BODIES ARE COOL (Book Review)

By Tyler Feder

(Dial Books for Young Readers, 2021)

I’m on book alert wherever I go. Libraries, bookstores and Free Little Libraries (Love ’em!) are obvious places to browse unknown titles and reconnect with things read, but I’m pleasantly distracted by book sightings in cafes, on planes, and when passing park benches where someone has decided to put the day on pause and dig into a biography, a romance, an essay collection or maybe that Dragons Love Tacos picture book yet again, no kids necessary. (It’s the literary way to celebrate Taco Tuesday.)

 

I first spotted Bodies Are Cool in a curated collection at Kits Beach Coffee where they have several bookshelves stocked with their Equitable Literacy Library. It would drive the anti-woke crowd crazy. (Fine by me.) As they explain online:

Our wide range of books and interactive selections examine the intersections between colonial-settler history, climate, justice, anti-racism, cultural awareness and gender that goes beyond the binary…We have books that encourage self-inquiry, healing, nurturing our eco-systems, essays and poems and a sensory section for children and adults.

 

I was focused on a writing project at the time so I only scanned titles during the time it took the barista to prepare my oat milk latte. I’d biked there and knew from the good vibes I’d be back. I could have a more serious browse next time. 

 

A couple weeks later, I biked to a vegan bakery, To Live For. (This is where anti-woke folk click away, if they haven’t already done so, to get updates on the latest conspiracy theories and “alternative facts.” Have a nice day.) The place was packed midmorning on a Monday, the line extending outside. (A thriving vegan establishment! Made me smile.) While waiting for another oat milk latte, I spotted a tidy collection of children’s books, items to let parents and young children bond or, more likely, occupy the kiddos while mommies (and daddies) got a daily dose of adult conversation. Once again, Bodies Are Cool was part of the collection. I made a note of the title and eventually checked it out at the library. So glad I did!

 

This book is both simple and brilliant. It’s what you’d think it would be, based on the title and the cover illustration which features bodies of different skin colors, sizes and markings, wearing swimsuits (or is it underwear?), floating on a soft pink background. Each double-page spread focuses on a particular aspect of bodies (eyes; body hair; tummy sizes) and expressly normalizes how diverse our bodies are. The text on each spread ends with, “Bodies are cool!” 

 

Sixteen times: “Bodies are cool!”

 

Hallelujah! 

 

Round bodies, muscled bodies,

curvy curves and straight bodies,

jiggly-wiggly fat bodies.

bodies are cool!

 

(I got a little edgy over the reference to “fat bodies,” but that’s because I’ve grown up with fat weaponized, meant to ridicule and shame. That’s not what this book is about. The word is taken back, used matter-of-factly. I have to remind myself that obese has a medical definition, fact-based, instead of playground-pitched.) 

 

There are seven images of people in various wheelchairs, a rarity in picture books that aren’t specifically about someone needing one. People are shown with canes, crutches and arm supports. A woman in a dance class has a prosthetic leg. People wear glasses, someone has an eyepatch, another walks with a seeing-eye dog (and a white cane). There’s so much more, including things I’ve likely missed in my first three reads. Blotchy skin, scars, hairy legs, bald heads, bandanas, hijabs, turbans, swim caps, helmets. 

 

The beauty of picture books is they can be read and viewed, quickly or lingered upon. Repeated readings allow for the focus to change. In a book like this, new images and attributes will be noticed each time. Questions get blurted.

 

“Why is her stomach like that?” 

 

“Eww. His skin!”

 

“What’s wrong with that boy’s hair?”

 

With a picture book, unfiltered comments create teachable moments. Kids will notice differences and ask questions that lack tact. But their questions can be answered by a trusted, non-judgmental adult instead of by a classmate with bullying tendencies.

 

If only this book had been around when I was growing up.

 

I remember a familiar admonishment from my mother when we’d be at the mall or grocery store: “Don’t stare.” Children are naturally curious and they tend to look longer when seeing some aspect of a person they haven’t seen before. There is a natural curiosity. In those don’t-stare instances, there was never any follow-up discussion to what I might have crassly phrased as, “What’s wrong with that person?” No learning. Differences were not to be talked about. It only meant that, next time, I’d have the same inclination to look and then self-censor. Something was bad about me. I wasn’t supposed to see a difference. I certainly wasn’t supposed to wonder about it. Social propriety, a big thing in my upbringing, nixed social understanding. 

