Back Where You Belong...

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she

just once said he)

it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he

how much said she

a lot said he)

why not said she
--e. e. cummings


Two things happened very recently, triggering something in my gut.

First, I came across the above painting by my favorite modern artist of all time, Jack Vettriano. The title of the piece is called Back Where You Belong.

Anyone who knows me at all can tell you the spirit of the painting could practically be a poster for my passion: romance of eras past. Although this painting depicts a modern setting, it seems to have a days-gone-by mood. The heart of the picture is timeless, though— man and woman. Passion.

It reminded me of my true love: gritty, sexy stories of men in fedoras and overcoats. Old Spice Aftershave, Lucky Strike cigarettes, fancy cufflinks, hair pomade, mobsters. Clandestine whispers on Bakelite telephones from the shadows of cheesy restaurant phone booths. Stories of a time when sex was all the more sexy because it wasn’t plastered on every billboard—no naked Joes and dames in every ad in every magazine. Lovemaking—hot, sweet-and-naughty, a secret between lovers.

Everybody tells me those times weren’t as innocent as they seemed. I know, I know, and that’s why I love it all the more! Sex and danger, hotter than Hades but wrapped up in a deceptive package—gals with soft skin, pretty lace slips, seamed stocking, satin peignoirs, powder puffs and Chanel No. 5. The tough guys in dress shirts and suspenders who lusted to get their hands on the garters they knew teased just beneath those kick pleats. But they all looked Sunday-go-to-meetin’ good with Ipana smiles and fancy threads.

My attraction for these eras, though, is the HEART of Vettriano’s painting. The one factor that turns my knees to spaghetti, gives me delicious shivers: the man and the woman. The sizzling chemistry—the sensual chemistry—between a strong man and a girly girl. Call me old fashioned, dial ‘F’ for the Feminist Patrol, lock me up in the too-old-timey-to-live slammer. I admit. I’m a goner for the dynamics of testosterone meets sugar and spice.

The second thing to happen—the second thing to trigger that uncomfortable there’s-something-I-should-be-doing feeling in my gut— was reading the above snippet of a poem by poet E.E. Cummings, May I Feel Said He. There it was again. Man. Woman. Sex. Touching. Feeling. Pleasure.

What’s the big deal? You’re talking about romance. Been around since time began.

Yeah, yeah. I know. The big deal, and it’s just a personal revelation for me, is that—well, damn it—I’ve missed writing my guys and gals.

At this moment, I write male/male romance. I do not write it because it’s a trend, nor because of money. Although I stand strong for equality, particularly in same sex marriage, I don’t even write male/male stories to address the cause. My writing is not a platform. It is a PASSION.

When I stumbled upon the true, natural beauty of men’s love for each other in a WIP of mine, I fell in love with it. It is sensual, it is sexy. But it has one benefit that I find most important: a better knowledge of men in general. Over time, through writing these male/male relationships, I began to see how really beautiful men are.

I’m not what’s popularly classified as a ‘gay man in a woman’s body’. No, I’m 100% woman in a woman’s body. And, yes, a 100%, pure, Grade-A woman CAN find passion in writing male/male stories. Like I said, I do.

To be honest about something, though, as I began to abandon my writing of the relationships I knew by heart—the woman and her man—I began to find myself in a grey zone with my own sexuality. I started to lose focus of the basic need of the feminine side of me—the love, interaction and, yes, the sex—with men. I sort of lost touch with who the hell I even was.

THAT is how closely my writing weaves into every fiber of my actual life.

To lose your footing is scary. Especially when it affects something so personal, so extraordinarily intimate.
Most female writers of male/male romance do not have this problem, I’m sure. Many vow to never write anything but gay fiction or male/male romance. My motto is to ‘never say never’. And I’m glad I did not say ‘never’ because I hadn’t expected the big hole gouged out in my heart from missing my beloved male/female characters. My friends know them: Salvatore and Kate, Enrico and Miss Anita, Sam and Lizzie, Patrick and Mary.

I love and miss them. And when I stared at Vettriano’s painting, I knew I had to return to them.

And I decided I’m going to let them share my time, my pen, with my male/male heroes: Candy and Carlos, Honor and Raimundo, Michael and Anthony, Valentino and Lucky. I think there’s time for them all. There certainly IS room in my heart for all of them, for keeping the genres separate, but still addressing both loves.

