Out in Print Queer Book Review

The Heart’s History – Lewis DeSimone (Lethe Press)

Jerry and Bill — Mon, 28 May 2012 09:11:00 GMT

Buy it now direct from Lethe Press.

Some books are loud and abrasive, demanding your attention as they exhaust it. Others work their charms with subtlety and nuance, finishing just as memorably—if not more so—than those that scream their premises. Lewis DeSimone proves himself a master of the quiet approach with his latest release, The Heart’s History.

Ostensibly, this is the story of Edward and his younger lover Robert and how a group of Edward’s long-time friends cope with his illness and death from AIDS, seeking to understand a multi-faceted man who has only shown parts of himself. In a larger sense, The Heart’s History takes on the more universal topics of settling down, settling in, the assimilation of our culture into straight society, and aging gracefully. Or not.

Complex yet engaging, this story is not plot-driven. Yes, things happen and there is a story arc. However, suspense is not the reason these pages seem to turn themselves. The characters are so real that by the time DeSimone has introduced them all in the opening chapter as they gather at a Provincetown beachside home, they already seem like old friends. DeSimone accomplishes this with his uncanny gift for dialogue that sounds spoken instead of written and an unerring eye for detail. By the time you hit page 32, you already care about these people—a much more important propellant than plot.

One of those people, Harlan, really stands out. Harlan is the unrepentant slut of the bunch—a fiercely independent man with a healthy disdain of straight culture, romance and couplehood. He appreciates the relationship Edward has with Robert but simply cannot see himself involved in anything remotely similar. When Sam comes into his life, he acknowledges the importance of such deep connections but is unable to force himself to forge that bond.

The relationship between Edward and Robert is also important as it frames the story. We are introduced to Robert in the first chapter, as are the other friends. Younger than the rest, Robert feels left out and odd at first, but as the book progresses he develops his own friendships within Edward’s crowd—especially with Kyle, Edward’s closest friend and the one who’s always had a secret crush on Edward. Another pairing worth mentioning is Edward’s friend Greg and Greg’s boyfriend (and later, husband) Victor. Greg has been out for years, but Victor is only recently out, having been married for a number of years. Victor’s discomfort at being with obviously gay men is delicious, especially when he’s being skewered by Harlan, and their exchanges provide for some of the funniest and most telling dialogue in the book.

But anything I can say about The Heart’s History will only pale in comparison to the work itself. Genuine, heartfelt and true, this is a beautiful book that will have you laughing and crying simultaneously. Highly recommended.

Reviewed by Jerry Wheeler

Saints & Sinners 2012 Wrap-Up

Jerry and Bill — Thu, 24 May 2012 10:00:00 GMT

You’d think that in this age of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and other forms of electronic immediacy, there’d be less and less reason for queer writers (and those who love them) to congregate. After all, Skype is almost face to face, isn’t it?

Not quite.

Nothing beats real time communication, and I have yet to find a literary conference where everyone is as approachable and convivial as our annual NOLA gathering. This year, even though financial constraints forced the organizers to scale it back, was no exception. The leaner and meaner S&S packed a considerable punch due to the new manuscript review sessions.

But the weekend started Friday night at the Hotel Monteleone with cocktails, nibblies and readings from the winners of the third annual Short Fiction contest. Amie Evans emceed a great program of terrific writers like J. R. Greenwell, George E. Jordan, Jeff Lindemann, Frank Perez, James Russell and Jerry Rabushka, and everyone present received a copy of the anthology of contest winners, Saints and Sinners 2012: New Fiction from the Festival. Drinking, eating, and entertainment. Kinda sums up New Orleans, doesn’t it?

Saturday dawned bright and early, regardless of where or how long you partied, and we were off to our Manuscript Review Workshops—hosted by Jameson Currier, Fay Jacobs, Jeff Mann and Radclyffe. I attended Jim Currier’s Literary Fiction workshop, giving the participants 10K words of my novel-in-progress The Dead Book and getting some excellent feedback in return. Subsequent conversations indicated the other workshops were just as successful as mine.

We had no time to rest on those laurels, however. At 7:30, I was off to the Orange Gallery on Royal St. to read with William Holden, Jeff Mann, Radclyffe, Jean Redmann and the inimitable Fay Jacobs—who is the toughest act to follow. People stayed afterward for cocktails and questions and to demolish a mountain of fruit and cheese. Some of us went on to a lovely dinner at The Court of Two Sisters, but that is yet another story of New Orleans culinary debauchery.

No matter how much we ate or drank, we were still on our game Sunday for a panel discussion with Jameson Currier, Greg Herren, Radclyffe and Jean Redmann called “Is the Sky Falling? Publishing, Plagiarism and Piracy.” Informative and entertaining, the panel left us all in the Hotel Monteleone’s Orleans Room something to think about—a perfect way to end the weekend.

I have never come away from a S&S weekend without being energized and ready to jump in to another project. This time, I’m making a public vow to finish The Dead Book by the end of the year. Dangerous, I know—but I like it out here on the edge. So, start making plans for S&S 2013, and make your own dreams into realities.

What Part of the Brain Controls Book Reviews? (and a Tribute to Jerry and Bill) – Essay by Gavin Atlas

Jerry and Bill — Wed, 16 May 2012 09:42:02 GMT

Last year at Saints and Sinners, Jerry and Bill offered a panel on book reviewing, and I wished I could have participated. Since the bosses are in New Orleans, I’ll fill up some space, and hopefully you’ll get something out of it. At the end, I’ll have a request of you based on the fact that traffic reports indicate lots of people view Out in Print, but often there are only a few comments, if any.