 

Somewhere in Texas, in Keller Independent School District, maybe elsewhere, this book is banned. Hard to know why. My best guess is the text saying, “This body, that body, his and her and their body. However YOU define your body! Bodies are cool!” An offending pronoun, an objection to defining your own body. Apparently, society must do that (as defined by God-fearing Texans). Let the harm go on. 

I hope families regularly check out this book. I hope they ask librarians to order it. I hope they buy a copy for their home library.

 

With this book, children will learn as they are ready to, based on what they notice. They will connect the illustrations to what they see in the real world. They may still stare, but more likely as an a-ha/I Spy moment: Bodies are cool!

 

A book like this as a part of one’s childhood has the potential to reduce instances of low self-esteem and body image struggles as a child, during the awkward adolescent years and into adulthood when many people continue to size up bodies, when we continue to be inundated by images of Ryan Gosling’s abs, Ariana Grande’s petiteness, Julia Roberts’ hair and that dude in the latest Calvin Klein ads. 

 

I think of my own body issues, my eating disorder and the prevalence of body dysmorphia among gay men. Gay bars could be harsh, a hierarchy established immediately upon walking or sashaying in. Now, I suppose, with gay bars no longer an epicenter of gay culture, the dismissals aren’t so much to one’s face, but empty message boxes on dating apps leave users to speculate how many times their best pics were met with a rapid swipe left. If only we’d all grown up with this book.

 

Alas, not everyone will gain access to Bodies Are Cool. Not everyone will accept the message. There will always be forces that rank and revile. Still, this book can make a difference, both for the youngster to whom the book is read and the adult reading it and answering the questions that pop up. 

 

Bodies Are Cool is very, very cool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FROM LONG TO LONGER

Dan Fogelberg took the word longer and made it romantic.

Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.

 

My long-distance relationship is about to be longer. No so romantic. From Vancouver to Seattle, the distance is 150 miles. A three-hour drive, with a tunnel that backs up, the border crossing and a final crawl until the Space Needle comes into view. In the nearly two years we’ve been seeing each other, I took a sea plane once, the train another time. Mix things up a bit. We sometimes met at in-between spots, each of us taking different ferries to Victoria, a cabin on Whidbey Island, a campsite, and Airbnb in farm country. 

 

But so long, Seattle. Evan got a terrific job opportunity he couldn’t turn down. (We talked about it for weeks and neither of us wavered from our gut response: “Do it!”) This morning the movers came and loaded up his things. We have two more days in a Seattle apartment, entirely empty but for three suitcases and an air mattress. I’m writing this while sipping a Caffe Vita oat latte in a vibrant open space adjoining KEXP radio studio as the station’s eclectic playlist pipes through the speakers and I gaze at the Space Needle, a short walk away. In this city I love, these are a few of my favorite things.  

 

The job is in Denver and, no, it’s not one of those work remotely deals. While known as the Mile-High City, it’s almost ten times the distance compared to Seattle: 1,440 miles away. Three days’ drive instead of three hours. (The days of driving seventeen hours straight and sleeping in autobody parking lots ended three decades ago.) 

 

If one of us had moved to Sydney or Singapore, I’m sure we’d have accepted the change of circumstance, committing to make it work. But that kind of physical separation lends itself to clearer guideposts. Four visits per year perhaps. Two for him, two for me. See you next season. Romantic. Cue Dan Fogelberg.

I'll bring fire in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.

Does the fact the song’s lyrics are accompanied by a harp and flugelhorn make them more compelling or less real?

 

The Vancouver-Denver distance is middling and thus a tad muddled. We won’t be seeing each other three weekends in four, but once a season sounds too sparse. Visits will be negotiated more in terms of frequency and length. For the most part, we’ve alternated between Vancouver and Seattle. For the future though, I’ll be collecting more frequent flyer miles. I can write anywhere. With a nod to Dr. Seuss: In a plane, on the train, on a boat, across a moat. On a box, in striped socks, beside a fox that’s wearing polka-Crocs. Oh, the places I’ll write! Here, there and everywhere. And now Denver.

 

Relationships have to adapt. Denver I shall adopt. The move is a return for Evan. He lived there two decades ago. His parents and other relatives are near, as are friends from high school and university. Lots of pluses, but he will miss the Pacific Northwest. I’m not the only one who thinks Seattle is awesome, a place of trolls, a monorail that goes practically nowhere, free bananas for those who venture to the heart of Amazonland and a destination wall to add your chewed up wad of Hubba Bubba Sour Blue Raspberry bubblegum before taking and posting a selfie NO ONE wanted to see. The city can’t match the Keep Portland Weird vibe, but it tries (especially in Fremont). No doubt, his return, while offering the chance to rekindle connections, is laced with confusion. Is going back going backward?  

