Published

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I clicked ‘Publish’ on the final edit of my book, and then sat back, tempted to slam my laptop closed.

I expected a rush of elation. I wanted to rip my shirt open, incredible Hulk style, and smash my fist down on the ground in triumph. Instead, I felt my heart rate increase. I was nervous, and I felt an ache inside. It felt a little like exhaustion, and a little like heartbreak. Why?

I thought my book might be ready for publication about one week prior. Nervous that it would come out with typos or mistakes, I asked a few key people to give it one last look over, and I did one more myself. I quickly realized it wasn’t ready. Instead of publishing then, I gave the book a final edit. I pored over pages of vulnerable material, right from my heart space, cutting out paragraphs, deleting references, and combing over it line by line in order to make the book more effective, more readable.

I spent days, moving from one makeshift workstation to another. I would read a chapter at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee, then lay down on the floor in front of the fire place for the next chapter, then move to the hot tub for the third, propping my computer up on a towel placed on the folded back covering to keep it dry. I went through the book a full time, then again. I trimmed the book from 300 pages to 230, then had friends give it another read through. I saw the book shift from something dense and overly done to something succinct, smart, sharp, and wonderful.

Yet publishing felt so sudden, so jagged. Needing to chat with someone who understood, I messaged my writer friend, Meg.

Meg, I did it. I published.

Chad, that is huge! You did it! How do you feel?

Weird. Numb. My brain is empty. I feel purged, yet proud. I’m anxious and confused, yet accomplished and powerful. 

I’ve been there and I understand. It’s weird, right? What’s going through your mind?

Ugh. Everything. Will anyone read it? What if no one reads it? Oh my God, what if someone actually reads it! Is it as good as I think it is? Did I price it too high? I priced it too high. I’m so proud of this! Did I say too much? Did I say enough? Will it resonate with anyone? 

Chad, that’s normal. You basically just gave birth to a child. Stay calm and focused. This is all so good. And it’s going to be amazing. 

I’d been talking about writing a book for years. Something I, um, talk about in my book. I remember all the conversations I’ve had with those who read my blog about how they’d love to read a book by me. I thought of my mother saying she knew I’d write a book one day, with my best friend where he told me to make a book happen. I did it. And it felt amazing.

But there is something about a blog entry. You just type it up and click publish, and then people read it or they don’t. It feels like a journal entry, and it doesn’t even bother me if there is a typo or two. But a book, a book has promise and potential. It has permanency. It’s an entirely different caliber. It feels… amazing. Frightening.

I once published a comic book, the Mushroom Murders. It took me years to get it finished, coordinating with busy artists who also shared my passion for the book. Four years, actually. Then I had to work with a small press publishing company to help me market the book. I paid around $5000, a charge that went on my credit card, to print the book, and several boxes of product arrived at my home. I spent years selling it at conventions, in stores, to friends, and on Amazon. It got amazing reviews. And now, the final few hundred copies occupy dusty cardboard boxes in my storage room. I didn’t want that experience again.

This time, I printed my book per order, through an organization called CreateSpace. It markets the book through Amazon. No initial costs on my part. The book is printed per order. If only one copy is ordered, only one will ever be printed. Will it sell one, none, dozens, hundreds? Will anyone care? And because CreateSpace is the one to list the book, I don’t see until days or weeks later if any orders have taken place, or how many total. There are no little messages that indicate when a sale has happened. Not knowing if it is selling fills me with a different kind of confusion.

I had to shut my computer down and take the night off. I saw a movie. I grabbed a drink with friends. My boyfriend ket gripping my arm, squeezing, reminding me that things were fine, it was going to be okay. I breathed, calming myself. Writing didn’t usually feel this way. Such a weird stew of emotional ingredients behind all of this.

Well, I did it. I wrote a book. I designed a cover, edited it, and put it out there for the public. Years of life experience. Dozens of hours writing. A finely honed talent (I hoped others would agree). A stirring, powerful, and inspirational message. It could be… well, this could change my life. Or it could wind up in a box in my storage room, untouched within a few years.

