BETTER AS A SOLO HIKE

Not long ago, during our coldest spell of this mild winter season, I set out on a five-hour hike, hoping to catch Norvan Falls completely frozen. I’d seen photos online from the weekend but, by the time I arrived on the scene midweek, the water was crashing down again although it still looked cool with the icy bits that framed it on either side. A decent day. As I walked back to my car, I noticed a marker for The Varley Trail and a large sign that explained it was so named for a famous Canadian painter, Frederick H. Varley, a member of the Group of Seven. He’d lived in this area for a number of years and the trail purportedly covers much of the land he strolled as he searched for inspiration. I knew I’d be back to check it out.

It’s a short trail through the forest with many wooden walkways built over muckier sections. A rushing stream flanks it for much of the way. After dodging mountain bikers on a connector path, I came to a loop around the rather compact Rice Lake with a few mountain views. All lovely. Still, my hikes are never less than three hours so I wandered onto other trails midmorning and after lunch. Meandering took me along a muddier trail—no user-friendly platforms this time—and eventually down a couple hundred wooden stairs. (I have such appreciation for trail builders. Who built these stairs? How long did it take, carting all the supplies from a car parked miles away? Was something about a preexisting dirt path deemed too treacherous?) There, a mere thirty feet from the bottom of the steps, I experienced déjà-vu.

More like déjà-eww.

Oh, the scene itself was spectacular. A pool of impossibly green water glistened, the water so clear, the rocky bottom was in full view. Last time I’d been here, was on a Saturday in April six years ago, when the sound of water cascading downward at a point mostly hidden by protruding rocks was drowned out by dozens of people looking for photo ops after checking out the nearby Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. Today, I gloried in having the place to myself, in part because it was a weekday, but also because, as I soon discovered, the suspension bridge was closed, access completely fenced off.

Six years ago, I welcomed the noise of the crowd. I was on a go-see first date that arose from a guy reaching out to me on Plenty of Fish. Such occasions had become routine: show up at a coffee spot, sit and sip, strain to make the conversation feel like something beyond an interview. I was excited that he’d suggested we grab a coffee and head out on a short hike. We could experience something as we chatted. The conversation would flow more naturally while walking and talking, similar to what happens when two people are driving somewhere. Even if we weren’t a match, it would be fun to get out and see a beautiful forest area I’d only explored once, twenty years prior when I’d first moved to Vancouver.

The date was dreadful. It felt like I was on the receiving end of an excruciating silent treatment, whatever conversation that happened being all give, no take. I’d lob a question, he’d answer in the fewest possible words and forgo the courteous, common sense “What about you?” that normal, socially aware people lob back in a get-to-know-you exchange where two people search for a shared interest. He didn’t even bother to pose one of those standard questions like “What do you do for a living?” or “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” Okay, I’ve never asked or been asked the latter question. For the record, a weeping willow. On that date, at least. Emphasis on the first word. No actual tears but the experience was painful—weep worthy.

What made things worse was being stuck on the date with no handy exit plan. In a cafe, I could have stood up and said, “Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to get home to [insert something that sounds infinitely more exciting (e.g., re-grouting my shower tiles or self-administering a root canal)].” I was stuck in the middle of a forest, at least half an hour away from where he’d parked his car, my own vehicle still parked near a coffee shop I had no idea how to get back to on my own.

I recall feeling shunned. To this guy, I was some sort of pariah. It seemed he was gritting his teeth, just trying to get through this experience, something in his mind worse than the combined torture of waterboarding, a fully body waxing and Michael Bolton playing on an endless repeat cycle. And that’s where we finally found common ground: his torture was my torture.

Dates like that are best forgotten. Largely, I’d done that although the wall of silence was so off-putting that the outing has occasionally come back to mind on subsequent dud dates as a point of reference and perspective. No matter how flat any other date felt, I could always tell myself, At least it wasn’t as bad as that hike in the forest.

I’m glad I stumbled on this familiar ground again. While the beauty of this spot registered even six years ago amid that air of awkwardness and that throng of people scrambling for selfies, I now had a chance to fully appreciate it. No interruptions. No nagging thoughts in my head like Am I simply hideous? or Do I have halitosis? Body odor? Boogers swinging from dangling nasal hairs?

I’m grateful I got to experience this spot again, to take it back, to have this moment as my own. Such a beautiful place. It deserved another chance.

After twenty minutes and lots of photos—not a selfie in the bunch—I turned back to face the daunting set of stairs. Onward and upward.