 

I have connections to the city as well. My sister now lives less than an hour away, my niece and her new baby are in one of the suburbs and a university friend is a prof at the University of Denver. After three decades in my corner of Canada, I’m not sure how close any of those relationships are. 

 

As for Evan and me as a couple, we’ll be closer to his family cabin (half an hour out of the city), his Airstream in Taos, New Mexico and plenty of new hiking adventures, one of our core common interests. I’ve already pitched a road trip to Moab, Utah and Antelope Canyon in Arizona. My Instagram will have better pics than some wall coated with saliva and spearmint. 

 

I’ll find whatever quirk Denver has on offer. Already, I’m wanting to eat at Casa Bonita, a kitschy Mexican restaurant with cliff divers and newly renovated by the creators of South Park (for realz). Another Insta post! Plus there will be dozens of new cafés to try out as writing locales. We’ll find new bike routes, too. We’ll make new memories.

 

Of course, as rosy as I try to spin things, there are plenty of unknowns. What if? What about? When will? How long? I prefer questions with answers. For all others, I’m just going to bat them away. Plug my ears. La-la-la. Sorry. Can’t hear you!

 

We’ll figure it out. (Fingers crossed.)

 

Longer in distance, but hopefully closer in the ways that truly count.

 

 

GHOST-BUSTING

Casper was a friendly ghost, wasn’t he? I’ve never thought of ghosts as spooky or mean or much of anything really. But, right now, I’m feeling like I’m gonna call Ghostbusters. Not on my behalf but for all the earnestly hopeful single folks, wishing for a date, a connection and maybe something more. 

 

God knows, I lingered in the dating pool long enough to feel my already fragile self-esteem elbowed, kicked and otherwise roughed up.

 

“You’re nice but…no.”

 

“Not into redheads.”

 

“No fireworks.” (It was coffee. At three in the afternoon.)

 

My mother, and presumably everyone’s mother, instilled in me from a young age, If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’d like to think that, with an obvious exception for siblings at least through the teen years, I’ve done a good job of sticking to that maxim. But I’m going to add another exception: dating apps.

 

Whoa, now. Hear me out. I’m not advocating for people to get ugly, to lash out and to coddle their own declining self-esteem by spouting some cheap digs against another dude that dared to woo. Here is where I’d offer some freebie slams about hygiene, ripped jeans and people named Gene. (Surely he’s got a middle name.[1]) But, nope. Not going to aid and abet. I still ascribe to the general rule of saying nothing In lieu of meanness.[2]

 

In this world where everything is boiled down to black and white, especially on social media—Swiftie or hater; guns or none; manscaper or bear—I continue to believe in gray/grey[3] zones. I don’t think it’s necessary to engage in all dating app prompts. I suppose it’s okay not to respond to someone who sends the first message. Sure, you created a profile and you might even pay to be on the app, but we all know that there are impossibly good looking bots with sculpted abs[4] and people from foreign countries looking to jump the immigration queue by lurking on dating sites. A quick delete is permitted. Bots and wannabe citizens will message on, undaunted. 

 

There are other unsolicited messages that may arrive as well. I remember glancing a new message, clicking on the person’s profile and feeling horrible. Dammit, this person put himself out there and messaged me, of all people. For whatever reason or, more likely, reasons, I know this is not a match. 

I’m never going to click with someone who calls himself PokemonJoe. Nor with someone who has tufts of hair sprouting from his ears in his profile photo. And every other photo. (Not making that one up. His profile name referred to himself as a faun. Some things from years on dating sites are especially memorable.) Initially, I replied to most of these messages. Hey. Thanks for the message. I looked over your profile and I don’t see a match, but all the best to you. I stopped when people shot back another message, needing the last word. Sometimes the f-word was tossed in, but it certainly had nothing to do with sex. 

 

So, yeah. You’re not a terrible person if you delete a message that you’d never specifically asked for. Maybe it’s the entrenched introvert in me, but no one has to be forced into a conversation, online or, heaven forbid, in person.[5]  

 

I take issue, however, with disappearing acts that occur after you start a conversation or respond to a message. Ghosting is the easy out, but it’s rude. On Grindr or some other app that’s primarily about hooking up, ghosting may be common. Exchanges are transactional. Maybe there’s an urge and then it’s gone. Urge met in some other way, I presume. On sites that purport to be about actual dating, however, manners matter.

 

A couple of Evan’s closest friends are single and looking for one thing or another. One is perfectly content to Grind away. Lots of stories, short, never even a novella. His choice. The other friend is not averse to Grindr opportunities but also has an account on OkCupid, the dating site where Evan and I met. Last week, as we talked, he mentioned some early messaging with one guy but then said, “He unmatched me.” I’d heard him use the same phrase the week before.