The Last Great Romantics II by Jack Vettriano

In fact, to celebrate my decision, I’m going to share a chapterfrom one of my gazillions of WIPs, a glimpse at two of my favorite characters. People tell me all the time, “Don’t post stuff from your WIPs on your blog!” But you know what? I have a thousand characters in my head and a thousand stories for each character. So I’m going to share two of them with you today. There are only a billion more where they came from.

Here are Ben and Suzy (quite unedited, mind you), just grabbing them from my Mount Everest of WIPS. And not sharing because it's good, just to show you my kind of couple.

"Night Geometry" by Jack Vettriano

* * *
Every gaze in the joint focused on him and I was sure he knew it. He always did have that sort of Svengali power.
With a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he swayed to and fro, slow and sensual—hips and shoulders moving to the rhythm of the bass in Good Rockin’ Tonight. A six-foot-four, sultry, jazzed-up tiger.


His trollop of a partner circled him with fancy dance moves like a ditzy little planet revolving around a big, lazy sun.


I took a fast drag on my cigarette, thumped ashes in the ashtray and nudged Darlene. “Get a load of him, will you? How big is New York City? How many nightclubs in this town? And Ben Cohn comes to this one.”


“Maybe he’s following you.” After dipping and twirling it in her drink, Darlene popped the cherry in her mouth. She sucked and chewed on it for a bit, then pulled out the stem to stare at it.


“He was here first.” Turning to study him once more, I shook my head. “He’ll think I followed him.”


Darlene’s boyfriend, Bobby, rolled his eyes and muttered, “He’s a conceited creepsmobile.”


The music stopped, and the band started into another song.


Ben put a hand at his partner’s back, steering her off the dance floor. They headed in our direction.


My heart rushed, all panicky. Torn between bolting for the powder room and staying at the table to face him, I froze.


They passed down the aisle, closer and closer to our table.


If luck favored me, I’d be able to ditch the joint before he spotted me.


Then the strangest thing happened. Or, considering the history between Ben and me, I suppose it was only normal.


Something sort of took over my brain, shooting adrenaline through me. One of those moments when the mind decides to do something without giving the body a chance to put on the brakes.


Just as Ben reached our table, I stuck out my leg.


I’d have paid best-seat admission to see the stunned look on the arrogant son-of-a-bitch’s face when he tripped and grabbed air, trying to keep his balance, then crashed to floor on all fours. The drink flew from his hand into the air, but he held onto the cigarette.


His five-and-dime partner’s face went a hundred shades of red and she sped away in a jiggly frenzy, clearly mortified.


Chuckles wafted from amused onlookers.


“Goddamn you!” Ben rose, dusting off his trousers. Whirling around to face me, sparks flashed in his eyes. “Why, you—” The words deep-sixed on his lips the second his gaze met mine. A husky whisper, bewildered, “Suzy Q.”


Pretending it didn’t send my heart into a nose-dive to look into those familiar green eyes, I took a slow draw on the cigarette and let my gaze travel up and down his lean frame.

I slowly blew smoke into a cloud around him. “What are the odds of running into you in the middle of nowhere?”

The  Lucky Strikc mist swirling in his face didn't even get a blink from him.


He didn’t ask to sit, just pulled out a chair and sank into it, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Tapping a finger on his chin, he murmured, “I never thought I’d see you again. What the hell are you doing back here in New York, baby?”


“Business.” Shrugging. “May go to work for a paper here.” I tried hard not to smile. God, I hated the bastard, but loved and wanted him something fierce at the same time. “I see you still have your good manners. I didn’t say you could sit, Don Juanstein.”


He rubbed the tip of his wingtip on my ankle.


I crossed my leg to get away from the flirty shoe.


With a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth, he perused me from head to toe, but didn’t comment.


Darlene just eyed us during the silence, twisting the cherry stem between her red-tipped nails.


Bobby watched Darlene.


Suddenly the sun came out on Ben’s almost-handsome face. He said, “You got custody of my manners in the divorce.”


Ah. My insults never did have any effect on him.


“Oh, yes, that’s right. I sold them with your car that I also got in the divorce.”


“Speaking of....” He cocked a brow and leaned closer. “I have a brand new 1947 Series Sixty-Two Cadillac convertible, right off the showroom floor, outside.”