First, why should you want to read criticism on criticism? Perhaps because authors who practice story and character analysis by writing reviews, even if it’s for their eyes only, learn more quickly to avoid mistakes they’ve identified in other people’s work. Meanwhile, readers might discern patterns in what they like and dislike which can help them winnow their to-be-read lists.

I’m unusual because I come at reviews from three angles: an author, a book reviewer (although I now write few reviews), and a publicist. Wait a minute. Four angles. Sometimes I’m a potential consumer.

Seeing it from all those perspectives has taught me that reviewing is extremely difficult, and there are so many ways to go wrong. When studying reviewing techniques in college, we were told professionals use third person and make declarative statements. “Readers of all ages will love this immensely”. That sounds good, and you can bet that authors (and publicists) love the confidence and universality of that statement. I used to do that with every review.

Then I started looking at Dear Author and other sites that revel in getting attention by shredding authors with world-class sarcasm. I came across vicious declaratives like “Readers will decry this protagonist as the most passive individual since Terri Schiavo”. I’d be dishonest if I said snark and hyperbole are never funny, but it’s most likely not if you’re the author under attack. Offending someone isn’t any concern to the anonymous critics at Dear Author, and if any of them know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a review gleefully dripping with venom, I would never have guessed. The Out in Print reviewers are brave and decent enough to put their names on their reviews even though the books largely come from a small writing community where nearly everyone knows everyone.

Here’s a side note to reviewers who write angry reviews, not for attention, but out of honest, serious disappointment. I know it’s dreadful to read bad book after bad book, and if you have innumerable reviewing commitments, I can understand the bile. But perhaps you should stop. The times I’ve had trouble with vitriol were when I didn’t realize I was exhausted, and that could be what’s going on with you. If this isn’t your livelihood, take a break until you can enjoy reading again. Really.

Here’s something I picked up from Jerry. Despite what journalism class dictated, if something was potentially painful, I think it can be preferable to own that opinion by using an “I statement”. So that grumpy reviewer could have said, “I felt that this book was a disappointing read as the protagonist rarely took action to help herself or anyone else, so it felt unreasonable for her village to conclude she must be their immortal savior.” See? It’s logical, well-defended, and the writer recognizes he’s a humble book reviewer, not the Almighty Dictator of Literary Merit. Is that an easy skill to learn? Not at all.

I’ve heard many reviewers say they are writing for readers, not writers. However, I’ve heard enough reviewers complain about writers not reading their reviews to know that’s not a hundred percent honest. I’ve also heard it’s unreasonable and delusional for writers to conclude that a bad review reflects a bad reader, not a bad book. Well…not always.

It’s true many reviewers these days could be considered amateurs if they haven’t taken Critical Methods in school nor have previous experience reviewing before jumping head first into the blogosphere. But so what? There’s nothing wrong with that and many, perhaps most, do a fantastic job. But there’s a difference between amateur journalism and unprofessional journalism. Now we’re seeing the “Unfair Overshare” problem cropping up where even a glowing review can decimate books sales because the review gave away the ending. Then there’s the “Indefensible Absolute” problem (“It’s impossible that anyone would enjoy this book”) that you nearly never used to see.

What’s possibly worse is the new “Out of Element Review” problem. Here’s an extreme example. Pretend there’s a site called Cozy Mystery Reviews, and a reviewer posts, “Yuck. This mystery was hard-boiled, blood-drenched, and not at all cozy! There wasn’t a single cat, fireplace, or cup of tea! Boo, hiss. Grade F!” Readers looking at this review would be wondering why in the world this reader would choose this book for this site. But it happens a lot.

I work with erotica authors, and this is a frequent problem for them and, to nearly the same degree, mainstream romance authors. Scenes may trigger readers’ “squicks” (turn offs) and emotional boundaries that are unpredictable, often reflexive, and very often inconsistent. It’s not uncommon to see a review contain a phrase like “Oh, I love BDSM books, but, ugh, after all that nice flogging, they French kissed. Unacceptable! 2 stars.”

There is something I was taught called Critical Distance which basically means that a reviewer is aware that a book was not written specifically for her/him and therefore should do the best possible job of transcending biases/preferences/tastes to look objectively at plot, character, and the quality of the prose. It’s not an easy technique to acquire, but it’s important to make an attempt.

What does this have to do with Out in Print? There are too many times I’m seeing half apologies like “The reason I couldn’t get into this was the lesbian subplot turned my stomach, but that’s just me. If that doesn’t bother you, you might like this novel as there’s some strong characterization and good writing.” But the reader doesn’t get that far because at the top of the review, she sees the book only got two stars. Why bother going further?

Not that authors (myself included) are totally free from misbehavior. You see statements posted on blogs or Facebook like “Jesus Christ, I bet that damn reviewer is selling my titles to Half-Priced Books” (true, they shouldn’t if they got a free galley, but keep reading) or “I would never have sent that site an ARC if I knew the review wouldn’t appear for three months!”

Not that long ago book reviewing was normally a paying occupation. Now reviewers like Michiko Kakutani who are salaried, enjoy the ability to influence thousands or millions of readers, and are recognized with major awards are a tiny minority.

Today reviewing is largely a labor of love where little love is offered. It’s also skilled labor that takes hours and hours each week. I don’t condone selling galleys, particularly when that’s a pre-agreed upon condition as it is with Amazon Vine. But instead of losing sleep over resale fouls, let’s calculate how much a reviewer would make if somehow he did get paid an hourly rate, even at minimum wage, and then compare it to how much he’d receive from selling the book. The reviewer invariably comes out way behind. Also consider that publishers have been sending out free review copies for decades. They would know by now if it was a losing proposition.