Regardless, I did it. I accomplished one of my lifelong goals. I have no idea what might happen next, if anything. I’m powerful, vulnerable, and strong, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

And, in order to sort out my feelings, I decided to write a blog. About the vulnerability of writing and publishing. And maybe that tells me more than anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Missoula

View of Missoula from Mount Sentinel, in Missoula, Montana.I could smell the smoke in the air the second I stepped off the plane. Wildfires in the hills nearby, I’d heard, and the wind had shifted the direction of Missoula. But soon, heavy rain came in, and I found myself driving in my rented car toward my rented room with the windshield wipers on full speed.

I was staying in the basement of a home that had a backyard full of chickens. When I entered the small room where I’d be sleeping, I killed a giant spider first thing, with a hastily grabbed paper towel, and I watched it kick its legs for dear life as it flushed away.

I found a trendy little coffee shop full of hipster students, all plaid and beards and nose rings, and I did some writing, tapping into a story from my adolescence, one about not knowing how to receive. But my mind kept wandering. My entire married life had been just hours from here to the west, just a few hundred miles. I’d passed through Missoula a dozen times without ever spending time here. A quick Google search of the town revealed that no historian was quite sure where the name of the city originated from, that the city boasted over a hundred thousand people and was the second largest in Montana, and that there were two universities and a decent acceptance of the LGBT population here.

Back on the road, back in the rain, I drove north, passing through the city and turning onto a state highway. The clouds clinger to the hills here, soft rolling white against the deep thick evergreen rows, all against the grey sky. It took my breath. The rain washed out all of the smoke and the land felt new. I drove through small towns, one that boasted it’s wide diameter trees on the welcome sign, and soon arrived at a bar-and-grill in the middle of nowhere.

I stepped inside and found everything made of wood, tables and chairs and walls and bar and decor. A few old cowboys in ten-gallon hats and boots sat at the bar with drinks in hands and three 30-something plump women in tight T-shirts and jeans waited behind it. I took a table in the corner, somewhere private, and set out my laptop and a pad of paper.

I moved back to the restroom where a sign hung over the urinals.

“PLEASE

Don’t write or Carve on walls

Or 

Spit Chewing Tabaco in the 

urinals, it plugs them up. 

Thanks…”

I laughed out loud with delight at the sign, so perfect and characteristic. It captured the ambiance of the place better than anything else. I wondered if they meant Tobacco or Tabasco, with a grin, and thought that these things must be actual problems in this establishment to warrant an actual laminated sign.

Back at the table, the waitress, who had a name tag that read “Mayzie” delivered a menu and a glass of water, then told me about the beers they had on tap. I had some light conversation with her and learned she was a mother of four, and I noticed that she didn’t have a ring on her finger, leaving me assuming that she was a single mom.

My eyes scanned over the menu, where everything seemed to be either alcohol or some beef product, with many variations on steaks and burgers in every form. Steak salad, patty melt, twelve different burger options, steak and potatoes, steak and coleslaw, steak and corn. I saw one item on the menu called the Vegetarian, that replaced a beef patty with a portobello mushroom cap, so I ordered that with a side of slaw. Mayzie seemed disappointed, but jotted the order down. A moment later she returned.

“Oh, I forgot. We are all out of mushroom caps. Almost no one orders that. But what we could do is chop up a bunch of little mushrooms and just put them in a sandwich?”

I laughed, un-enthusiastically, and accepted her offer. The sandwich came out thirty minutes later on toasted bread, and it was strictly mediocre, but I was hungry and consumed it quickly.

By then, I was deep into the interview that had brought me this direction in the first place. I was talking with a woman connected to a thirty year old homicide in Utah, a story I was working hard to make a documentary about. It had taken me months to earn her trust, and she was now openly discussing this ancient history that had taken place when she was only 21. She talked freely about her life, even the hard parts, and about the impact of the homicide on her family and path. She talked about the different directions life could have taken her with a mix of pain and clarity, and shed tears as she talked about it.

When I drove home, the skies had cleared, and I wound the same highway curves in the dark. I arrived back at my rented room and did a scan for spiders as I turned the lights on. I showered, then wrapped myself in the covers on the bed for warmth. Outside was silent. No cars, no electric buzzes, no chickens. My brain was struggling to stay awake, buzzing with the experiences of the day and all the new information I’d gathered, but the body won out and soon i settled into sleep, leaving the brain to work out its obsessions with bizarre dreams that flooded my consciousness.

