To locations: The Edison in downtown Los Angeles, which inspired the bar scene in Chapter 66; Savary Island, and Jeannie Goodlet, who told me all about it. I hope to visit with her and Heather there some day soon; the Pacific Northwest, especially during the autumn season, which provided much fodder for a young boy’s imagination.
To coming out: Shane Ridenour and Jenny Starr. I can’t remember which of them I told first, but I know I said something like, “I might not be straight,” or, “There’s this guy,” or, “I could be g-g-g-gay. Promise not to tell. I think I’m gonna barf!” Your support, the way you listened, and simply the fact that you didn’t laugh at me or ridicule me, have made all the difference to this gay man.
To my early readers: Francisco Mora, Jeanine Mancusi, Kim Fowler, Lauren Powers, Cat Williford, Mary Reynolds Thompson, Margot Page, Rachel Dodd, Tracy LePage, Carla Hamby, Michelle Goedde, Emma Wheat, Donna Krone, Ken Mossman, Leza Danly, Judy Jacobson, Jennifer McMaster, James Von Hendy, Laura Neff, Chong Kee Tan, and Zib Marshall (If I’ve forgotten anyone, please tell me!). Their questions, comments, and corrections were pivotal in making the book what it is today.
To my editors, book doctors and business coaches: Anne Connell, for sharing her friendship with me, and for introducing me to Liz. One day I might even be lucky enough to pass my work under her Scrutatrix microscope; Julia McNeal, for her keen editor’s eye, no matter how structural or specific, and for believing that what I had was a good story, that with a little tweaking (okay, a lot), could be a great story; David Shakiban, a talented, fun, and funky website and book cover designer, and a delight to work with; Jason McClain, who just knows so darned much about virtual platforms and building readership, and is an all-around swell guy; Joanna Penn and CJ Lyons, for their ProWriter series, without which this book would still be sitting in a Dropbox file.
To four pivotal comments/conversations (In order): 1. With my paternal grandmother, Lorraine Geehan, when I was a wee kindergarten lad: “Jeffy, did you know that I happen to be a modern witch, who flies over your house at night on my vacuum cleaner to protect you?” This incredible admission was the genesis for my passionate interest in witches, even though I mostly didn’t believe her; 2. With Martin Donald, while we perused art together at a gallery opening years ago (after I’d mentioned that I didn’t find the painter’s work particularly interesting, and that I probably could have done better myself): “Yes, Jeff, but the difference is, she did it, and you didn’t.” This comment has been the singular driver in my creative life, helping me to toss aside excuses and keep writing; 3. With Susan Moreschi, during a hike on Mt. Tam in 2008 (after I’d told her that, while I enjoyed reading witchy stories, I found that the authors didn’t get things right): “Of course they did. Because they’re the authors’ witches! Why don’t you go write about your witches?” It was the perfect, bracing face slap I needed. Not even a week later, I began writing about a young teen named Charlie; and 4. With Mary Reynolds Thompson, on May 2, 2011, after having given me just the right amount of compassion in the months following my devastating, freakish hard-drive crash, where I lost all seven hundred pages of the book (and after I discovered that I’d never set up my backup system correctly. Word to the wise: Check your backup systems, people. I thought mine was fail-proof!): “Alright Jeff, it’s time to start all over again, and re-write your novel from scratch. (Insert my whimpering noises here). I know, I know, it sucks, but it’s time to do it. Just start on page one, don’t think about it too much, and don’t stop writing until you’ve finished the first draft.” As much as I hated to admit it, I knew she was right. I started the next day, and seven and a half weeks later, I finished it!
To family (My family is a lovely mix of original and chosen members. Their support and love are part of the bedrock of my life): Mom, who saved every little story and Halloween drawing I ever made as a boy, and who taught me that there is much laughter and celebration in life, if you just know how to look for it; Dad, a gentle giant, who not only loved me, but also liked me a great deal. I miss him, and sure wish I could witness him playing with all of the new techie gadgets they keep inventing these days; my sister Jennifer, who somehow always welcomed me when I begged to hang out with her and her friends as a kid, instead of treating me like the bratty little brother I know I was; my brother-in-law Jack, who shares my love of great PNW microbrews, and whose addition to my nutty family has brought calm, and a smile to our faces; Jonathan and Justin, my two nephews, who still call me Jiujiu (舅舅), and who have gone from fun little rug rats to fine young men in the blink of an eye; Nana and Gramma, my two grandmothers, each so different from the other. From them I learned unconditional love, athleticism, the importance of appetizers, and the art of fine conversation; my mom’s partner Wes, who loves her and cares for her like a true gentleman; Martin, my first life partner, who showed me that creativity is less an inherent skill and more of a developed muscle. His consistent belief that I would one day actually write a book has sustained me through challenging times; Maren, my second life partner, who has always been game to find new ways to deepen our relationship, and whose house, with its fun colors, soft sitting areas, and delicious food, has taught me the importance of creating an inviting home; Gary, who encouraged me to always ask for what I want at a restaurant, and who knows that one crucial ingredient in a really great meal is a deep belly laugh; Hung and Leng, two lovely men, who to me represent the best attributes of being gay; and finally, Terry Sweeney, my beloved, my man, my partner. His consistent courage, gentle encouragement, and the beautiful way he lives his life, give me love, joy, and a place to call home.
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight (The Broom Closet Stories) Page 51