“So?”


With a voice soft as mink, he whispered, “Wanna go have sex in it?”


Damn. He didn’t even have to pitch me a hard-sell line to bring a smile to my lips. A glance into the deep-set eyes and I swept out to sea on his seductive tide, my legs—crooked seamed stockings and all—washed out from under me. Right back where it all began.


The schmuck had me and he knew it. So it surely didn’t surprise him when I met his gaze head-on, ground my cigarette in the ashtray and breathed the word. “Sure.”

Like Fine Wine...

A man's age represents a fine cargo of experiences and memories. ----Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Wartime Writings 1939-1944, translated from French by Norah Purcell

Today’s blog is the first in what I hope will be a series, Like Fine Wine…, a portfolio of famous men in various stages of their lives. As I love the Golden Age of Hollywood, I’m starting it off with one of my all-time loves, actor Anthony Quinn.


What prompted me to begin this series was a discussion I had this weekend with a young man about society’s fixation on youth and beauty. We specifically spoke of beautiful men.

The conversation triggered me to thinking about what I personally find attractive.


Oh, yes, I love to look at the hotties—those perfect bodies with the perfect washboard abs, the gently sloping muscles of ass cheeks and (hell, yes) their family jewels. But...but...

One thing my friend and I discussed was how society’s obsession on beauty resulted in the dismissal of one of the most marvelous phenomenons of nature—maturity, the human aging process.


A fact of life which is honored by many cultures is sadly demeaned by many in our own country.

Maybe I’m alone in my feelings, but I’m here to tell you I find the maturing process in men to be extremely attractive. Nothing is more becoming than those beautiful marks of experience—every gray hair, every laugh line. There is something so graceful and regal about it. And so damn sexy
That’s all, no rambling by C. Zampa today, only a celebration of beauty. So enjoy Anthony Quinn with me.
The mature man, the lion in his prime.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince...

One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.  ~Franklin Thomas

Tomorrow marks the thirteenth anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard. You know his face—the beautiful face, the gentle smile, the angel’s eyes—which has become a universal icon for the fight against hatred and prejudice.

I can rarely look at Matthew’s photo without something ripping in my gut, something so painful that renders me sad, confused, helpless, angry, crazy angry and…terrified. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the inner fright—imagining his lonely, horrific terror when he realized what was going to happen to him. When, trapped by two bullies—no, two monsters—in the middle of nowhere with no escape. The imagery is too vivid, the helplessness as strong in my belly as though it was me. 

I recently met a wonderful man on Facebook. His name is David Scrivens, and he is gay. I adore David, love chatting with him; but I noticed whenever he mentioned Matthew Shepard, it was always with such love, yet tinged with great heartache, so very, very personal. The more he talked about that pain, the more I began to see the impact of that end result of bigotry—of hatred—through a gay man’s eyes.

And I invited David to host my blog tonight, to share his heart on this anniversary. Not only did I want to find a way to address the event myself, but I wanted to give David a chance to do so as well, to offer him my humble platform to express his feelings.

And he honored me by accepting my invitation.

So please welcome my friend, David Scrivens as he takes the floor...

*******************************************************************************

Until the morning of October 7, 1998 I had never heard of Mathew Wayne Shepard but signing on my computer that morning changed that and changed how I would look at things from that day on.

I noticed a story on my AOL opening page about a Laramie Wyoming college student being found on a fence out on the prairie and he had been beaten and they didn’t think he would survive. That story caught my attention and I clicked to read more. The story told about a guy on his bike finding this young man tied to a fence and he had been beaten severely and was barely breathing from the beating and being left there all night in the cold. At that point I had no idea of what happened or why but was glued to the story for days and finally the story came out. Seems like Matt was at a bar that night when two boys approached him to offer him a ride home. Matt being a trusting young man took them up on the offer and got in the truck for his ride back to his dorm. What Matt didn’t know is these two boys had picked him out as being gay and were going to rob and beat him and leave him on the prairie. They got Matt out of the truck, tied him with his own shoe laces and beat him so bad they split his skull from front to back and beat his face so bad most people wouldn’t have recognize him. After they were done they left him there to face the cold night. A biker coming through in the morning thought at first it was a scare crow on the fence but once he noticed blood he went to look and then called for help. Matt’s face was covered with blood and dirt except for two tracks down his cheeks where the tears had washed the blood and dirt off.