So please, if you enjoy a review on Out in Print or found one useful, leave a comment. If you have a differing perspective on a book, participate. Are there new small press books no one seems to know about, but need to be discovered? Offer to write a few reviews. Last, please give Jerry, Bill, the other reviewers at Out in Print and reviewers everywhere who provide coverage of LGBT works a big thumbs up. It is a rare privilege to have skilled, dedicated, and unbiased reviewers that give our literature the forum it deserves.

Gavin Atlas

Songs for the New Depression – Kergan Edwards-Stout (Circumspect Press)

Jerry and Bill — Mon, 14 May 2012 09:05:00 GMT

Buy it now.

I don’t have to like the narrator of a novel to be engaged with it. Empathy certainly helps, but it isn’t necessary. I can think of many wonderful books narrated by extremely dislikeable characters—one of my all-time favorites, A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, being the obvious front-runner. Gabriel Travers, the protagonist of Songs for the New Depression is no Ignatius J. Reilly, but he’s a despicable character telling a marvelous story.

Gabe, a caustic, suspicious, mistrustful cynic, is dying of AIDS, cared for by his boyfriend, Jon—who is the only person Gabe is unable to alienate. He has nothing but scorn for his parents, Lenny and Gloria, his best girlfriend Clare and the many tricks he has encountered. In every exchange that calls for compassion or at least civility, Gabe manages to be sour, mean and utterly unlikeable—which is what makes Songs for the New Depression so damn fascinating.

The book is structured in a reverse linear fashion, each of its three sections mirroring a song from Bette Midler’s third album, “Songs for the New Depression.” It begins with Gabe in 1995 (the song is “Shiver Me Timbers”), suffering from AIDS and trying to have a marvelous European vacation with Jon as he tires and eventually gives out. The second part of the book takes us to 1986 (the song is “Samedi et Vendredi”), Gabe in his twenties—trying on and discarding faces and friends as he seeks to find his place in the gay scheme of things. The third part takes place in 1976 (the song is “Let Me Just Follow Behind”), and Gabe is in high school, recovering from an abusive incident alluded to in the previous sections but explored in depth here.

This reverse structure is brilliant. Layers of the adult Gabe are peeled back, but rather than revealing the root cause of his cynicism—as common sense would dictate the author do—Edwards-Stout instead reveals that Gabe has always been like this and was, in fact, worse when he was younger, for no apparent reason. Sometimes he gets close to being human, but he always ends up saying the bitter thing rather than the right thing.

But the bitter thing is, many times, the telling thing. The trenchent observation. The unutterable truth that no one else dare speak because its very blasphemy underlies a fundamental veracity. In this, Gabe is fearless—refusing to sugarcoat or varnish his words to spare anyone’s feelings. It is his largest gift and his biggest fault.

Full of wit, wisdom and woe, Songs for the New Depression is an ugly yet irresistable piece of fiction. Buy it for someone you hate.

Reviewed by Jerry Wheeler

Father Tierney Stumbles – John Shekelton (iUniverse)

Jerry and Bill — Thu, 10 May 2012 09:02:00 GMT

Buy the book now.

Make no mistake, Father Tierney Stumbles is a brave book that takes on not only the Catholic priesthood, but the subject of HIV positive priests—a topic with a multitude of fascinating aspects, even for a dyed-in-the-wool atheist. And it is a much needed book because it addresses issues many people haven’t thought of. I just wish it had been a better book.

Well-respected, handsome Father Joe Tierney is diagnosed as HIV positive after a fling with a young man, facing not only the implicit horrors of the disease along with its social and personal implications, but the loss of his parish and stature in the Catholic community. And his timing is lousy as well—a local reporter has just caused a commotion by publishing an article about AIDS among the city’s priests. Does Father Tierney bear these burdens stoically alone, keeping silent as an investigation goes on around him? Or should he come out publicly, putting a very human face on the problem? And if he comes out, what happens next?

Father Tierney Stumbles has some marvelous moments of poignancy and some heart-wrenching truths, especially in the scenes that take place in a secretive discussion group of HIV positive clergymen, where all bare their souls and share useful medical information. The plot also balances the personal aspect with just the right amount of church intrigue, not bogging down as Father Tierney (and his boss, Bishop Healy) make their respective decisions.

It’s the character of Father Tierney that I have some trouble with. He is lightly sketched rather than well-drawn, the most obvious flaw being that why he has stumbled is never dealt with in any depth. I understand that he has stumbled, but knowing why—what was missing from his life or from his faith that made him seek out the younger Kenny—would have helped me with not only how he reacts to his diagnosis but how he proceeds from there. Even more details as to his family life would have helped. We get to see the pieces of this puzzle, but we never understand how they all fit together.

Shekelton is far more successful with Angela Roth, the diocese’s PR and communications person and Pascal LaVigne, Tierney’s best friend. These characters are more realized, not suffering from the muddied telling instead of showing that troubles Tierney for me. Still, the entire book has an oddly distanced feel and seems to have little passion considering the intensity of the subject.

The problem with this is that these two are not the main character. It’s Tierney the book is named after so, ultimately, Tierney must be final yardstick by which it’s judged. And it falls short of the mark. Still, if you’re interested in the Catholic church and its reaction to the subject of gay priests, you might find this worthwhile.

Reviewed by Jerry Wheeler

Remain in Light – Collin Kelley (Vanilla Heart Publishing)

Jerry and Bill — Mon, 07 May 2012 08:58:00 GMT

Buy the book here.

Tired of your drab surroundings? Looking for excitement? Travel? Mystery? Then join Collin Kelley in the second installment of his Venus trilogy, Remain in Light. You’ll get boys, heartbreak, affairs, mysterious men and women, and more Paris than you can shake a baguette at.

