today than it was for me in the past, although that may be in part because I am less driven to do so, feeling as I do that I have little left to prove. That is not to say that I am any less motivated to write; indeed, I think that I am more so. Certainly I am enjoying writing now in a way that I never did before—and, again, that may be because I am less concerned with seeing anything published, and am content to write for no profit but my own pleasure—and I am inclined to think that, as a result, I am actually writing better.
I do see, however, that some of my remarks on the subject of getting published may seem a trifle ingenuous to today’s writers, who face different challenges, harder ones, I think, than I faced in the past.
Likewise, during this same period of time, I have had the opportunity to read a great deal of new gay and lesbian fiction. If, as I assert in the original edition, we have yet to see the Great Gay Novel or the Great Gay Novelist, I must say that, with writers of the caliber of Dorien Grey, Rick Reed, Lori Lake, Ruth Sims, Anthony Bidulka, Allen Hollinghurst, Gregg Herren, E. M. Kahn, Adam Berlin, Dean James, and Gregory Hinton plying their craft—and I am sure I have forgotten one or two others—and with old pros like James Purdy, William Maltese, and Ann Bannon still at it, I think that the future of gay and lesbian fiction is in very good hands indeed; and since I have not yet read everything by any of them, it may even be that one of them has already penned that great novel, and the more fool I.
So, the temptation was there, to revisit what I had written and to update it, but for the most part, I have resisted that temptation. This book was ever an imperfect one, more a personal journal than any literary achievement. I have apologized elsewhere already for its discursive nature, and explained, I think quite clearly, that it is little more than a summing up of my experiences and of the opinions that I have formed as a result of them. I meant it to be read much as if the reader and I were sitting together in a room chatting, and I am happy to say that many of those who read it found it to be exactly like that; and with that, I remain content.
I have never pretended to be a great writer, though I believe that, at my best (and every writer deserves to be judged by his best), I am a good one. I have come to believe that I can take little credit for that, however. The rain dancer dances, but when the droplets begin to fall, they are nonetheless a gift from Heaven. I have worked hard to learn the steps and sometimes the Gods have smiled upon me, but the raindrops are still a gift for which I can only be humbly grateful.
I could certainly without pause name a hundred or so writers better than I am, and I am sure that everyone reading this could add as many or more to the list. I can say with all due modesty, however, that there are probably few who have been as devoted to their craft as I have been over the last several years of my life; and none, I am convinced, more dedicated to furthering the genre of gay and lesbian fiction.
* * * *
Someone recently referred to me as one of the Grand Old Men of gay writing. Mister Maugham was once asked how he came to be The Grand Old Man of English Letters, and he replied that it was easy; he had simply outlived all the others.
I’m not sure that I qualify as a grand old anything—well, I suppose I must grant the “old” part of it—but in any event, my reply would certainly be the same. With the exception of James Purdy, and surely he must be regarded as The Grand Old Man of Gay Writing, there are few gay writers still around who go back as far as I do and are still at it—I have already mentioned William Maltese and he is indeed a fine writer, and came along only a few years after I did, but I think that he would agree with my assertion that those few years are significant.
Apart from Purdy, Larry Townsend, and, in the realm of lesbian fiction, the also already mentioned Ann Bannon, I can’t think of anyone who was with me in the starting gate (and, in all fairness, Ann Bannon and James Purdy were there ahead of me), though it is possible that I have overlooked someone, in which case I apologize sincerely.
Does my fortuitous longevity make those opinions I express so cavalierly any more valuable? Probably not. I have said before, and have no reluctance in saying again, whatever treasures I have gained from having lived these many years, wisdom is not among them. But I like to think that you may find some of those opinions amusing. Better yet, it is my fondest hope that they will inspire one or two of you to ponder the points I raise, perhaps even to disagree with them.
That is a good thing, I think, and perhaps as much as any writer can aspire to.
FOREWORD
This is not, and was never meant to be, a story of my life. For starters, I can’t imagine who would want to read that. I’m not a star or a celebrity or even (it seems to me) in any way unique, and I would probably pass out if I were even asked to be on a tv talk show.
My dreams are unique. I am the only person I know who dreams cartoon characters. I once had an incredibly torrid adventure with Bugs Bunny. You really don’t need or want to know the details, trust me, but I’m sure you will agree that it is peculiar. Another time it was Cathy from the comic pages, in company with Tom Cruise, and absolutely nothing sexual occurred, unless you count Cathy’s fainting dead away when she met him. I don’t know about you but I certainly think it unique, if not downright bizarre, that anyone would dream of Tom Cruise and not a hint of anything sexy going on. Talk about a waste of pillow time.
But those are just dreams and I don’t care how hard you pedal you are not going to get over the rainbow with nothing more than that. Dreams aside, what I am is an ordinary, upper age gay man. Yes, that does mean that like every gay person who grew up before the revolution I am at least a little bit crazy, but even that isn’t very interesting, is it? I mean, these days if you want to stand out from the crowd at all you really have to be certifiably sane, don’t you?
So when I was first approached about writing these memoirs, I asked that very question; Who would want to read them? Anyway, those who know me know that I am a very private person, almost certainly to a fault. I was frankly intimidated by the thought of focusing so much attention on myself, my private thoughts and feelings and my personal experiences. I’m embarrassed if anyone even sees me washing my step-ins, for Heaven’s sake.
I resisted the idea for the better part of two years (the idea, you understand, of writing my memoirs, not of washing my undies). Still, while I worked on other projects and tended to laundry, I became increasingly aware that I had played a part, if a modest one, in what has proven to be one of the most historically significant periods of social revolution.
How could I not become aware, when suddenly the reminders seemed to be popping up everywhere? I found my name appearing again and again in the indexes of other books dealing with the era. Writers and historians were now referring to me as a part of that history. All right, yes, someone did refer to me recently as ancient history, but you cannot keep other people from being snotty and anyway that’s probably another subject.
I began to hear with growing frequency from scholars looking into the period, wanting information from me. Book collectors and dealers sent me copies of my books to be autographed, to enhance their value; I was astonished to learn that they had “value.” Astonishing value, as it turns out. Copies of these one-time 75¢ books are now offered for sale on the Internet for as much as $175. I don’t even want to think of the rate of inflation.
And it isn’t only my books on the Internet. I was asked by the creators of an “Internet Museum” devoted to the pioneering gay magazine, Der Kreis, to provide an essay and photographs. There I am, seen in my early twenties, my middle years and in the recent present, so you can watch me age before your eyes—but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
A local businesswoman and gay history buff, Audrey Joseph, offered the San Francisco Public Library a five thousand dollar donation to do an exhibit of my work in the new main library then nearing completion.