Matt was put on life support and died 5 days later on October 12, 1998 and Matt was killed for no other reason then he was gay. These two boys killed him because they thought that gay boys did not deserve to live. They killed Matt because of their bigotry and hatred toward someone that wasn’t like them. 

When I read that Matt had died I cried for days and every time I went to a page set up for Matt where you could light a candle and we could write our thoughts about what had happened I cried even more. I think this finally brought home to me that what happened to Matt was actually an attack on all gay men and women out there and for me being a gay man it hit me in the gut that this could have easily been me or anyone else but it happened to be Matt that took the beating and death for all of us and I cried.

It was right after that in October that Matt died and a little of me died with him as I can not and never will understand why being gay got you killed. I never hurt anyone in my life and was always there for people but because I was gay I was hated. Why, would someone tell me and Matt and the others like us why we deserve to die for who we are? I am always being told that being gay is a choice we make and that more then anything anyone could say to me pisses me off to no end. I don’t ever remember sitting down and saying, gee I think I want to like boys instead of girls. No I never made a choice to be gay and I would bet that no other gay person made that choice no more then we had a choice of hair color, eye color, skin color, being born rich or in poverty or anything else about our birth, it just is. Then we have to hear the going to hell thing for loving someone. The God I know would never create me as I am and then condemn me to hell. The God I know loves me for who he made me and knowing that as surely as I breathe the same air as the rest of you makes me a proud gay American.

I hid in that so called closet all my life up to the point that Matt was killed. I decided that I in some way was responsible for Matt’s death as I and my generation didn’t do anything to get out there and try to make a difference in how the world looked at us so that was about to end. I got involved in some of the human rights groups including HRC and supported any group that was working for equality. I came out to my parents and my brother but found out that except for my father who didn’t have a problem with it, my brother and even my mother always used it against me when they would get upset with something and then had it thrown in my face. I have dealt with that over the years but figured it was their problem and not mine so moved on with who I am. I think the hardest time was coming out to my best friend who I was in the military with and who was like a brother to me. I called him and told him I had something to tell him and hoped it didn’t cost me his friendship and he said yea, you’re gay so what. I was speechless for a minute but I think in the end it brought us even closer. I then came out to a few more friends that also didn’t care and in fact wanted to fix me up. So I found that for the most part people judge you for how you relate to them and not who you sleep with. The bigots will always be with us but we shouldn’t let their hate dictate how we live our life.

So we come upon the 13^th anniversary of Matt’s brutal death. Matt always told his parents he wanted to make a difference in this world. Matt didn’t see that happen in life but surely made a great difference in death. I like to believe we have a loving God and I know that Matt is with Him in Heaven and hopefully Matt is watching over all of us and seeing all the good things that has come out of his brutal death that seemed to wake people up to realize that gay people don’t deserve this kind of treatment and it is getting better.

A personal note to Matt: You’re my hero dude, your part of who I am now, you’re my soul brother and Matt, even though we have never met, you took a brutal beaten for all of us as gay brothers and sisters and that beating brought it to the front to be addressed and yes, things are better because of you man and Matt, I still cry for you and bro, I love you more then words can express. Rest in peace brother until one day, God willing. I can give you a hug and say I am sorry for what they did to you.

David Scrivens

Massachusetts

Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. ----Hamlet, Act V

Wait! Before You Read That Book...

It was when I found out I could make mistakes that I knew I was on to something. ~Ornette Coleman

On a publisher’s loop this morning, a fellow author mentioned that F. Scott Fitzgerald was known to have said he wished he could get his books back so he could rewrite them.

I immediately connected with THAT sentiment.

Sure, I only have one published book out there in Bookland; but, even with that one book, I sometimes feel ‘writer’s remorse’ (I don’t think there IS such a term as ‘writer’s remorse’, but it seems to fit me SO well, I’ll coin it myself).

I’m probably the only author on the planet who literally cringes every time a potential buyer comments to me, I’m just getting ready to download CANDY G! I can’t wait to read it!”

I have to bite my tongue to stifle the advance apologies chomping at the bits to spew—before you DO read it, let me warn you—let me tell you ahead of time, a reviewer called it a ‘silly plot’—warning, warning—read at your own risk!