Hours later, the rooster outside crowed, and I brewed coffee, rushing to my keyboard to capture my thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Origin

 

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Zero

My mother wrote songs as she rocked me

Singing lyrics aloud, her eyes blue on mine brown

A song of the mother Mary rocking the Christ child

A lullaby that soothed until heavy eyelids closed in sleep.

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Five

We cut holes in shoeboxes

Then covered them in paper, pink and red mostly.

Scissors sliced thick paper into hearts and letters

While scented colored markers etched our names

In grape purple and lemon yellow and licorice black.

On super hero valentines,

I wrote To’s and From’s to each member of my class

Except I wrote two for Michael, the boy who made me laugh.

I liked-him-liked-him

The way Chris liked Michelle and Jason liked Desiree.

At the Valentines Party, I placed each small card in each small box

And two in Michael’s.

But I only wrote a From on one of his cards, leaving the other blank.

If I gave two to him, the other boys would know I was different.

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Fifteen

“You are indeed one of Heavenly Father’s choice sons.

Do not in any way disappoint Him.”

The patriarch spoke kindly, firmly,

A direct message from God to me on his breath.

Weeks before, when I had told the bishop my shameful secret,

the message had been the same, kind and firm.

“God loves you, He does not tolerate sin.”

The words of the prophets, kind and firm again.

“Pray, do everything God says, and He will cure you,

Make you straight,

Because He loves you.”

And so I ket my eyes just that, straight

Focused, unerring.

Dad was gone,

And my stepfather spoke with fists and angry words.

I was a fairy, he said. I would never measure up to a real man.

But God, He heard. I just couldn’t disappoint Him.

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twenty-seven

She looked at me sincerely, tears streaming down her face,

And asked why, why after six years of dating, we hadn’t kissed,

Hadn’t held hands, not even once.

I thought of the familiar excuses, used again and again,

About trying to be moral and righteous,

About saying it wasn’t just her, that I’d never kissed anyone,

Never held anyone’s hands.

Those were true words, but not the whole truth.

She needed the whole truth.

“I’m gay,” I said. “But I’m trying to cure it.”

And she didn’t mind. And so we kissed, finally.

There was affection and regard and kindness behind it,

If not chemical attraction,

And relationships had been built on less.

And for her the feelings were real.

And so, three months later, we married.

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thirty-two

The day my second son was born, I got that same sense

Of holding my entire world in my hands.

That word again, Fatherhood,

Overwhelming in its possibility, its responsibility.

Here, a new miracle, different from his brother in every way.

But this time, our lives were different.

Early drafts of divorce papers sat on the desk at home.

I was sleeping in the basement now,

And her heart was broken,

While mine, though sad, had come up for oxygen

After three decades of holding its breath.

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thirty-eight

Pen to paper, I think back on six years of firsts.

First authentic kiss.

First try at an authentic relationship

And first authentic heartbreak.

First time dancing, euphoric and free.

First friends, real friends, finally, friends.

First realization that I like myself, powerfully,

And that I have no need to be cured of something that was never wrong.

First freedoms, from religion and deadly self-expectations.

I live now, loudly.

My sons thrive in two households, and they will tell anyone who asks

That their mother likes boys who like girls

And their father likes boys who like boys.

They are thriving, and smiling, and real.

And so is she.

And so am I.

Bully

Bullybully

When I was 9, I consoled a girl from my class on the school bus
About her recent break-up.
“How could he do that to you?” I patted her back.
“You deserve so much better.”

Deep down, I wanted to be that boy,
The one who broke her heart, who tossed her aside.
The popular and callous straight boy who didn’t have to hide.

He confronted me on the same bus the next day.
Told me to stay away from his girl.
He, smaller in every way,
Told me to watch out at recess,
That I was a nerd
And that he had more hair on his balls than I ever would.

