”
    “She was too much for Hollywood.  The way she carried on, you’d’ve thought she was Asian royalty or something.”  He laughed again.  “What she was wearing, I have no idea.  Looked like some kind of military getup.  And you should have seen her dance–stood in one spot, shuffled her feet, and smoked cigarettes, like she was fucking Joan Crawford.”  I was laughing so hard, I could scarcely hear David.
    Whether I was relaxed, in a good mood, or enthralled by David’s stories, I thought he was funny.  Seriously funny.  It seemed the more animated he became, the funnier he got. 
    “What does it take to find a goddamn husband around here?” David lamented, our conversation turning from characters in the clubs, to why we went to them.  “I’ll be thirty-fucking-one in December.  That’s eighty-nine in gay years.”  I laughed, understanding what he meant.  “My eggs are shrivelling.  I have to give birth soon, or that’ll be it for me.”   
    I’ll never forget how much fun David and I had on that first call.  I couldn’t remember when I’d last talked with someone so laugh-out-loud funny.
    But what I kept thinking about–what I really wanted to know–was how hairy his chest was.
    I went to ask several times, but stopped myself.  What if he thought I was too forward? 
    Be patient, I thought.  You’ll see when you meet.
    But what if we didn’t meet?  Then I’d never know. 
    “Can I ask a question?” I blurted.
    “That depends, on the question.”
    I laughed nervously.  “Well, I was wondering…you know, about your chest.  How hairy is it?”
    David went silent.  Then:  “You girls are all alike.  You only want a man for his body.”
    His reaction caught me off guard.  Was he serious?
    “Well, your ad said, ‘Must love hairy chests.’  So I thought…I thought you wouldn’t mind if I, um, asked how hairy yours is.”
    David sighed loudly, impatiently.
    “I–I guess that was the wrong question.”  I attempted a laugh, but I felt awful, concerned I’d ruined the good impression I thought I’d made.  “I’m sorry.  I–”
    David burst into laughter.
    I sucked in my breath.  “You bugger.”  I released my anxiety in a nervous laugh.  “You really had me going there.  I thought I’d offended you.”
    David was oddly quiet, then–quieter than he’d been any time during our call.
    “Well?” I persisted.
    “What?”  He was playing with me, had to be. 
    “How hairy are you?”
    Silence.  Then:  “Remember Grover on Sesame Street?”
    Sesame Street?  What?  Where was this going?
    “Sort of.”  Which one was Grover?  Big Bird, Ernie and Bert, and a Muppet in a garbage can–I remembered them.  But not Grover.  “Why?”
    “Well, I am hairy like Grover,” David said, breaking into a falsetto growl.  Of course.  Grover.  How could I forget?
    I lost it, then.  Both of us did.  David was comparing himself–how hairy he was–to a puppet.  I laughed so hard, tears ran down my face.  My cheeks, head, and stomach couldn’t take much more.
    “But I am not a pretty blue,” David growled.
    Then it hit me.  Holy crap.  He wasn’t that hairy, was he?  Nobody was. 
    “I don’t know about you,” David said, twenty minutes into our call, “but I want to get together.” 
    “You mean, now?”
    “Yeah.  Why not?  I can’t wait until the weekend to meet in person.” 
    “Neither can I.”
    “Good.  It’s settled, then.” 
    “Where do you want to meet?”  I told him I didn’t have a car, and transit at that time of the day could be iffy. 
    “I have a car,” David offered.
    “How ‘bout my place?”  As soon as I’d said it, I panicked.  “It’ll take an hour to get here, though.  And you might not find parking.”
    “Not a problem.  I live in the West End, remember?  And I walk almost everywhere.  So I look for excuses to get in the car and drive.”
    “Are you sure?”
    I’m the one who wasn’t sure.  Would I be ready to meet David–in an hour?  Did my apartment look okay?  Did I look okay?
    I gave him my address.
    “Very good.”  Then, in that falsetto growl again, he added, “Grover looks forward to meeting you.”
    The human Muppet was on his way.   
    When I hung up, I realized the mistake I'd made.  I should have suggested we meet in a coffee shop or restaurant–some public location.  Axe murderers were less likely to strike with other people around.         