No, no, I’m not saying my book is bad. It isn’t bad at all. It is what it is. Some love it, some like it, some feel so-so about and some loathe it. That is true for ANY book.

What I AM saying is that I am the first to acknowledge that this book—my first published work—has flaws that I can see now. What I AM saying is that ALL of my writing has flaws. What I AM saying is that just because I have one published book out the door does not mean I’ve ‘arrived’ at my pinnacle writing experience.

One book—a hundred books—does not the perfect writer make.

This all could seem terribly hopeless, couldn’t it? Well, hell, C. Zampa, why even keep trying? I mean, if you’re going to just keep messing up, if you’re never going to get it perfect, what’s the point? How discouraging!

Not so, my friend. Not only am I NOT discouraged, I am ecstatic. I can see my mistakes.

I’ve been fortunate. Somehow, I’ve luckily found a multitude of friends and supporters in the writing community who work with me. But they don’t just work with me. They push me. They push me hard. They push me SO hard sometimes I feel like Lucy on the ballet episode—you know the one with the tough instructor who perpetually snapped her baton at the bumbling Lucy?

My teachers haven’t been tender. They haven’t been afraid to tell me what I’m doing wrong. Although they HAVE praised my strengths, they haven’t been easy on my weaknesses. And I HAVE been tempted to snarl at them when they point out an imperfection in my perfect work-in-progress.

But none of my mentors--not even one--will hesitate to tell you that I never balk at their advice. Oh, sure, I get second opinions--often--as anyone should. But as far as pointers that can make my story stronger, get more bang for the buck with tighetning, structure, etc.? I'd be silly not to listen. My mentors will tell you I grab help and run with it, feast on it with greedy passion. Sometimes I find I cherish the negatives because I know, I just know from experience, they can almost always be turned into positives. They have their own beautiful power.

To find your pristine manuscript isn’t so flawless after all…well, it stings. But I’d rather feel the sting now—as I’m writing the manuscript—and learn to correct my mistakes than to feel the much bigger bites of the readers who catch my blunders.

Winston Churchill said I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught.

Like I said, I’m lucky.

Of course I wince at first upon hearing my errors.But the opposite end of that spectrum is the unfortunate author who either has not had the opportunity to learn or who DOES have the chance but refuses to accept they DO have weaknesses, even when those more experienced have tried to point them out and help them improve. To ignore help will keep them from growing. Even worse, to think they don’t NEED help will stunt their writing growth completely.

An unknown author said, Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player.

And that’s just it. By sending our writing out to the public, we ARE sending our errors to be counted. So, like the ball player, it’s in our best interest to practice, to listen to the experienced ones who try to help us, to learn from OUR OWN experience, to be grateful that we have the means to sharpen our skills.

On the other side of that coin is this: in order to do all the above, we have to know and accept that we are always going to make mistakes. We aren’t going to reach that perfect moment in our writing when we know everything.

Harry Truman said, It's what you learn after you know it all that counts.

And another unknown author said—and I love this—Experience is what causes a person to make new mistakes instead of old ones.

And that’s the beauty of it all. In writing, as with everything else in life, we DO make mistakes. And, as everything else, we grow from them IF we use them as valuable learning tools instead of gauges of failure.

Some time ago I stumbled on an excerpt of a book. The short piece I read was so laden with mistakes and bad writing I actually found it comical. But the tragic part? It wasn’t supposed to be comedy.

My first—and lingering thought—was…didn’t this person have any one to help them, to mentor them? How sad that was to me to think.

But, then, my thought progressed to…what if this person DID have a mentor who tried to help them and they just knew more than the person offering the advice? THAT would have been the ultimate tragedy. Because that book is now out there—like the earlier quote said—with all its errors to be counted. And if an inexperienced eye like mine could even trip all over the mistakes and horrific writing, think how it will bode when an experienced eye zeroes in on it?

Falling prey to critical eyes is going to happen to all writers. It’s part of the game. But when my writing DOES fall victim to dissection, at least let me know in my heart the faults that get counted aren’t there because of my refusal to have opened my mind to learning.

One Bright Day in the Middle of the Night...

The king died and then the queen died is a story. The king died, and then queen died of grief is a plot.
 ----E. M. Forster

Years ago, while in high school, I decided to learn to crochet. How hard could it be, I figured.