 

Huh? From what I recall of that site, people are matched based on answers to questions they answer. Basic things like, “Do you smoke?”, “Do you like dogs?” and “Do you vote regularly?” There are other more specific (random?) questions with multiple choice answers: “Could you date a messy person?”, “Is it okay to lie?” and “If you were offered a slot to live the rest of your life on Mars, what would you do?” (Would someone decline to have coffee with a person because they might hypothetically move to another planet?) The dating site computes your match percentage. 

 

How does someone then un-match? I’m gathering that unmatching is a new option for app users, disabling someone’s ability to message that person again. It seems harsh. It feels like an out for someone who doesn’t want to put on his big boy pants. I hated that the titular wizard in The Wizard of Oz hid behind a curtain and I don’t like the thought of someone ducking out of an ongoing conversation by hiding behind a button.

 

You start (or engage in) a conversation, you see it through. You may be communicating virtually, but you’re not a ghost. 

 

Your mamma presumably taught you more nuanced etiquette beyond If you can’t say anything nice. 

 

Sometimes you still have to say something. An exchange of messages, whether one or several, is a conversation. Do people ghost IRL while in the same physical space? The thought has occurred to me a couple of times. I could say I was going to the bathroom and just leave, through the window or, heck, through the main entrance. What’s the guy going to do? Chase me down? 

 

“Hey, you forgot something: our conversation.” 

 

Yeah, that would be awkward. Ballsy by him. It almost warrants a high five.

 

It's never come to that because I’ve never done the dash. I’ve sat through the conversation, politely sipping from my already empty coffee cup, nodding my head as it searches for a way to wrap things up. I’m polite to a fault. I’ve remained in a seat that should never have gone warm, but I’ve told myself that, if nothing else, there’s a story in every experience. Maybe something to tell a friend next time we grab a pizza, maybe something to blog, maybe an anecdote to keep to myself until it fades from memory. 

 

That’s right. Take the slow fade over the quick disappearance. Either that or announce your exit. That goes for real life and it goes for online dating apps you willingly joined. Ghosting should never have become a common term. And, just because it’s out there, doesn’t mean it’s a dignified option. There are all sorts of other common terms—assault, spitting, alternative facts—that one should never adopt. 

 

I’m sure some online-savvy folks think I’m out of touch.[6] Etiquette is so 20^th century, if not 19^th. Let Emily Post, Miss Manners and me step aside a moment as I refer to a January 7, 2024 New York Times article entitled “Here’s How to Declutter Your Dating Life.” Under the subheading BEWARE OF GHOSTING, Nick Fager, a licensed mental health counselor, notes that ghosting may be necessary if something dishonest or dangerous arises in messaging but otherwise believes that “closing the circle, when you are able to, can be restorative for both of you…The lack of closure can be emotionally exhausting on all sides.” 

 

Think of when you’ve exchanged a few messages and then awaited the next reply only to never hear anything again. For a while, there’s still an anticipation, another quick log-in to check messages. Alas, none. What happened? Hit by a bus? Kidnapped? Had to act quickly to get that standby ticket to Mars? No. Another frickin’ Casper.

 

I know what the comeback is. You do the right thing and let someone down, respectfully saying you’re not sensing a connection or vaguely saying you don’t think this is moving forward (Fager suggests saying, “This doesn’t feel like a match” or just “Goodbye”). Then, the person messages some vitriolic reply, throwing insults at you and saying the equivalent to “You can’t fire me; I quit.” That’s possible but, in my experience it was rare. (Two times, I think.) That’s on them. You did the right thing. You can only control what you do and say. And, sure, that’s when you can go ahead and block, un-match or ghost Mr. Vitriol. Chances are he already did that immediately after sending the tirade. By then it doesn’t matter. Just be glad it never got to grabbing a coffee.

 

Please, take the high road. Save the ghosting for Halloween haunted houses. With the right person, maybe met online, that could be a fun date.

---

[1] No offense, Genes of the world. It’s a fine name. Keep it. Use it. I was just trying to work in a triple “gene” thread in an attempt to be funny. It fell flat, didn’t it? That’s karma for me bashing guys named Gene.

[2] I assume Trump had a mom. She must be rolling in her grave.

[3] I know either spelling is acceptable yet I continue to feel that picking one over the other will offend 40-60% of readers. Cue Alanis Morissette—Isn’t it ironic that people see things in black or white, even with the spelling of the color/colour that falls in between?