How strange that it took so many years to offer myself the same words.
“How could he do that to you?”
“You deserve so much better.”

the unintentional hypocrite

door

before i went on my first date with a man, i did marriage counseling for dozens and dozens of couples

before i knew what i wanted to do with my life, i successfully completed six years of college with a 3.8 grade point average

before i considered myself authentic, i wrote hundreds of pages of journal entries and poems exploring my soul

before i knew how to tell my story, i published a book

before i had my first real kiss, i had a successful marriage to a woman, and everyone thought we were the perfect couple

before i knew what being mentally healthy was, i was the director of a community mental health center

before i understood my own spirituality, i completed a two year dedicated missionary service and baptized several into the faith i was born into

before i understood how to take care of myself, i was taking care of two sons who required my everything

before i lived well, i merely lived

 

 

The Silver Sea

Tonight
The sea turned silver
The boiling sun
Took refuge behind a mass of opaque clouds
As yellow light spilled from its edges
In life-giving tendrils

With only a slight shift in vantage
I stood in a scattered crowd of humans
And saw the earth curve
A long arc across the horizon

Unconquerable ocean rolled forth endlessly
Walls of it smashing
Into the ground beneath me
Slowly and incessantly wearing it down

Rushing water drowned all sound
The guitars, the children,
The motors and tinny radios,
The fragile thumping hearts

And the humans stood as one
Facing west
Looking toward the circular world
As pin-prick stars
And spreading shadows
And salt-soaked wind
And whispering water
Held their weight.

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Understanding New York City

nyc1

I’ve walked the edges of New York City, and right through the center.

I’ve left my footfalls on sidewalks, over high bridges, in underground tunnels.

Yet the city eludes me.

I gather puzzle pieces, individual experiences, and cram them together,

trying for the full picture.

The small Asian woman ordering passersby into her shop. “You come inside, now.”

The lithe black woman, unnoticed, singing songs of the city in a public park. “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.”

The wheelchair-bound man, blanket pulled over his head, snoring loudly, all of his possessions in a pack tied to his feet.

The perfectly sculpted 20-something walking six dogs, practicing his monologues aloud. “Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we of might win by fearing to attempt.”

The red-tied man, donut and coffee in hand, negotiating loudly over cell phone while he thunders down the steps. “Time is money. Buy, buy, buy.”

nyc2

This city, in all its scope and slope and texture.

Penthouses scraping skylines, rats scurrying over subway tracks, Broadway ballads, melted cheese, flashing neon, dirty rivers, Tower of Babel-levels of spoken confusion, shined shoes with mud in the treads.

 

This city, that must be lived in transitions:

waiting to be discovered… to demanding discovery

struggle and survival… to testing personal resolve

paying too much for too little… to being paid too little for too much

 

This city, where being stepped on is appreciated, where hustling is a way of life, where living the dream means doing long past the point of wanting to do.

 

This city, where symbols of freedom cast shadows on systems of injustice.

And both, and all, must be seen and expected.

 

And that’s New York.

nyc3

 

absolutely electric

Lightning1.jpg

In my most powerful moments
when lightning flashes outward from my fingers, toes, and eyes
and I float evenly in the center
kept aloft in the night sky
seeing over every horizon
in those moments, I am
limitless
bulletproof
invincible
free
I rise higher, willfully
with clouds at my feet
absolutely electric
in time
I grow chilled
and lonely
and weary of the winds and jets and birds
and I return
to mud, to dirt
to safe holes in familiar glens
to roots and dust
to burrowing aphids
to warm damp subterranean space
and there, safe, I dig my toes into the soil
and I sing into the darkness
hearing the life forms plodding on the ground above me.
they have no idea I’m here
not until I’m ready
again
for the sun and song of the surface.

insomnia

it happens easily

 

at midnight

when the bed stretches on for miles

and I’m the only one inside it

 

a pillow between my knees

another balled together under my right ear

my toes curled up like elf shoes

one arm wrapped protectively around my abdomen

the other under head extended to its fullest, reaching

the ache of the world rests in my spine, my hips

and my eyes are opened to darkness

 

they show there, when I’m at my most vulnerable

when even sound is distant

they climb over the corners of the bed, burrow through the sheets

they scratch at my surfaces

they cover me, they bury me

the demons

breath soft, in whispers, no fire and no thorns

 

they carry messages of

he said he loved you but he hurt you”

and

“they all end in the same place”

and

“dig, keep digging, it’s bottomless”

and

“this is it, all there is, this darkness, this room, this you”