I bought supplies at Woolworth’s—yarn, needles (or were they called hooks?), an instruction book. My yarn was beautiful pastel blue. I envisioned a beautiful shawl, maybe even an afghan.


I hunkered down on the floor in my bedroom. Supplies ready. Adventure on the horizon.


Basic crocheting was pretty easy. Fun. It was the other techniques I couldn’t get the hang of—edges, corners, the critical steps needed to make an actual design.


I just kept going forward, no corners, no turns. Eventually I used up the yarn and had nothing to show for it but a forty-foot-by-six-inch mammoth wool boa constrictor. Discouraged by this monstrosity that I couldn’t even give away as a Christmas present, I never crocheted again.


Believe it not, I have a point to make by sharing my arts and crafts fiasco.


And the point is…


I found writing is pretty much the same as crocheting. One can be a skilled writer, one can be an eloquent writer. But, as Donna Tartt said, Storytelling and elegant style don’t always go hand in hand. And I can tell you, this is true.


First of all, I’m not knocking my writing. My prose has its strengths. I’ve been told my characters have good, strong voice, they are vibrant. Reviewers have commented that I get a lot of bang for the buck with my choice of words—simple but strong. And, no, I’m not boasting. As a writer, I must recognize the good stuff as well as the bad stuff. Those strengths are foundations for story building, and it’s not vain to want to insure your good, strong bricks are in place.


One strength I do NOT have is plotting.


I remember my very first adult attempt at writing.


It was to be the story of Sam and…oh, hell, I don’t even remember the heroine’s name, she was that forgettable. The story was titled Letters to Lola.


It began with words spouting from my mind, not much rhyme or reason, just a vague setting with even vaguer characters.


Reminiscing over Letters to Lola, I realized the damn story had reached seventy-six chapters when I’d finally abandoned it.


SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTERS! What? How? Why?


Was my writing also destined to be a wooly forty foot muffler?


The story—although it had its merits, it had some potential—had no plot or logic. I was just…writing. Going nowhere. There was a beginning but—like my ill-fated pastel blue shawl—there was no middle, no direction, no end. No course plotted whatsoever. It was one little emotional scenario after another, but no reasoning to any of it. It would have made a wonderful soap opera—a million pages of little unconnected vignettes with no apparent resolution in sight. But, then, I ask: if there is no plot, how COULD there ever be a solution?


At least my first published novella, Candy G, consisted of a beginning, a middle and an end. I cringe at times, even with this book, to see its weaknesses, the holes. Somestimes I re-read some of the scenes and wince, thinking how silly it seems for my character to do this or that. But at least I DID plot a course for it and finished it. It was a struggle, but I did it.


A writer may walk into this craft with natural talent, it may be their destiny, their calling. It can be a gift like drawing or painting. But even drawing and painting have rules. Who knew?


So does writing. I didn’t know that when I began. I honestly thought it was merely a matter of having a talent at word crafting and just….well…writing. Put the pen to the paper and the words would come.


There is the matter of plotting. Fleshing of characters. The prose itself—passive verbs, redundancy, effective description. Hooks. What is a hook? That certain something that draws the reader in from the beginning, that keeps them interested in the story.


This issue came to my attention recently when I became discouraged with my writing. I felt lazy. I could begin a story, I couldn’t finish one. I’d look around me to see my peers announcing new book releases every month, and I became disheartened, glaring at my one lone book on the shelf.


I had to take a close look at WHY I couldn’t finish. And, during a discussion on my authors’ forum, some harsh realities hit me.

A fellow author, upon some brainstorming about an idea I had for my story, analyzed a part of my plot in these words (piecing together fragments from their conversation: I think you're actually creating two big problems for yourself: characters planting a legal briar patch for no logical reason and stacked coincidences…. More problematic is the number of "just so happens" you employ in order to make this unlikely showdown occur……. It starts to look like a hat on a hat on a hat on a hat. Genre fiction can sustain coincidences, but this explosive sleepover has more to do with you wanting drama (as an author) than the way people would act in the situation.


They were right. I was aiming for drama, but—repeating my crocheting catastrophe—I still needed more insight into the complexity of writing, of plotting, of storytelling, of logic.


I came across this quote (author unknown), and it…well, it was me: One bright day in the middle of night two dead boys rose to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot one another. A deaf policeman heard the noise, and saved the lives of the two dead boys. If you don't believe this lie is true, ask the blind man, he saw it too.