[4] That was a bot that messaged me in 2016, wasn’t it? People like Matt Bomer and Ryan Gosling don’t exist in real life and certainly don’t pine for guys like me. That’s not low self-esteem chiming in; that’s just having a solid sense of self.

[5] I’m 90% certain they created grimacing face emoji just for me. 

[6] Case in point: my use of folks. I revised the sentence once already to replace fuddy-duddy with a reference to me being out of touch, but I didn’t want to give any false impression that I was hip.

  

MY ROM-COM RENAISSAINCE

Back in the 90s, I adored, romantic, comedy movies. They filled me with hope. They reminded me that, despite what I saw in the gay community, love was possible and, yes, it was worth waiting for. It could still be an aspiration. 

Even when the movie was a cookie cutter copycat of a Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan movie, even if the knock off still starred Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan, I still left the movie theatre with a broad smile on my face. These movies were sweet confections that went down so easily.

Until they didn’t. 

My disillusionment with the romantic comedy came at a time when the fairytale relationship I found lapsed into a nightmare. Darkness replaced light and I felt trapped. 

On the rare occasion when I would allow myself to watch a rom-com, I no longer smiled. I felt bitter. These movies had set me up with false hope. Life was more complicated, much harsher.

I became a cynical viewer. I poked holes in the light plots, like an armchair quarterback yelling at the screen as his beloved Cowboys were intercepted, fumbled and got all-out whooped.

“Yeah, right.“ 

“Get real.” 

“Not buying your bullshit.“ 

The sticking points that threatened to undo what looked like a blossoming, cinematic relationship were too easily resolved. Happy endings seemed contrived.

My conclusions were not unreasonable. The expectation upon watching a rom-com had always been that reason and reality were tinkered with, any nods to them played out lightly and loosely. I could no longer suspend disbelief for a ninety-minute sugar rush. Deep in survival mode, I anything light or loose taunted and mocked me. Any attempts at escapism were futile.

Almost two decades after getting out of my abusive relationship, I still couldn’t bring myself to return to rom-coms to give them another chance. 

I tried another option. I read a few romance novels. Usually, this experience did not go well. I could not find enjoyment. Too much fantasy. Too little reality. Worse, I could never buy into the complications that arose in the plot. A romance novel, by its very structure, requires a happy ending. I could not muster up any suspense. Every obstacle would be overcome, no matter how insurmountable the author had set it up to be. I would dutifully read through until the end, always being in a state of disbelief, despite never buying into any aspect of the story.

And then, for reasons that still astound me, I began to consider writing my own romance two years ago. I’d write a little, then walk away from it. Let it breathe, I told myself. But I knew there was more reason for my avoidance. Who was I to write romance? I wasn’t a believer in fairy tales. Not anymore. I’d fallen in love a few times but never with a happily ever after. How dare I give a reader their own sense of false hope? 

Still, during my breaks from that writing project, I would pick up the occasional romance novel, giving the genre another try. I attempted to let down my guard. Let it just be a nice story. Often, I found myself wanting to give the book a radical edit. If I just tear out these fifty pages of “complications,” I can get to the ending. Let us all be happy. 

 

Relax. I did not deface or destroy any part of any book. I just sighed a lot. Loudly. And not in that Meg Ryan diner scene kind of way from When Harry Met Sally. My neighbor seemed to tolerate my reading behavior. The police never showed up to investigate a noise disturbance. 

 

Maybe I’d never be able to embrace rom-coms again or binge-read romance novels on a dateless weekend. I could break up, once and for all, and move on. "Sorry, genre. It's not you; it's me." 

Let somebody else enjoy them while being in a period of feeling hopeful and aspirational about love and relationships, as I once was.

In time, even I could see my resistance was overblown. I’d fallen in love two more times since the Very Bad Relationship and the second one is still going. (This is when I hear RuPaul in my head, dropping a certain Drag Race meme.) If I could believe in love again in my actual life, why couldn’t see it again in fictional representations?

A few months ago, I took a big risk. I pulled Meg Ryan out of the vault. I pitched to my boyfriend, Evan, that we watch Sleepless in Seattle. It was research I told both him and myself. The romance project I had been working on, off and on, was set in Seattle. One of the things that I’ve been wanting to do in the manuscript is to pay homage to that movie, bringing back some of the more memorable settings in the city, and having the events in my own novel play out in a more tragicomic rather than meet-cute manner.

Um...is there such a category?