Those First Five Pages

If ever there was a time to ensure our first five pages–hell, our first page, or less–is absolutely perfect, it's right now.

I've never been one to sit in a bookstore and read the first five pages of a book before deciding to buy it.  I think that's because I'm too caught up in the excitement of being in a bookstore to settle down and focus on reading a number of pages.  I want to take in everything that's there and be a part of it (just smelling the paper and ink in the air inspires me).  I'll settle down and focus, book in hand, when I return home. 

But, these days, if you're technologically savvy and interested in a book, all you have to do is go to iBookstore on your iPad, and, for free, download what, as far as I can tell, is the first chapter of any book available.  That's right–FOR FREE. 

In the comfort of your home, without risking a cent, you can download the first chapter of nearly any book and sample it.  You might not even need the entire first chapter to make up your mind whether you want to spend money on the book.  You might know within the first paragraphs.  The first sentences?  Yikes!

That's a scary prospect for any writer, hoping not only to be published, but also to be read.  And, not only to be read, but to have their work bought.  With the attention spans of most people today, it's a wonder any writer makes money.  (Is any writer, other than some pretty awful ones, their books seemingly always on the bestseller lists, making money today?) 

And, I hasten to add, fewer and fewer professionals write reviews of books for newspapers and magazines.  Anyone and everyone can do that now, with no particular writing or critical ability, on websites like goodreads.com.  So, if your book fails on any level, get ready for readers to tears it apart.  Because that's what some do, holding little back, it seems.

All the more reason to polish those first few pages until you can see yourself in them.    

Early August Update

So, from time to time, I'd like to give you an update on where I am in the process of completing my novel.  Here goes:

A few weeks ago, I achieved a milestone.  My first beta reader, Jeanette, and I reviewed Chapter Eighteen.  Over the past two-plus years, we've met from time to time to review in detail each chapter I've written to this point.  We have a few more to go, but we're getting there.

My second beta reader, RG, and I have reviewed Chapter One several times.  A few weeks ago, I sent him Chapters Two to Five.  He wanted to read ahead and see how the characters and story develop.  Chapter Two is ready for a detailed read, but Chapters Three to Five still need more revision to measure up to the new Chapter One.  Work is ongoing here.

Here's where things get a little complicated.  I'll review this chapter-by-chapter for you:

Chapter Nineteen:  A few more rounds of revision are still needed here, but Jeanette and I should be able to review it soon.

Chapter Twenty:  Same as above.

Chapter Twenty-One:  Same as above.

Chapter Twenty-Two:  Recently, I completed a thorough rewrite of this chapter.  The first draft was awful and needed to be brought up to the level of what came before.  That's now done, and many more rounds of edits are needed before it's ready for Jeanette's eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Three:  Last week, I began work on a full rewrite of the three scenes in this chapter.  Some sections will need thorough rewrites, and others won't.  Then I'll have many rounds of edits to complete.

Chapter Twenty-Four:  Only a few rounds of rewrites should be needed here before Jeanette can see it.

Chapter Twenty-Five:  This chapter is nearly ready for Jeanette. 

Chapter Twenty-Six:  I just completed a thorough rewrite on this chapter.  A lot more work is still needed before I can pass it on to a beta reader. 

Chapter Twenty-Seven:  I just finished a thorough rewrite.  Many rounds of edits are needed here.

Chapter Twenty-Eight:  I still have to complete a thorough rewrite on this.

Chapter Twenty-Nine:  More work is needed on a thorough rewrite.

Chapter Thirty:  I haven't started the thorough rewrite on this chapter yet.  But I've looked ahead at the first draft, made a lot of notes, and I'm letting my subconscious work on what I want to do with it, while I work in other areas.

Chapter Thirty-One:  Not much worked is needed here.  I completed most of the rewrites on this chapter some time ago, and, when I chronologically get to the point where Jeanette and I can discuss it, it should be mostly ready.