In that one silly little ditty was my writing experience in a nutshell.


Part of me is discouraged. I can’t plot. I can’t crochet. But the other part of me—the part who yearns to write, who doesn’t want to repeat the afghan that ate Tokyo—is ecstatic because this obstacle standing in my way of creating a complete story is learnable. It is not out of reach. It is only a matter of desire to make the hurdle. And I have the desire. I’m going to do it.


But do not ask me to crochet you for an afghan for Christmas.

Welcome, Alan Chin...

Today I am so pleased to welcome to Casa Zampa a fellow author I’m absolutely crazy about. Alan Chin.

I love Alan’s writing—his eloquent style, his emotional depth that somehow manages to be both painfully raw and beautifully delicate at the same time, and his big as life characters.

But I’m also gaga over the man himself, Alan Chin. As I’ve come to know him over time, I’ve often found myself smiling at his gentleness and his…gentlemanliness; but I’ve also seen his fierce side when he feels called to fight injustices.

I specifically requested him to share with us his thoughts on love. One thing I’ve enjoyed about him has been his tone and the obvious tenderness in his words when he speaks of his husband, Herman.

Lucky for us, he obliged. I’m sorry I was not able to post this last week, as that was Herman’s actual birthday, but Alan’s tribute to Herman is just as beautiful today as it was that day.

Have at thee, Alan…


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Happy Birthday My Darling
Written by Alan Chin

Today is my husband’s birthday. Yes, I said husband. Herman and I were married the day after it became legal to wed same-sex couples in California. We are both the same age, 58, both the same build and coloring, and both still in love with each other after being together for seventeen years.

Tonight I am treating Herman to a romantic dinner (yes, even at our advanced age we still enjoy a little romance) at a tapas restaurant that sits only a block from the spot overlooking San Francisco Bay where we first pledged our love for each other.

I’ve been thinking about him all morning, like someone studying a flawless diamond from different angles to fully appreciate the beauty forever locked in the stone. And I’ve been thinking about our relationship, our affection for each other, and what it means to me. I freely admit I’m a romantic—notice I did not say hopeless romantic—but what I’ve discovered is that our love is still developing, moving toward a destination that is richer and more meaningful than what we have now. That is, our love is both growing and deepening as it moves toward an endpoint I have no clue about. Let me describe how I see this, and then determine for yourself if you think such a love is possible, or am I seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.


The affection I give this man is built on a foundation of consummate respect, and I know that it is unequivocally pure. Not that we don’t have our issues, our moments of bickering—we do. I’m talking of our love being pure, not the day-to-day expression of it. More than anything I want Herman to understand that I choose to spend the rest of my life with him because I want, need, simply to be with him each day, not because of social pressures or a piece of paper or to escape loneliness, but because he, more than anything, fills me with happiness. I feel that it is his companionship that gives me the strength and confidence to do all other things in my life.

Our love seems to subsist amongst us as a living, tangible thing, an unbelievable magic that we both know is possible because we occasionally touch its perfection. What we have is what you get when two people surrender completely to each other—a whole, a complete entity. Think about the concept of becoming whole: half of yourself does not cheat or injure or transgress the other half. There is no perception of being anything other than one being.

I know from analyzing my own feelings that what I say for me is true. I must admit I often find myself wondering if Herman feels as deeply as I do. Of course I like to think that he feels even more so, and that he is leading me down a path to that unknown destination I mentioned above.

So ask yourself, is such a love possible? Is it something you have experienced for yourself? Or should I have included the word ‘hopeless’ in front of the word ‘romantic’ above?

Alan Chin

Novels: Island Song, The Lonely War, Match Maker, Butterfly's Child


Short Works: Haji's Exile, Simple Treasures


Screenplays: Daddy’s Money, Simple Treasures, Flying Solo






http://AlanChin.net


http://AlanChinWriter.blogspot.com

...A Right Guy

I looked it at like this way. To get folks to like you, as a screen player I mean, I figured you had to sort of be their ideal. I don't mean a handsome knight riding a white horse, but a fella who answered the description of a right guy.—Gary Cooper

One of the sexiest men in the world—in my humble opinion—is Russell Crowe. I hear that gravelly voice and my belly contracts with delicious spasms. No matter what role he plays, he reaches from the screen and grabs me by the hair, drags me with him into this dreamy, sexy world and kisses me senseless, makes love to me until the proverbial cows come home. He’s earthy, virile, sensitive, romantic, dripping with sensuality. 