 

I stay there

for a moment, for forever

because it feels familiar

the doubt, the pain, the angst

after all

I dwelt in it for so long

it’s warm on my skin and cold in my heart

the demons become one with the sheet that covers my naked form

the whispers grow and stay and settle

and then the demons fall like leaves, gently, floating

off

and out

and down

and away

 

and then it is me again

alone in the expanse of the bed

still protected, still reaching, still curled,

still weight-bearing, still silent

my eyes can close now

and the sun soon rises

Thoughts on thinking

Freeway

Sometimes I don’t have anything to blog about.

Some of my best blogs come from deeply painful places, from emotional barbs that have to be worked out from my flesh with sharp grips. Or sometimes they represent self-discovery, a breakthrough I’ve been chewing on for a few days like a leathery piece of turkey jerky. Or sometimes they come from a place of righteous anger, a sense to vent about the social injustices of the world. Often they come from places of inspiration, bonding moments I have with my sons or my mother or a close friend.

But sometimes, I just don’t have anything to say, even when my brain never stops working.

I’m flooded with inspiring ideas that will never bear any fruit.

The other day, I drove away from Las Vegas at 3 in the morning and planned out a blog in my head about the desert at night with all the drunk people casually gambling with no concept of time. Then I turned on the radio and heard an old favorite song. I sang along, turned off the radio and sang it two or three more times, getting the idea to put up a YouTube channel with me singing a different song every day that inspires me, and then I deleted that idea because that would be one more thing I begin that I would be proud of but never know how to promote. Then I turned on a book on tape about the life story of Jerry Lee Lewis, and I spent the next few hours laughing and annoyed and outraged and inspired by his very weird life, and thought about writing a piece about him and wanting to buy and listen to all of his music now.

I kept driving and I thought about a getaway, something long and enduring, a few weeks where I could have pure, uninterrupted creative energy, but deleted that idea because I would miss my children and I have bills to pay and clients to see. Then I thought about how confident I felt just a few months ago, determined and sure that my LGBT History channel on YouTube (also called Snapshots) were going to take off and be successful, how the quality of the video and the content would just keep gaining and expanding, then I thought of how quickly that confidence had dissipated when I realized that even the people I was paying to support the product didn’t really believe in it, and how the failure to launch was really teaching me a lesson in humility. I thought about efforts to expand or reduce content, wearing a suitcoat to make myself more presentable, generating taglines and mission statements, and even throwing it all into a podcast that went nowhere, and how even though I’m still putting out the videos, my dreams for the project feel like they are tucked into a cardboard box I’ve placed into the attic.

I thought about other ways I might feel more successful with my writing. I thought about making inspiring music videos, or humorous blurbs about animals with unfortunate names, or posting daily images of terrible comic book covers from decades ago that are incredibly hilarious now, or reading my blog entries out loud and putting them online. I think of people who are doing what I want to do, like Anne Lamott and David Sedaris and Mary Roach, and doing it so brilliantly. I thought of all the people who make money on YouTube melting things or blowing things up or doing make-up tutorials or instructing dance steps or looking pretty while interviewing people.

I thought about writing books, and making documentaries. I thought about the graphic novel that I worked for five years on and that I was so proud of and how there are now boxes of them sitting in my closet, unread. I thought of getting in shape and the excuses we use to stop ourselves. I thought of the last guy I tried dating and how the early magic of the relationship had become weighed down by the human realness of adult life: jobs and kids and family and distance and communication, and how that made me sad. I thought of ghosts. I thought of constantly struggling to find our places in the world.

Then I sang, and listened, and thought some more. And the sun came up over the red hills and I stopped for coffee and sat on a curb and drank slowly as I willed my brain to be still. I saw the sun in the sky, the cars speeding by on the freeway, the isolated homes in the distance, and the small ants climbing near my feet.

I thought of silence, and ambition, and adventure, and independence, and my children.

And then I filled my car up with gas while I thought about thinking, and got back in the car to think some more.