CRUSHING DURING COVID

Lately I’ve been picking up a lot of handsome men and bringing them home. We first meet in public, at the library or the bookstore on Robson. Authors, all of them.

Once we’re back at my place, I let them tell me a story while I sit on the sofa or get cozy in bed. Every so often, I dare to sneak a glimpse of them between the covers. They look so confident, their gaze fixed, never backing down. I’m always the one who looks away first. I remind myself it’s silly to put much into a photo, one that the writer chose to submit to his publisher, the absolute best image he has of himself, perhaps edited to the point of looking nothing like his true self. However altered, it’s a good look.

There is nothing intimate about our time together. I’m well aware of how this works. He shares his photo indiscriminately, joining many willing readers in dens, bedrooms, sometimes out in the open in park settings. Buy or borrow his book and you too can ogle if you so choose. He’s told his story so many times, the words so well rehearsed. He’s no whore; he’s just a writer who yearns for his work to be noticed, even appreciated.

He’d probably be a little creeped out to know how many times I’ve peeked at his photo at the back of the book. I could honestly tell him I do this with all books, no matter the gender of the writer. I like visualize writers at work. It betters the reading experience if I can imagine a book’s creator going through multiple drafts, nixing or reworking characters and plot points to get to this final form. I often wonder if particular scenes are only slightly altered versions of lived experiences.

Crushing on gay authors is new for me. I suppose it’s one of those unexpected developments arising from the coronavirus. Zero dates, by choice instead of by default. No chance to linger in cafes, no opportunities to travel, so I’ve been reading much more. For a while, I passed endless idle hours streaming shows, avoiding the overhyped “Tiger King,” instead plodding through “Grace and Frankie,” “Dead to Me” and, yes, finally, “Schitt’s Creek.” Hiking filled up many of my summer days. But then Vancouver’s rainy season arrived, libraries reopened and I decided to make a dent in my seemingly endless reading list.

Garth Greenwell may have been the first author I brought home during this new period. I’d heard he’d introduce me to risky, raw sexual situations. He did. I responded with a shrug. Not a great start.

Next came Carter Sickels, author of The Prettiest Star. Very talented, strong storyteller and a thorough researcher on the ways AIDS ravaged the body during that era before medications could tame the beast. Glad to spend some time with him, but the crush would never go anywhere. He lives in Kentucky, land of Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul. Mr. Sickels can rest comfortably, knowing I shall not be stalking him.

At some point, I brought home Bill Clegg. I’d learned about his latest book, The End of the Day, in The New York Times Book Review. I shall admit to being smitten, staring at his photo a little too long before finally reading the review. Gay? I Googled. Sure enough. I didn’t review the book on the blog because, while there’s a hint at never acted upon feelings of love one of the three main women feels for another, this is not a gay novel. Based on an interview I read with Clegg, I learned he has a partner and they’re raising a child. Moving on…

I gave Andrew Sean Greer another try. I’d read Less as soon as it was published back in 2017. I remember rushing to the bookstore to get my hands on him—or it. The store’s website noted there were forty copies in stock, but I was sure they’d be scooped up. I’d never read such a glowing review in The New York Times. But, alas, Greer—er, Less—and I were not meant to be. He did everything right, but I wasn’t moved. Perhaps I was jealous. What would it be like to be so lauded as a writer? (Later, he even won the Pulitzer.) Maybe I was petty. Maybe I was looking for flaws. Sometimes you just can’t explain a lack of connection.

I gave away my copy of the book last year as I prepared for a big move that still hasn’t happened. (Curses to you, COVID!) During the dog days of the pandemic, I found myself holding Greer again. Yeah, yeah, his book. That’s all. Consider me charmed, Mr. Greer. Shout out to second chances. I do think Greer and I would look good as a couple but, alas, he’s taken. I wish them well. Really.

I was excited to bring Philippe Besson home. His Lie with Me appeared three times on the reading list I keep on my phone, evidence that multiple sources were telling me I’d take a shine to Philippe. Oui, oui, Philippe. Lie with me. There was also the added kitsch factor of his work being translated from French by Molly Ringwald. Yes, that Molly Ringwald. She’s had a long career in Hollywood, but I’ll forever associate with that mid-’80s movie trifecta of Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink.

Monsieur Besson wowed me. Told as a memoir but described as a novel on the cover, I took in everything Philippe shared. The writing, the compelling nature of the story, the vulnerability of his character, everything worked. I couldn’t resist Googling this man. No clear mention of being partnered. Well then! He spends time in both France and Los Angeles. Ideal! Philippe et moi. C’est possible! But, alas, still no travel. I suppose the timing’s not right. C’est dommage.