Martin Paige, a young poet, is living in Paris with his older female friend, Irene Laureux, across the hall from his kind-of-boyfriend Euan McAvoy, but his heart belongs to the long-gone but not forgotten David McLaren—a drug dealer who stole Martin’s heart and disappeared, supposedly back to the States. However, Martin’s friend Diane Jacobs has found out David’s parents have lost track of him as well. Where is he? Why are the gendarmes looking for him? And how does all of this fit in with Irene’s late husband Jean-Louis, murdered thirty years ago by persons unknown during the Paris student and worker riots of 1968?

Even though it’s the second book of a trilogy, Remain in Light can be read as a standalone due to Kelley’s deft handling of the material found in the first book, revealed mostly through dialogue. The storyline is complex but not complicated—basically comprised of two intertwined mysteries. It is not a breathless, plot-centric mystery, relying instead on atmospherics to fuel its twists and turns. And Kelley’s sense of place is incredible, conjuring up Paris and the rue Rampon so vividly you are engulfed in the seedy dark side of the City of Light.

Kelley has a rather large cast here. Some are holdovers from the first installment, Conquering Venus, but many are introduced here for the first time—detectives, policemen, former lovers, current paramours, and mysterious benefactors. The number of characters is nearly Dickensian, but Kelley juggles them effortlessly, never dropping one as he heads relentlessly towards the “resolution.” I put that in quotes because Kelley does resolve the plot but leaves many avenues open for further exploration.

Be warned, however. This is no beach read. It’s literate and meaty, drawing upon many diverse sources for its inspiration—Proust, Dickens, and even Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo among them. You will not breeze through this, nor should you. Its sensibility should be savored and time taken to appreciate its subtleties of character and plot—especially Irene Laureux, an agoraphobic widow who needs to understand what happened to her husband by seeking his male lover, Frederick Dubois. She is a particularly tragic character, and Kelley inhabits her as well as he does the men.

Remain in Light is a wonderfully dark, sombre mystery steeped in Parisian culture as well as American know-how, creating its own little world you’ll be glad to inhabit. Here’s hoping the third installment comes soon.

Reviewed by Jerry Wheeler

A Conversation with William Holden by Gavin Atlas

Jerry and Bill — Thu, 03 May 2012 08:00:00 GMT

William Holden is the author of Words to Die By (Bold Strokes Books), a new collection of queer horror stories as well as A Twist of Grimm (Lethe Press), a collection of queer erotic retellings of the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales that was a Lambda Literary Finalist in 2010. Bold Strokes Books will also publish his first novel, Secret Societies, which takes place in early 18^th Century London.

Hi, William! Congrats on Words to Die By. I noticed that you thanked your “dark half” Christopher. I know Christopher was the name given to you originally at birth. What makes you think of Christopher as your dark half? Are there ways you consider yourself to be more Dr Jekyll/Mr.Hyde-like than the average person?

Thank you, Gavin. Ah yes, Christopher. He seems to be getting more attention than I am. I’ll have to have a talk with him about that. Being adopted I always felt as if there was a part of my life that was a mystery. I often wondered who I would have become--though from what little I do know of my birth family, I suspect that my life wouldn’t have been a good one. So I’m thankful that my birth mother realized this and decided to give me up. But there is still a part of who I am today that has always been an empty space, a dark side so to speak. Since I’ll never know more than I do now about my birth family, it was important for me to reclaim that part of me and make it my own, so Christopher was born, or reborn in my case.

I’ve heard that for horror writers, part of the goal is to scare the reader. First, do you feel that’s accurate, and if so, what do you like about scaring your readers? Are their techniques that work in many horror plots that you find satisfying? And last, are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your readers feel cuddly toward you instead of scared?

I’d hope that by scaring them, they might need to cuddle even more to chase away the boogeyman--if not with me, then with someone near and dear to them.

We write erotica in hopes of turning our readers on or at least getting them a little hot under the collar. Romance is written to give the reader a warm fuzzy feeling. So I guess it stands to reason that scaring the reader--or at least giving them a chill or two--is one of the goals of writing horror. Otherwise, what would be the point of writing it?

I love to be scared. It’s a thrill for me. If a reader and I can share a gasp together or have a nightmare after reading a story, than I’ve developed a connection with that reader. That’s why I write, to share an experience with others that I might not ever meet.

You wrote about coulrophobia, the fear of clowns. How difficult was it to write about a fear you possess yourself? I know phobias are irrational by definition, but did someone show you Stephen King’s It when you were too little? Or do you have a theory of what caused you to develop that fear?

First of all, thank you for making me sound young. I was twenty-six when Stephen King’s It was released, so "too little" I was not. That movie freaked me out even at that age – it still does. When I was very young, back in the 60's, Bozo the clown disturbed me, at least that is my first memory of being afraid of clowns. But as I’ve gotten older, I’m not sure that the fear is actually the clown, but what the clown represents. I remember going into a gay club in Dallas for the first time. It was filled with drag queens, and I have to admit those childhood fears came rushing back. I think for me the fear comes from what’s behind all the exaggerated makeup and costuming. I wrote four different versions of that story, because I could never finish it. The version that’s in the collection was my way of seeing what was behind the paint and costume, and in this case, what lay beneath it all was the thing to be scared of.

Your tale, “The Story of Glencliff, New Hampshire” reminded me of “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and your first story, “The Other Man” seemed like a combination of Lars and the Real Girl, the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, and the Chucky movies. Are those similarities at all deliberate? Do you have favorite authors, books, or films that help inspire your “horrific” creativity?

The similarities you mention are not deliberate. I hadn’t even thought of them until you mentioned them. The story “The Other Man,” came when my friend Dale Chase and I were in New Orleans for Saints and Sinners and we wandered into an adult novelty shop to do “research.” I remember seeing several of those blow-up sex dolls, and remember asking Dale, “I wonder if they have feelings. What would happen if one of them came to life?” That was when Joey was created.