Chapter Thirty-Two:  Same as above (I finished working on the closing chapters some time ago, so I had a point for all the other chapters to lead to).

As you can see, I have multiple projects going on at the same time.  If I'm bored with anyone area, I can easily turn to another.  I recommend this process.  You'll be less likely to grow tired working on the same thing all the time.  Plus, I'm at different places in each chapter, so I'm always fired up to work on different things at different times.

It should also be noted that, as I continue to send chapters to RG, more work will be needed to bring some, particularly earlier ones, up to that standard I talked about earlier in relation to Chapter One.  But, around Chapter Eight or so, less structural work should be needed, and I should be able to focus on the details.

And that's about it.

Happy writing.

You Better Work

 

 I have one thing to say,

You better work.

Rupaul, "Supermodel," 1993

Early in my relationship with Chris, we adopted an expression, intended to be used in relation to each other, that was as much funny as a warning.  And that expression Rupaul sings at the close of his hit song "Supermodel." 

You better work.

Before Chris, I'd had enough experiences with gay men in general to know that a number of them look for free rides (no pun intended) from the men they're interested in.  There are plenty of gay men out there willing to let someone else do all the work, so they can have all the fun.  Fortunately, at the time, Chris and I were both employed, in secure positions.

 

Even now, if we think the other one is slacking off, taking the easy way out, not pulling his weight, we'll haul out the old expression and use it again. 

 

You better work.

 

Over the years, these three little words have had a lot of applications.  They still encapsulate how we feel about someone, anyone, not doing his fair share, expecting things to happen without any effort on his part, so he can have all the fun and take all the glory.

 

During summer, one of my favorite TV shows is "So You Think You Can Dance" (although don't get me started on some of the changes this season, including the Street versus Stage teams, not renewing Mary Murphy's contract as a judge, bringing on the ditzy Paula Abdul, and giving a judging position to Jason Derulo–will he have anything of value to say?).  As I watch this show, particularly the rehearsal videos, showing how hard the dancers work to master the routines choreographers give them, what comes back to me again and again is this:

 

You better work.

 

It applies to me in a lot of ways, and I continuously remind myself I cannot expect to get a free ride.  In many ways, I must continue to add value.  That's just the way it is.  That's the way it should be.

 

But this expression also applies to my writing.

 

Sometimes, when I'm in despair, I ask myself over and over again why writing is so much work.  Why do I have to go through all this to achieve what I want to?

 

Because.

 

Because I do. 

 

Why shouldn't I?

 

Why should I think writing a novel, and making it the best it can be, should be any easier to accomplish than what the dancers on "SYTYCD" have to do to learn and master routines?  Or what athletes have to do to earn a position on Olympic teams?  Or what anyone has to do to be the best in the world at something?  It shouldn't be.  To accomplish what I want, I should have to work every bit as hard, as anyone who struggles to make something happen.   

 

No one gets a free ride.  Or no one should.  

 

So I'll continue to remind myself "You better work," because I better.  That's the only way to get anything done–anything worthwhile, that is.     

The Best Place to Write

Where do you write?

I write in different places.   

Sometimes, I write at home.  I have three places at home where I write: in my office on the second floor, on the island in the kitchen (where I am now), and downstairs in Chris's office (where I went recently during a period of hot weather; it's much cooler in the basement).

The next place I usually write is in the Silent Study room at the local public library.  Sometimes, the Silent Study room is the perfect place to get work done.  It's actually silent, like the name says.  The group of people in there respect each other's right to silence, and we all get our work done.   

Other times, well, let's just say I'd like to kick some of these people out.

There's the woman who wears too much perfume (that gets my nose running).  The old Chinese gentleman, who uses a tiny magnifying glass to see his laptop screen, and sucks on his own saliva, making a slurping sound (can't he hear himself?).  The overweight black guy who never turns his cell phone ringer down or off, and it rings the entire time he's there.  The large black woman who slips her shoes off so everyone can smell her feet.  The group of Chinese children, who are up and down, as the cliche goes, like toilet seats, and whose supposed whispers are more distracting than outright talking.  The young chickees who whisper and laugh constantly.