Is he handsome? I think so, many don’t. To tell you the truth, I’ve never paused in my hero worship long enough to really focus on his looks. His aura, his charisma, is so strong it snaps my lovesick brain and libido straight from his face to his soul. And there—in that soul—lives the man. There lives the sex. 

As Crowe has aged, though, the press has had a field day with his added weight, his sometimes scraggly appearance. They’ve crucified him for doing what we ALL do, what none of us can avoid…getting older. 

It’s this celebrity’s grace and detachment from the tide of ridicule that has also made this woman take a deeper look at him. He just is who he is, he’s happy with that and the rest of the world can kiss his Aussie ass. 

That’s a hero to me.

The reason I’ve mentioned Russell Crowe today is because I recently introduced the hero of my WIP into the story. I wrote him as a big man. An entire football team in one body. 

What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Many sexy heroes in stories are very big men. How sexy is that? Very sexy. But…but…I knew I could get away with him being big. I knew I could still have him fit the traditional mold of big, bulky hero—as long as I could conventionalize him and make him muscular, make him ripped. Even sexier, eh? 

I could construct him carefully as a big guy and still make him marketable.

But, knowing I was eventually going to come face-to-face with this hero in a scene in which he would disrobe, the ripped image wasn’t what my mind truly saw. It never had been. 

My heart and soul held a very clear image of a big man who wasn’t perfectly built—a massive fellow who had love handles, thick waist, a belly instead of a six-pack—the whole big guy nine yards. 

But the inner light from this man, combined with his confidence and unquestionable power are his sex appeal. 

Some might say, Oh, cool, a character SHOULD be flawed.

Joyce Maynard says, The painter who feels obligated to depict his subjects as uniformly beautiful or handsome and without flaws will fall short of making art.

 

Hold on there, though, chicas and chicos. THERE is the rub. I don’t find my character’s extra weight, his abstinence from the gym, to be flaws. 

And I become livid with constant attention to these ‘flaws’ in men (and women) suggesting they cannot have sex appeal, they cannot be fabulous lovers or are less than perfect in some way because they aren’t svelte or ripped. 

As I’ve watched some of my favorite stars mature from beautiful youth into even more beautiful middle age and beyond, I’m enraged at tabloids that slap pictures of them with their new ‘love handles’ and softer bellies as though they ought to be put out to pasture now. As though those very cosmetic features were what made them sexy in the first place. Hogwash. No, forgive my language, but I’m mad—bullshit.

Anyone who knows me knows that another of my favorite heartthrobs is the Italian actor, Alessandro Gassman. Sure, when I first laid eyes on him, he was young, he was tall and lean, he was gorgeous. As he’s advanced into mid-life, the newspapers and magazines have been merciless in their critical attention to his physique. 

But, to me, he is one hundred times—no, one thousand times—more beautiful BECAUSE he’s maturing. He’s evolving into one of the most unbearably handsome men I’ve ever seen. 

For this reason—this fury over the preoccupation with physical perfection—I knew I could not, would not, betray my beautiful, big, beefy character by denying him his very identity. No way will I do it. 

I realize my character may not be a money-maker. By stripping him of any physical perfection he may have had, I could very well be also stripping myself of royalties. Hell, a publisher might not even accept him. 

And, again, I want to remind you that I’m not considering his less-than-pristine physique as a flaw. It is not a flaw. It is just who he is. 

In my mind and heart, I see a very sexy, charismatic man. A man I’d love to melt into, to be snug against every extra inch of his warm body. His soul is excruciatingly beautiful. 

The challenge? To, by the power of my writing, make the READER see the same man I see. To endear the reader to the PERSON, not his body, to drag them straight—like Russell Crowe does me—to his soul. 

Bottom line. Age, maturity, the beauty of experience that only life can produce and the evolution of bodies are not flaws. Wrinkles around a pair of eyes are character attributes—awards for having lived—not flaws. 

And, sugar, if anybody ever told you that sex comes only in one size, that it’s only offered in size thirty-two waist or less? They told you wrong.