Perhaps that’s why I turned to Daniel Zomparelli next. He lives right here in Vancouver, my city. And, while it’s probably a sign that I’m messed up, I’m a sucker for a guy who calls his book Everything Is Awful and You’re a Terrible Person. (Probably a good thing I’ve gotten back into therapy as of last week.) If his stories are based at all on his own experiences, it’s clear Daniel has had his share of dating misfires. We could bond over the bad. While he strikes a charming, geek-handsome pose at the back of the book, I suppose it’s lucky for Daniel that I shall not try to track him down. I did put in some time digging up stuff on the internet—yes, he seems lovely—but he’s too young for me and he has a husband. I shall not pursue him. Sure there’s the age difference and the fact he’s married, but there’s also the fear that I might become the basis for his next book with an even more savage title. Well played, Mr. Zomparelli!

There have been other men. TJ Klune (The Extraordinaries) has a wonderful sense of humor, but he’s way too into superheroes for my liking. I have no desire for some sort of Batman-Joker role play in bed. I don’t want to get makeup all over the sheets. Ryan La Sala (Reverie) is far too young and that whole science fiction thing does nothing for me. I tried but ultimately I had to cut short our time together. I keep coming back to David Levithan (Wide Awake) who by now is too familiar...if anything, we’ll always be in the friendship zone. I could take a shine to Abdi Nazemian (Like a Love Story), but I discovered right away that he has a husband, too. Gay marriage has done wonders for others, it seems. I tell myself I should be happy about all this progress.

Right now I’ve bouncing back and forth between two gay authors, Andrew Holleran (The Beauty of Men) and Grant Ginder (The People We Hate at the Wedding). Holleran, whose real name is Eric Garber, is too relatable for me. Lots of angst from him about aging, even a quarter century ago. Has he worked through his issues? Perhaps he could be a mentor, but, at 78, he’s living in Florida, another no-go state for me. I couldn’t possibly live in a place where people elect Marco Rubio and Rick Scott. And it’s got Mar-a-Lago. The horror! As for Mr. Ginder, he lives in Brooklyn which is doable, but he’s not. Too young and, sigh, married. I’m sensing that writers are nesters. I’m also sensing that I need to take a break from all this flirtation with gay authors. I’ve got Alison Bechdal, Fran Lebowitz, Helen Hanf, Nora Ephron and Jia Tolentino on deck. They too may woo me with words but at least with them there are clear boundaries. That’s probably a good thing, for everyone involved.

EVERYTHING IS AWFUL AND YOU'RE A TERRIBLE PERSON (Book Review)

One of the hardest parts of being a writer is putting your work out there. Sure, your mom will love it, even if she can’t resist adding, “I don’t understand why you need to use so many bad words.” Your friend or partner will say it’s great too—but watch for eye contact. If it’s not there, maybe the story isn’t either. Then there’s everybody else: agents who ghost you or send form rejection letters; all those people on Goodreads who pride themselves in being a tough critic when they’re not disparaging sandwich shops on Yelp; and, maybe, hopefully, a few paid reviewers in prominent book publications like The New York Times Book Review, Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Please, oh please, let them say nice things.

I honestly got knots in my stomach from writing the preceding paragraph—although part of that might be on account of veggie burger I ate for lunch with a generous dollop of barbecue sauce that expired two years ago. (I’m trying to use it up.) A writer is vulnerable. Once the work is published, it’s out of the writer’s hands. It feels like a crankier world out there. Too many Statlers and Waldorfs, Simon Cowells and Twitter ranters. Hating seems to make some people happy.

As hard as it is for novelists, I think poets, essayists and short story writers are particularly subject to criticism. When a book is a collection of shorter works, the quality is going to be uneven. Even when the writing is exceptional, some pieces will wow and others might underwhelm. When the work is varied, the reader will connect with some writing while other work may confuse, irk or, perhaps worst of all, elicit no response whatsoever. It makes me a little crazy when I hear a friend say they knocked a star off their hotel review (gosh, hotels...remember them?) because they couldn’t check in early or the clock radio had too much glare.

I’ve read a some outstanding collections recently, most notably Samantha Irby’s Wow, No Thank You and Allie Brosh’s Solutions and Other Problems. Both writers are quirky humorists, each with her own stream of consciousness delivery which makes their work best read in small chunks (at least, in my opinion). To use a sports analogy, they go for a home run with every at bat. Obviously, there are bound to be a few fouls and swing-and-misses. Doesn’t matter. These are five-star reads. Find them. Enjoy them.