Old Man Max in “The Story of Glencliff, New Hampshire” was created based on a very minor character in the movie, Burnt Offerings, which stars an elderly Bette Davis. The character was in three or four very short clips. He never spoke. He had a glowing white complexion and wore dark glasses at night while he drove around in a hearse. For some reason that character struck a cord with me and has remained with me for nearly thirty years. I figured it was time to do something with him.

Like most people I have my favorite horror authors and movies, but my inspiration doesn’t necessarily have to come from them. A dark lite room in some b-rated horror flick might inspire me, or an image of a full moon behind the clouds, or a dripping faucet. I play the “what if” game a lot. I can be walking down the street and see a man whittling and I’ll ask myself, “What if he went on a rampage with that knife?” or “What if he put down the piece of wood and began whittling on his leg?”

In your opinion, are there aspects of combining queer content with horror that make writing more challenging? If you’re writing erotic horror, do you feel the author should try to both arouse and scare the reader? If so, how difficult (or easy) do you find that to be?

I didn’t find that adding queer content made the process of writing any more challenging. It’s not the queering of horror, but the horror itself that poses the challenge. You need to have a lot of dark, creepy atmosphere in your stories, not to mention sudden and unexpected twists. You need to be able to write descriptively enough so that the reader feels everything your character feels, whether that is pain, anger, rage, or just an uneasy feeling of something not being quite right.

The question about arousing and scaring the reader is an interesting one. In my opinion erotic horror needs to have both elements. The combination is what the reader would expect. The difficulty for me is being able to blend the two effectively. It also has to do with what type of horror the story encompasses. In the story, “Downtown Crossing” for example, there is a lot of fear that builds throughout the narrative, and the sex is incredibly hot. The main character actually gets off through fear. The reverse of that is the story, “Felonious Behavior.” The horror is a bit too graphic to be highly erotic, but the elements of arousal are there, though more carefully placed.

I think your character, Nate the Midnight Barker, originated in a story you wrote for Jerry Wheeler’s anthology of circus erotica, Tented. Could you tell us how that character formed and what about him makes you keep coming back for more?

Ah, yes, Nate my big, bad, sexy shadow man. He has truly taken on a life of his own, and to be honest with you, he’s been with me for so long I really don’t know where he came from. He has been in five or six short stories now, and each time it’s a wild ride to work with him, as I never know what he’s going to do.

Nate is pure evil, yet he has what he would call a few character flaws. He’s well mannered, polite, and at times endearing. You just don’t want to piss him off or disrupt the plan he has for you. So it's not that I keep coming back for more, it's that he won’t leave me alone! And for those readers out there who have enjoyed his short stories, I’m currently working on his novel. I hope that after I tell his story he might leave me in peace.

Are there villainous horror characters in films or books you find irresistibly sexy?

I have to admit that I have the hots for Clive Barker’s character, Pinhead, from the Hellraiser movies. That deep voice, pitch-black eyes, the wicked and demented sense of humor, oh and that black outfit. That’s what I call sexy.

Could you tell the readers what you’d like them to know about your forthcoming novel, Secret Societies? Who is your favorite character in the book and what do you like about him or her?

Secret Societies, is an erotic novel set during the time of the sodomy trials in early 18^th century London. I spent nearly five years researching the raids on the mollie houses, reading trial transcripts and court proceedings. I immediately fell in love with the time period and the two main characters: Thomas Newton, the troubled young man who narrates the novel, and Margaret Clap, or “Mother Clap,” who owned the mollie house which the raid in this novel focuses on.

As much as I loved Thomas Newton, by far my favorite character is Mother Clap. She was an amazing woman for that time. She didn’t have a problem with men being intimate with each other, in fact she stood up for them. She gave them a place where they could feel welcomed even if it meant going against the churches and the laws that criminalized sodomy. If I could go back in time for even an hour, I would want to go back to London around 1725 in order to meet her.

I know you’re moving to a different city soon. What are you looking forward to? What writing projects and other goals do you have for the future? And if your wildest dreams came true, what would have happened?

I’m looking forward to having a single family house again with a yard and room to breathe. Living on top of everyone in Cambridge hasn’t been quite my cup of tea. I’m also looking forward to a slower pace of life. My job will be 4 days a week, so I’ll have 3-day weekends to work on my writing projects and to travel with my partner.

As for dreams....this is going to sound like a corny cop-out, but I’m pretty much living my wildest dream. I’ve had an amazing man in my life for almost fifteen years now. My third book is being released in October, and I’m blessed with great friends and fellow writers. I can’t imagine what else there is to dream about. And for those of you reading this and wanting something a little more, then it would be one steamy, sweaty night with Pinhead and his realm of unending pleasure and pain. Though I guess I should be careful about what I wish for.

Thanks so much, Bill!

Thanks Gavin. This was fun.

For more information about William Holden and his books, visit williamholdenwrites.com.

Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey – Jack Scott (Summertime Publishing)

Jerry and Bill — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 08:00:00 GMT

To buy the book visit the author's website.

In the 1961 Broadway production of Noël Coward’s musical, Sail Away, Elaine Stritch, cast in the role of world-weary cruise director Mimi Paragon, sang the eleven o’clock number in which she asked the titular question, “Why do the wrong people travel . . . when the right people stay back home?” If Jack Scott’s Perking the Pansies is ever made into a movie, Stritch’s song could easily play over the credits. The song captures the mood of Scott’s memoir quite well.