Evan is neither a reader of romance books nor a viewer of rom-com movies. A Netflix night for us does not involve much chillin’. It takes extensive negotiation. He suggests zombies and cowboys or the wrong Ryan—not Meg, not even Mr. Reynolds or Mr. Gosling, but Mr. Murphy, whose work long ago lost its G/glee. The way I conned/coerced him into watching Sleepless in Seattle was that, since he had much more experience living in Seattle, he could identify the public settings more accurately than I. Being the wholehearted supporter of my writing that he is, he sat down and watched with me. A true trooper. His first viewing, my umpteenth.

He’ll deny it, but he liked it. And so did I! 

 

Oh, Meg, how I’ve missed you. And you, too, writing goddess, Nora Ephron! I didn’t spend my time pointing out the many absurdities in the plot or projecting shame onto Meg’s Annie who was tracking down—even stalking—Tom Hanks’s Sam while engaged to Walter (Bill Pullman), an affable, stable, nerdy man whose biggest “flaw” is he has allergies. I bought into all of Annie’s sparkly hope, I loved Rosie O’Donnell’s nudging as her bestie, I rooted for Sam as he got “Back in the Saddle Again” (yes, the song played), giving dating another go, and I cheered as Sam’s young son, Jonah, pimped Pops to Annie. There is no wooing between Sam and Annie. They never go on a date. They don’t have a bad breakup, only to get back together again. Nope. They just end up at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day so we know they will live happily ever after. A cute old-timey Jimmy Durante song playing over the credits cements our feel-good vibes. Ahh, love!

 

A couple of weeks ago, Evan suggested we finish a nice day with Netflix. I tensed for the typical back-and-forth bidding, his Scarface versus my Rustin, his Riverdale versus my Maid. “You pick,” he said. “I don’t care.” Huh? Battle-weary even before the first round.

 

I called his bluff. “How about You’ve Got Mail?”

 

To be honest, I’d never loved this movie, even when I lapped up rom-coms. [SPOILER ALERTS.] Maybe I never saw the reason to make some bigtime business tycoon likable. Maybe I couldn’t handle seeing a charming little children’s bookstore close. Opening such a store had long been a dream of mine. How could a happily ever after not include the store’s survival? Goliath wins…where’s the feel-good in that? But, watching with Evan, I felt it best to suppress any objections. He’d let me pick, after all. I didn’t need to feed him with examples of the movie’s weaknesses. I needed to block any possibility of zombies being part of our next movie night. So I watched less critically.

 

Gosh golly, I really enjoyed it. Meg can do anything! She’s an actress with all sorts of cutesy tics that make her adorable and make her perfect for rom-com roles. There’s a skip in her step (even when she’s standing in place) that exudes positivity. She’s got what Mary Richards had on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. In the pilot episode, Mary’s future boss, Lou Grant, interviews her. “You’ve got spunk,” he says. Then, after a beat: “I hate spunk.” (Click on the link. The interview is wonderfully written.) In all Meg Ryan’s rom-coms, she believes in love and sees goodness in the world. She adds just enough tiny frowns to make the sweetness go down smoothly without resulting in a sugar coma. 

 

Evan liked the movie, too. Toward the end, his eyes may have even watered up. No doubt, a reaction to something in my stuffy condo. An allergy perhaps, but nothing on the level of Walter’s sensitivities in Sleepless. A keeper, that Evan. 

 

It seems that watching two rom-coms with a guy I love has allowed me to love the genre again. I can stop resisting on behalf of all the jilted. I can hope for happy endings again. Maybe I can enjoy a romance novel without the urge to rip out huge chunks. Maybe I can gain momentum with my own manuscript. Maybe I can just let love be—on the screen, on the page and in real life.   

 

 

 

 

READ GAY BOOKS...PLEASE!

Support gay bookstores, too.
This one is in London.

Do gay men read books? One of my closest friends reads about two a week, but that’s one extreme. Another friend of mine hasn’t read a book since law school, three decades ago. He’s fond of saying, “I only read if it’s a menu.” That’s another extreme. According to Goodreads, I read thirty-two books in 2023, amounting to eight thousand pages. Not bad for a guy who has always been a slow reader.  

 

I have piles of books in my home and a steady number of titles on hold at the local library, their due dates and limited renewals creating artificial priorities in what gets read. Still, I’m pleased to have a well-established reading habit. While I can stretch Sunday’s New York Times over the course of a week and I read countless articles daily online, I love sticking with a book, seeing how a story or a single nonfiction topic plays out over a few hundred pages. A book offers me many hours of entertainment that I pace myself through over a week or sometimes more than a month. (Reflecting an apparent onset of adult ADHD, I can have up to five books on the go at a time.) I savor some reads, reading in smaller bites to extend the joy, while others demand to be devoured in bigger gulps. 