All that’s a prelude to my talking about gay Vancouver writer Daniel Zomparelli’s Everything Is Awful and You’re a Terrible Person. I don’t recall how I stumbled upon this as a reading option but I know I laughed out loud just from the title. Ballsy. Some people will be put off from that alone. (Yes, Mom. That doesn’t sound very nice.) I wanted to hunt it down. If nothing else, this guy has a point of view. When I picked it up from the library after placing a hold on it, the librarian who retrieved it for me laughed, too. So there. It’s not just me.

There’s so much promise in Zomparelli’s writing. The book offers thirty-two stories in two hundred pages, making for a quick read. Some characters and stories recur though I suspect I may have missed a few of the connections. Zomparelli often dives into his stories with things in progress and it’s up to the reader to catch up, trying to figure out the context. The characters are often unnamed at the outset so it can be challenging to know whether the story involves an already introduced character. Sometimes I didn’t want to have to work that hard because sometimes the situation I seem to have walked in on was disorienting enough. There’s a sleepwalking boyfriend who is cheating on his partner by still carrying on with his ex who happens to be a ghost. Um, what? My reaction to how they try to resolve the situation: Um, what?! There’s another story about a guy with extremely loose skin that he has to tape to stay in place. I had to abandon that piece. I’m ridiculously squeamish and the idea of skin falling out of place, however farcical, made me too uncomfortable. The character comes back in a later piece that I tolerated, the loose skin not seeming as icky. It’s possible that, by then, it even made some some sense. Really, I could have done without these stories, too out there for me. I think these pieces would have worked well enough without the experimental elements, but I suspect other readers might like the novelty that is added to the works.

A dozen of the stories involve the gay dating experiences of a character named Ryan. These are funny, often slightly tragic. Dating is messy. Here’s an excerpt from the first, titled “Date: What’s His Face”:

           Ryan stared intently at what’s his face, taking in every feature.

           His eyebrows were perfect. He could stand a nose job. Ryan

           noticed the breakouts in the corners of his forehead.

           “You’re kind of weird,” Ryan smirked.

           “Why?”

           “I can just tell. There’s something weird about you.” Ryan,

           three beers in, began his ritual flirtation device of

           insulting his dates.

           “You don’t know me.”

           “Oh, I know you. I can tell.”

           What’s his face became irritable. “Maybe I should go now.”

           “Why don’t I walk you home.”

Dating as a game. I never got my hands on that playbook, but there are plenty of Ryans, supposedly looking for love or maybe just sex or maybe a chance to mess with people’s minds. Ryan is flawed and yet someone to root for in these awkward, amusing encounters. Not everyone can be Prince Charming.

At one point, I had to do a double take, flipping to the back of the book to stare at the author’s photo. We’re both living in Vancouver. Do I know him? Worse, did our paths meet through online dating sites? It’s this passage from “Sex Date” that had me wondering:

           I almost set up a date with a guy, but then I cancelled

           after finding out he was a principal at an elementary

           school.

           “What’s wrong with a principal?” Ryan asked.

           I told him that when I imagined the sex, I was worried

           that I would think about his elementary school students

           and that made me uncomfortable.

           “Gross,” Ryan replied.

All righy then. There are a few single gay elementary school principals in Vancouver but not many. Perhaps this explains at least one occasion when I was ghosted after a few pleasant online messages, the coffee date never coming to fruition. Just as well, I suppose. No telling what story another writer might have lifted from an actual meet-and-greet. Something potentially odder than ghost boyfriends and guys with really loose skin.

Another recurring story involves a character dealing with the death of his mother. We get fractured pieces of the relationship and what happened. Sometimes the mother appears in dreams. I’m not sure I got all I wanted out of this thread, but I was intrigued enough to want to read more. There’s a brief scene in which the mother tells her son about a handsome man she dated when she was young:

Me

Why didn’t it work out?

Mother

You can never trust handsome men.

Me

I know.

The point is arguable, but it still amuses me.

There are so many nuggets in this work that are humorous and relatable. Just writing this, I was flipping back through the book, nodding, smiling and getting the impression that a second reading would be more rewarding, having a better sense of the bigger picture instead of just the wonderful details. Zomparelli’s writing is memorable. Stars? Rating? Who cares? He’s a writer whose career I want to follow.