Perking the Pansies tells the story of Jack and Liam (author and author’s husband), who quit their jobs in London—because working for a living is simply sucking the life from them—sell their house, and move to Turkey where they had honeymooned and vacationed over the past several years. As they try to set up a life, however, they discover that the expat community is simply the wrong kind of people, whose only goal in life seems to be the frustration and annoyance of our stalwart protagonists. The song would also fit the high-camp, arch-gay sensibility Scott performs as an author (despite his frequent protests that he will not be stereotyped by the awful, homophobic expats). And it’s not so far-fetched that the book could find its way to a movie deal: according to the author’s biography, the memoir started as an “irreverent blog” and became a book only because “a growing worldwide audience clamoured for” it. Who knows, they might clamour for a movie next.

It feels a bit odd to review a memoir. After all, given the book’s disclaimer that it is based on actual persons and events, and given the fact that the author and the narrator share the same name, to discuss characters in the book is to discuss actual people in the world. And, I must confess, as I read the book, I found myself asking if Jack (the narrator, not the author) is one of the kind of people who should travel or who should stay back home. Although he is quite insistent that the expats in Turkey are simply awful, he seems less aware that he shares many of their traits. For example, Jack’s arch-enemies in the book are a former retail clerk, Chrissy, and her brash, wealthy husband, Bernard. Jack and Liam hate Chrissy and Bernard because of the latter’s negativity and their sense of national superiority. With absolutely no trace of irony, Jack—in both dialogue and through narration—says awful things about these two characters, and virtually everyone else he and his husband encounter, and never let an opportunity pass to point out that when it comes to cleanliness, modern conveniences, ritual observances, gender politics and respect for sexual variance, Britain is simply so much better on every front than Turkey—even while recognizing the natives tend to be nicer to Jack and Liam than the expats do.

Even the most striking point of drama in the novel—Alan and Charlotte’s attempt to adopt a girl from a local woman—is not spared an imperialist obliviousness. Although Jack seems suspicious of the adoption at the beginning of the memoir, he and Liam fall in love with the little girl as events unfold, and when local authorities begin to question the legitimacy of the adoption, they are characterized as monstrous interlopers. Given recent queer critiques of transnational adoption, as well as the very genuine risks of illegitimate child trafficking, the unapologetic “how dare they?” tone of this narrative thread seemed incredibly problematic. Similarly, near the beginning of the memoir, when friends caution them about the dangers of living as openly gay men in a Muslim country, Jack and Liam dismiss their friends as narrow-minded bigots, but when the limitations and dangers of Turkey come to the fore, Jack and Liam seek to impose their London/Soho gay identity on the local culture—because, of course, urban European performances of gay identity are the only way to be gay, and Jack and Liam have every right to transport every detail of their former life to their new home. After all, what else is money—and a favorable exchange rate—good for? On this front, I couldn’t help but think of the long history of European travel narratives (think Forster, Lawrence, Gide, Barthes), where “exotic” locales are places of sexual awakening and adventure. The memoir shows hints of being aware of this tradition, but with no sense of having learned the lessons of post-colonial critiques of it.

In the latter third of the novel, there is a slight shift as Jack and Liam move from the expat community to a more “authentic” Turkish locale. Here, they make friends with some locals and their life improves. Of course, the “improvement” of their life comes because they find people who share their values, who have “modern” sensibilities, and who offer them generous hospitality (so they can more effectively stretch their meager savings). In this latter portion, the quality of the writing also improves. I found the last two chapters, for example, incredibly moving, funny and touching—and stylistically more engaging.. I wish that this Jack (as narrator and author) had been more in control from the beginning.

I wonder, though, if I’m not a sufficiently astute reader. Given the high-camp moments sprinkled throughout the memoir, is it fair to say that it has no touch of irony? Does Scott mean to satirize himself by showing just how similar he and Liam are to Chrissy and Bernard? Should the subtle references to the European travel/coming-of-age novel, given the narrator’s superficial positivity regarding Turkey, nudge the reader toward a critique of the memoir’s neocolonialist sensibility? Is the entire memoir offered as an ironic self-critique of an urban, upper-middle-class, first world, modernist, colonialist gay male sensibility and its failure to sympathetically engage difference, a kind of performative self-indictment of the reader and the narrator for the ways in which they turn their nose up at a culture with a different set of values, practices and orientations? Perhaps.

Reviewed by Kent Brintnall

Poetry Roundup, Part Two

Jerry and Bill — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 09:59:31 GMT

Sonics in Warholia – Megan Volpert (Sibling Rivalry Press)

Closer – Christopher Soden (Queer Mojo Press)

Hello Kitty Chainsaw/Secular Exorcisms – Evan Peterson (Temple Laboratories)

This Way to the Acorns – Raymond Luczak (Handtype Press)

Part two of our National Poetry Month roundup takes us even stranger places than the last installment—from Andy Warhol to Udo Kier to black plum balloons to charming scenic small town Michigan. No wonder they call poetry transportative.

And there is no better place to start than Megan Volpert’s wonderful prose-poetic paean to Andy Warhol, Sonics in Warholia. Surreal free-form conversations with and about Warhol and his ghost reveal startling synchronicities in Warhol’s life and art, from his silk-screened Marilyn Monroes to The Velvet Underground, as reflected here:

Lou with his electric shock and heroin, with his deep layers, his

lovely unmanageable appetites that you wish to peel slowly and

see. I wonder about what you two were trading, and if it was fair

or if it should have been fair. Ready to explode, you patched

his noise with Nico, a piece of German plastic. The Exploding

Plastic Inevitable kept you in transit together. Did you nurse him

through hepatitis in 1966, or leave him smoldering at the hotel

like a pet dog?