You'd never know some people are in that room.  Other people, you know every time.  You'd think they'd wake up and see the name above the door:  SILENT STUDY.  What part of that don't you understand?

Then there are three coffee shops around town:  The Starbucks at a strip mall, where I treat myself to a mocha frap about once a week (I can't believe they're $4.99 per; what's in them to justify that expense?).  The locally-owned coffee shop near where I live, that can be really noisy.  And Waves Coffee, some distance away.

On the rare occasion, I travel to an adjoining community, where the public library is new and beautiful and a great place to be.  Except there's no Silent Study room, and, at about two-thirty in the afternoon, when the kids get out of school, all hell breaks loose, and I know getting anything done from that point will be impossible.   (Oh, and there was the East Indian fellow, who sat near the study booths and promptly fell asleep, snoring louder than Chris does–and that's loud.) 

I haven't figured out the trick to being focused and productive as far as where I work is concerned.

Sometimes, I need the absolute quiet I get at home, particularly when I'm working on a more complex task, like a thorough rewrite.  But, sometimes, I find being at home boring and distracting too.  I get up too often to look out the window at a noise I hear.  Or to look in the fridge.  Or to do just about anything but work.

And, sometimes, no distractions at all is too quiet.  Like I tell Chris, I need to work around other people too.  Just because I don't have a job outside the house doesn't mean I don't need to interact and feel like I'm a part of the bigger world.  More often than not, especially lately, I need to feel the energy of other people around me.  I spend enough time at home; I shouldn't have to work on my writing there every day too.

Coffee shops are hit and miss.

Last Friday, I went to Waves.  I felt good.  I knew I'd have a focused and productive day (which I did).  But the second I walked in the place, I felt the temperature drop.  Yes, we've had a lot of hot weather recently.  But setting your thermostat at 65 degrees F. seems just a little low to me.  And I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts.  I lasted about two hours in the fridge before I had to leave.  Hours later, I still felt cold. 

The one smart thing I did was bring ear plugs with me.  Nothing in Waves absorbed the sound, so it was pretty noisy, with all the people coming and going.  The ear plugs blocked out the din of everything around me, turning it into white noise.  This was one instance where noise didn't prevent me from working.

I think writers need to go with wherever they feel like writing, depending on the day.

If staying at home today feels like the right thing to do, then that's where you should be.  If being around other people, but in a quiet environment, feels right, then the library might be the right place.  Although you never know, until you're there, whether what's going on that day will be conducive to getting anything done.  And, if you need the excitement of an energetic, noisy place, with the churn of lots of people, a coffee shop might fit the bill.  On the other hand, it could be too noisy, and you might find yourself leaving shortly after you get there, having gotten nothing done at all, and wondering where you should go next.    

A Good Writing Day

And then, after a streak of shitty writing days, you get one like today, leaving you on what can only be described as a high.

Even as Chris and I had dinner this evening, he knew something was different about me.  I was more chirpy.  I bounced around a bit more.  My chatter was elevated and animated.  Yes, it was.  And I deserved all the good feelings.

When you receive a writing day like today's, you have to ask yourself, what was different today from all the recent shitty ones?  And what can I do to replicate it, so that number of my great writing days exceed the number of my shitty writing days (because who likes shitty writing days?).

Was it my new attitude to take my writing more seriously (even though I thought I did that already)?  Did I just happen to be at a better place in the rewrites of my novel, which allowed me to feel focused and energized and excited?  Or was it the location–Starbucks–and the Grande Mocha Frappuccino non-fat no-whip?

Whatever it was, yes, please, I'll take more of them.  

It's days like these that I really LOVE being a writer.  They are few and far between.

I'll savor it while I can.    

Why Not?

Let's see if I can describe this feeling.