 

Admittedly, there are also some books that I struggle to maintain a commitment to finishing and a few I decide to abandon, reminding myself that time is precious and there is no need to stick with books that become irritating, pretentious and/or plain boring. A huge shout-out to Daniel Pennac’s The Rights of the Reader for getting real about reading! While Pennac’s first stated tenet is “the right not to read,” I’m hoping that 2024 is a year when more gay men commit to reading more books and, specifically, LGBTQ books.

 

A favourite gay read 
from recent years. 

To be even more specific: Please read gay books.

 

Do I sound like I’m begging? I am.

 

On Twitter, I follow a lot of gay men. A few of them post regularly about books they read, but so many more identify as “gaymers” in their profile and I get a sense they pass much of their free time playing video games and jumping aboard the bandwagon to stream “Fellow Travelers” or whatever movie/series/special is generating buzz at the moment. 

 

One of the gay books I
read this past year.

To each his own but, selfishly speaking, I really need gay men to be readers. I need them to read gay books and have a few good things to say about them, maybe even posting something positive, possibly creating a buzzy bookish blip on social media. (I just did a quick check of the latest tweets for common hashtags #booktwt and #BookTwitter and nothing in the LGBTQ realm popped up.) 

 

I am a gay writer. I write about various things—ice cream, coffee, mental health, even fly swatters once—but often I focus on something related to being gay. I journal occasionally as it can help me stop obsessing over a darker thought, but mostly I write with the hope someone else will read my work. If someone likes my writing and even comments on it, well, imagine me standing with my shoulders back, my head held high as I tell Dana Carvey’s Church Lady, “Yes. Isn’t that special!” We all need a little affirmation and writing is a solitary endeavor, the sole visitor so often being a voice in one’s head that constantly casts doubt: 

 

What are you doing this for? It’s just drivel. 

 

Why don’t you ever add zombies? 

 

An oldie but a goodie

I’ll say it again: Read gay books. Say something nice about them when possible and, if you can’t, then follow your mama’s advice, not saying anything at all.

 

If gay men don’t read gay books, publishers don’t have an incentive to put out gay books. They may genuinely love incoming gay manuscripts, but they are running a business. They love money more. Or, at the very least, they need it. Printing books costs money. Shipping books costs money. Same with paying for editors, cover designers, warehouse storage, office heat and lighting, ice cream and coffee. Plus all the other necessities of life.

 

If people aren’t buying or checking out gay books, if they aren’t talking about them on social media, if they aren’t leaving positive reviews and ratings on Goodreads, fewer gay books are released. The reason there are thousands of Chicken Soup for the Soul books is because people read them (or, at least, buy them). The same for sassy takes on kids’ books, like Go the F**k to Sleep. James Patterson, Colleen Hoover, Stephen King and now Britney Spears could get a publishing deal to print their grocery lists or their annotated log of bathroom behaviors because they’ve proven that people will buy their work. It’s a better bet for a publisher to put out Patterson Poops or Scatting with Britney than to print an amusing take on a suddenly single middle-aged gay character written by some unknown gay dude (me!) who has a blog that no one comments on. (Oh, how I’d welcome the occasion comment!)

 

A gay young adult
book I read last year.

It's feeling like more of an uphill battle to get gay fiction published these days. Enthusiasm for #LoveIsLove faded once the Supreme Court guaranteed marriage equality in 2015. Foolish as it may be, there’s a complacency about gay rights and no deeper yearning to read about gay lives. Trans rights are the current battleground along with spats over gender pronouns. Stories by and about trans or nonbinary characters are hot. Gay plots? Not so much.

 

Last year, I received a very discouraging email from a nonbinary, non-white literary agent after submitting the first fifty pages of my still unpublished novel. They stated that “nothing is throwing me off [by your writing] aside from the VERY obvious which is that white men aren’t usually the best fit for my list.” They then openly wondered if “fiction primarily about gay men has kind of peaked already.” 

 

Um...maybe shorts instead?

Peaked? How did my identity become nothing more than a passé trend? Good god, tell me I’m not the equivalent to cargo pants (blech!), Crocs (horrors!) and distressed jeans that flash full knees through oversized holes.

 

After George Floyd was killed and protests broke out, the publishing industry, like so many other businesses, faced scrutiny over declarations of support for racial justice and minority rights. The words were right, but was there anything to back them up? Where was the diversity in the editors on staff, in agents at firms, in authors on publication and representation lists and in the characters and subject matter that got published? 

 

100%!