Lou Reed and Nico aren’t the only celebrities name-checked here, but rather than a factual account, this is a fractured delight where motorcycles, mixtapes, Truman Capote’s cremains, Leyden jars, electroshock therapy, dead people’s cell phones, blow jobs, Typhoid Mary and Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief all collide with the grand, rambling now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t order of an espresso and dexadrine fueled all night conversation. But Volpert isn’t just spinning off without a shred of sense. Her logic, her sequencing and the over-arching architecture of the piece is flawless. This blend of anthemic amphetamine is heady and highly recommended.

Christopher Soden’s Closer is somewhat more traditional free-verse but no less striking for its versatility as well as its veracity. Some poets play on one theme or image for longer than necessary, overplaying their hands. Soden’s work is wide-ranging, covering a variety of subjects both universal and personal. Plus, Soden’s take on nearly everything is just a bit different. Most poets, for example, concentrate on the brooding rebellious James Dean, but Soden takes a look at the icon in his last picture, Giant, as his character, Jett Rink, waits for his oil well to come in (“Gusher”):

Eventually, something roiling beneath

layers of rock and fossil, clay and loam

reaches the shaft of his derrick and he

climbs, hoisting himself up and up

till he reaches the crest of that miraculous

conduit, black syrup dense and pitchy

as liquid night. Dean welcomes this

infernal downpour of bliss, stretching

his arms to receive a baptism of careless,

criminal love.

Soden also possesses a fine sense of the bizarre, as witnessed by "Angry Skeletons Attack Family", which sees a suburban family set upon by skeleton neighbors, and the “Spontaneous Combustion” of his aunt. If Soden has a recurring motif, it’s his relationship with his father and his attendant grief at his death, as played out in the surreal yet touching “Black Plum Balloon,” the plainspoken “Eulogy,” and the chilling “Ghost Father.” However, he doesn’t ignore queer issues or erotica, especially in the frank “The Hand I Was Dealt” or one of my favorite pieces here, “Jockstrap.” At 140 pages, it’s a bit long, but it’s a wonderful read.

On the other end of the spectrum are two short but absolutely marvelous chapbooks by Evan Peterson, Hello Kitty Chainsaw and Secular Exorcisms. Hello Kitty Chainsaw has a subtitle indicating the poems are for performance, but they lose nothing on the page, ranging from ironic (“Baby Batter”) to outright killer funny (“Even the Title is a Safeword”) to defiant, as in “Everything in Our Arsenal.”

To win, we will use our wits

posture and eyebrows

subtle teeth and crafty fingers…

We will use telepathy and ESP

prayer and pyrokinesis

hair and nail trimmings submerged

In jars of honey, jars of dirt.

we will use your gods,

our gods, anyone’s.

Secular Exorcisms is where Peterson’s Frankenstein fixation comes to the fore, being stitched shut. The reader has to pull out the stitches to get to the meat inside, a terrifically fun gimmick that is as satisfying as it is pointed. Inside, the meal is sumptuous (“All Your Gorgeous Garbage”), thematic (“The Dead Still Hear and Feel”) and surreal (“Goodnight, Potato Head”). Peterson’s shrewd sense of the macabre informs his work but never overpowers it. He’s always able to bring the grotesque imagery back to a safe spot to make his point—a valuable talent indeed. For more information on ordering these chapbooks, contact him at visceralpoetry@hotmail.com.

But as breathtaking as the above works are in terms of pushing envelopes and taking chances, the tenth anniversary edition of Raymond Luczak’s This Way to the Acorns takes me back to my childhood, delivering memories with beauty, grace, and an unsentimental nostalgia that left me smiling. Seen from an acorn’s point of view, this is a year-long trek through a childhood in the Michigan wilderness split into four sections reflecting seasonal changes. Luczak’s work here is a powerful reminder that poetry should be able to soothe as well as inflame. The book works so well as a whole that finding a portion to extract for review purposes was difficult, so I just picked a passage from one of my favorites, “A June Weeding”:

I felt for its thickest part,

pushing my fingers into the earth.

Its stem was clean with crime.

I tugged slowly and out it came,

white roots gangly with clumps.

It shivered in my hand as

the earth opened an eyelid at me,

surprised. The sun was still cool.

This is obviously nature poetry (“The Puddle,” “Slush,” “Sunflower Seeds,” “The Ant”) and work extolling the wonder of childhood (“At Grandma’s House,” “Rink at Norrie School,” “Mrs. Kichak’s Plum Tree”) but its beautiful language and focused, striking imagery is certain to delight anyone who remembers the delight and sheer magnificence of a boy (or girl) hood spent in the dappled woods. I smiled all the way to the end.

And there you have Out in Print’s poetry roundup for National Poetry Month. Pick and choose from these or, better still, attend a reading or two in your area and hear the voices around you—because what goes in your ears sinks straight to your soul.

Reviews by Jerry Wheeler

Poetry Roundup, Part One:

Jerry and Bill — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 09:10:00 GMT

He Do the Gay Man in Different Voices – Stephen S. Mills (Sibling Rivalry Press)

The Horizontal Poet – Jan Steckel (Zeitgeist Press)

Takaaki: A Romance – Eric Norris (Square Circle Press)

Life Through Broken Pens – Walter Beck (Writing Knights Press)

As April is National Poetry Month, I couldn’t think of any more fitting time to catch up on some marvelous volumes and chapbooks of poetry that have been stacking up on my shelves. My regular readers know how much I love and envy poets and their work, and the four in this first of two Poetry Roundups are no exception.