I feel disappointment, depression, despair.  We'll call them the three d's.  No one wants to experience any of them at any time, because they make you feel so uncomfortable.  Because they make you feel so crummy.         

But it goes beyond that.

It goes into feeling useless.  Worthless.  Like a waste of life. 

I'm good at doing so many things.

I do a great job of running our household.

When I clean our house, I guarantee you it's clean.  I defy you to find dirt or dust anywhere.

I can be a terrific cook, make delicious meals.

I balance all of our accounts to the penny every two weeks, and I'm in control of our finances.

I do a reasonable job of cutting Chris's hair.

The list goes on and on of all the domestic duties I do without thinking about them, with results even I, a perfectionist, am happy with.

And, when I used to work for one of Canada's major banks, well, if I may say so myself, I did a pretty decent job too.  Employees were happy, customers were happy, my boss was happy, auditors were happy, results were good, and I had a reputation for being a good employee.   (Until expectations blew up, and no one–no human being, that is–could meet them anymore.  That's when I got out.  Because I knew there was something more.  Because I wanted to experience what that something more was.  Because I needed to be the writer I'd always wanted to be.  Because I had to at least try, or feel like the mountain climber who always wanted to climb Everest but didn't.) 

Except…

Except what if you're not the writer you thought you were or thought you could be?  What if, no matter how hard you work on your novel, it's still not good enough?  What if you look at the damn thing for the thousandth time, still see something wrong with it, and have no idea how to fix it?

I'm filled with such sadness right now, I want to quit.  Quit writing and quit life (for those who are worried I might do something desperate, please know I won't; but that doesn't stop me from feeling like I want to).  

How many times can you keep trying and still come up short?  How many times can you keep banging your head against the wall without busting it wide open?  How many times can you keep doing this to yourself and feel so badly afterward, you wonder if you might be a masochist?

I bet I could be a terrific barista at Starbucks.  I bet I could be a terrific employee at Lindt, or Banana Republic, or any number of other places.  I bet I could master all kinds of jobs, if a manager gave someone my age, with my experience, a chance.   

So why do I keep doing this to myself?  Why not give up writing altogether?  Why not get a job like everyone else, make a little money, buy a few nice things–but, most importantly, never face the frustration of writing again?

Why not?

Why not?

Qualities of a Pulitzer Winner

In a little research I did recently, I found out what judges for the Pulitzer Prize are looking for in the books they choose to win.  Of course, you have to be an American writer to win the Pulitzer, but I suspect these are the qualities of great writing, no matter where you do your work.  

They are:

1).  fully-developed characters
2).  original voice
3).  solidly-crafted structure
4).  serious theme
5).  ability to enchant
6).  originality
7).  authority
8).  verve.

Don't let any of these put you under unreasonable pressure as you write.  Keep them in the back of your mind, that's all. 

Let them help you focus on those areas where you should put your time and effort.  Aspire to achieve them in your work.
 

What's Your Novel About?

How many times has someone asked me, what's your novel about?  And how many times have I balked, trying to gauge how they'll react when I tell them it's about three gay men trying to find love?  Too many to count.

Then, after working on the bloody thing for about five years, it came to me a few days ago.  Sure, on the surface, my novel is about three gay men trying to find love.  But below that–and the real reason why I'm writing it–it's really about the tragedy of never experiencing love.  Or, more specifically, the tragedy of never experiencing love with a special someone–and for oneself.

Now, when people ask what my novel is about, I'll have a more general–and more specific–answer for them.  I'll have the best answer I can give, without going into too much detail, and without potentially taking away from what I'm trying to do.

(Although the woman I'd never seen before, who sat beside me last October in Victoria, at Chris's twenty-fifth anniversary dinner, working for the provincial government, and who was totally cool when I told her my novel is about three gay men trying to find love, and asked me amazingly accepting and insightful questions about the story and process–she set the standard for how I'd love to talk to people about my work.  And, if I hadn't been open with her, I wouldn't have had such a gratifying experience.  Thank you for that, whoever you are.)