Since 2020, it seems to have become standard practice for agents to post in their official agency bios and on their manuscript wish lists a statement like, “I am committed to advocating for the work of authors and artists with marginalized identities” or, “We are looking to engage with work by writers from historically underrepresented communities, including—but not limited to—those who are Black, Indigenous, people of colour, disabled, neurodivergent, or LGBTQIA+.”

 

A powerful book set
during the AIDS crisis.

For a while, I felt optimistic. I’m gay! I’ve been marginalized! I lived through the AIDS crisis. Hell, I lived more than a decade in Texas. I grew up hearing repeatedly that “my kind” was a bunch of perverts who mixed with pedophiles. Why distinguish though? We were probably pedophiles, too. And recruiters who actively sought to see families disintegrate. I was often patronizingly regarded as a sinner who was loved but whose sin was hated. Sorry, but if you hate an immutable aspect of my identity, I’m never gonna feel the love. 

 

So, yes, hurray! Diverse stories! My time had come. People wanted to publish my stories!

 

David Sedaris is one of
the best known gay writers,
but so many more authors
deserve to be published.

But it turns out they didn’t. I may have been marginalized, underrepresented and subject to hate and discrimination but not marginalized, underrepresented or subject to hate and discrimination enough. Those opening the gates for more storytellers still controlled the criteria. It seemed like there were only so many spaces saved for the underrepresented and thus it became a contest. Minorities were pitted against one another. Representing a trans author held more cachet than a gay author. A Black gay author looked better on an agent’s profile than a white gay author. 

 

I do not dispute that people who are Black or trans have felt more discrimination on a consistent basis. Being white and male, as the nonbinary agent insinuated, I was privileged which, in some regards, is certainly true, but much of that depends on passing as straight, keeping my gayness in check, liking Sam Smith but not dressing like them or endorsing (or, heaven forbid, adopting) their pronoun preferences. 

 

I did not feel privileged going through school and being mocked relentlessly for my effeminate mannerisms, my total lack of athletic skills and my gravitation to hanging out with girls at recess. I did not feel privileged during my thirty years as an educator, first fearing I’d be fired working in Catholic schools, then worrying about students mutinying and parents pushing for my reassignment (or their child’s transfer) if my gayness were known. It’s why I started this blog anonymously and then wrote under a pseudonym. 

 

A funny book I
reread last year.

I schooled the self-righteous millennial nonbinary agent who lumped me in with all white cisgender men. Technically, I know I am also nonbinary, but I haven’t officially adopted this identity. It wasn’t available during my prolonged coming out years. Getting myself to accept and eventually embrace gay felt like enough of a process. In the past decade, I’ve unveiled all sorts of assigned mental health labels and tried to be open, setting an example in my own effort to break the accompanying stigmas. In terms of myself, I’ve experienced label overload.

 

When one minority status is lifted up over another for one or two spots, it’s tokenism. It also pits us against one another, dividing rather than uniting us. The fact I’ve feel compelled to say, even beg, READ GAY feels unsavory but a matter of creative survival. 

 

Definitely a thought-
provoking read from 
the past year

In the past year, I’ve read books by authors who identified as ace, nonbinary, trans, Black, Korean, Chinese, Jewish, Muslim and polyamorous. The gay authors I’ve read are white, Black, Latino, Jewish and one who was overwhelmingly stuffy and pretentious. I’m rather certain there was a Wiccan in the mix, but I can’t recall who. Some of these authors carry multiple labels. Some choose not to air all of them, hoping one or two labels are enough to entice an agent and editor to give their work a closer look. 

 

Read all kinds of diverse books. 

 

One of the classics I'm 
determined to read this year...
but not while wearing 
these jeans!

In the end, however, I must advocate for myself and for my aspiring cohort of gay writers. Some who are luckier, younger and more talented do manage to break through. Read something gay. As I’ve already stated, if you like it, tell people, in person and on social media. Maybe even tell the writer. (You’ll make his day, I assure you.) If you don’t like it, just mark it as “read” and move on. Negative reviews are fun to write but they don’t need to be published across any format. If you’re having a really bad day, enjoy an extra scoop of salted caramel ice cream in a waffle cone, but walk away from any temptation to drop a one-star review—that goes for all creative folks and virtually all restaurants and hotels. (If you must, air your gripes privately and directly. It’s more constructive, especially if delivered with a respectful tone.) 

 

Currently reading...

After reading one gay book, maybe read another. Is that asking too much? 

 

One will do. You’ve just supported the arts. Let Love Is Love mutate into something broader and longer lasting. Thank you for your patronage!