First up, we have Stephen S. Mills with his latest Sibling Rivalry release, "He Do the Gay Man in Different Voices." This stunning collection of sharp imagery and dangerous conceptualizations is separated into three parts. The first has no theme as discernable as the second and third, but is representative of Mills in that they juxtapose personal milestones and newsworthy events, such as “Fisting You for the First Time on the Day ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ is Repealed.” The only place DADT is specifically mentioned is the title, but references to the soldier’s life are obvious when talking about fists, and Mills’ description of the act itself is nothing short of moving. The second part is a song cycle that reconciles American poet Reginald Shepherd and American serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, and the third is a series of poems about porn star turned hired killer Edmon Vardanyan. Mills’ talent lies in his ability to distill the horror of gossip, current events and bad news and focus it into a reflection of the community which produces it. It’s simultaneously reductive and illuminating, but be warned that this is serious stuff. Sometimes he leavens the mix with (very dark) humor, but the work is edgy, nervous, and skitteringly brilliant, as in “Iranian Boys Hanged for Sodomy, July 2005” in which the narrator keeps the article and photograph of that execution:

“We let the picture drift around/the apartment like an omen/

that will one day make perfect/sense. Some mornings I stick it/

on the bathroom mirror before/you shave, the next you have it/

on the fridge or tucked inside/my O’Hara Collected. Some nights/

I slip it in a shoebox marked/’private’ and forget we ever cut it/

out, but by the following evening/it’s under our mattress as

we make love.”

This story also shows up in “Against Our Better Judgment We Plan a Trip to Iran,” which sees the narrator again making a personal connection to a newsworthy event—to consume it, swallow it whole and repeat it, fully digested in a different voice. Here’s hoping Mills never loses any of his voices.

In the Lambda Literary Award nominated "The Horizontal Poet", Jan Steckel’s approach may be more conventional but is no less interesting. A retired pediatrician and a bisexual and disabled person’s rights activist, Steckel’s art is, in part, formed from the medical field with all its messy bodily functions and its peculiar gallows humor (“Swallowing Flies,” “Cancer and the Man,” “Charity After the Hurricane,” and “The White Hospital” among others). Steckel is no one trick pony, but the frankness and pragmatism of medical practitioners pervades even those poems not strictly about the profession. Water, both cleansing and menacing, also appears frequently in her work—again, no surprise from a doctor—but Steckel refuses to be categorized. She takes on a variety of subjects, from an out of control party (“East Oakland New Year’s”) to topless bars (“The Naked and the Dread”) to social networking (“MyDeathSpace.com”), all with ease of expression and keen observation. But nowhere is she more contrary and activist than the short but powerful title piece, “The Horizontal Poet.”

“You can’t put your mat there,” said the nice lady.

“That’s for handicapped people.”

But I’d been promised I could lie down

When I agreed to read.

“How about there?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she gasped, “not there.

“We’re filming. You’d be in the picture.”

“God forbid,” I muttered, grinning evilly,

“that a disabled person should appear

in any of the pictures.”

Steckel is a force with which to be reckoned, and this is a collection which definitely deserves your attention.

Also worthy of your attention is Eric Norris’ “Takaaki: A Romance,” 66 sonnets of pure wordplaying skill depicting the relationship between Eric and his Japanese boyfriend Takaaki. It’s different in that it’s not free verse. Written in a modified Pushkin rhyme scheme and covering everything from clipping toenails on the toilet to The Kobayashi Maru (Google it if you have no geek creds), this illustration of the differences between East and West is remarkable for not only its sense of humor but its sense of the banal. In Norris’ hands, Dunkin’ Donuts and wilty chrysanthemums become devotional offerings to his Takaaki, and Scrabble becomes a battleground.

“Have bath sounds good. But Scrabble, I will pass.

You always win, you creep. You clearly cheat,”

I said, “It’s obvious. You won the last

nine times. You’re not going to defeat

me for time number ten tonight.” I put

my foot down firmly…

“You lost because you play without strategy.

There is no need for me to cheat,” he sighed,

as if I were an insect on his thigh

too insignificant to crush—a flea.

“You waste time making interesting word—not the word that wins.”

Norris develops this relationship before our eyes, picking and choosing his details with a connoisseur’s eye and a poet’s heart. His joy in being with the man that he loves is evident, poured over these lines like dark, sweet syrup—and, what’s even more important, he seems to be having a wonderful time writing about it. That mood infects the reader as well, making this an absolutely enthralling experience leading up to the startling revelation that ends this piece. I wouldn’t spoil it, but it’s a little bit of synchronicity that clarifies as it stings.

Stinging is exactly Walter Beck’s intention in his chapbook, “Life Through Broken Pens,” as nearly every piece is an indictment of some segment of American society—and deservedly so. He tears through these poems with icy fire, demanding your respect and your attention. This is incendiary poetry, full of revolution and angry hope, reminding me very much of Manny Xavier. I haven’t seen Beck perform it, but I’d be willing to bet he puts everything he’s got into his time at the mic. In “Hopes of a Young American Poet,” “Revolution Summer,” “No More Martyrs Blues,” “American Dream” and “I Am More Than a Cocksucker,” Beck’s ambition and fervency rule and score the page, leaving you breathless. But even revolutionaries must take time out for love, as Beck does in “Cold Romance”:

I love you/because you make me forget/

That I haven’t spoken to my mother/

In two months…

I love you/because you make me forget/

that I can’t even speak my mind anymore;

You make me forget/That in 21^st Century America/

It’s fine to have any opinion you like,

as long as you don’t tell anyone else.

I love you/because you make me forget/

how stuck I feel;

Strapped to the seat/With no chance of getting out

and rolling the dice.

Beck is still young, and his voice is not yet fully formed. He’s still learning his craft, but this is powerful, muscular stuff. It stimulates and challenges, and I’m sure Beck would take that as a compliment. Because it is.

Part two of the Poetry Roundup will feature Chrisopher Soden’s “Closer,” two Evan Peterson chapbooks, two Raymond Luczak reissues and some other surprises. Stay tuned.

Reviews by Jerry Wheeler