Welcome Edmond Manning Today

I went for a balmy stroll Friday to consider what to write for Dawn's Saturday blog. I couldn't think of anything. All I could think was, 'Dang. I'm really not that interesting.' I just got new windows on the exterior of my house, but nobody wants to hear a tale of storm windows and the Metropolitan Airport Commission.

Then I remembered that something interesting had happened to me recently. Duh. I wrote a book. It got published. It's being very well-received. This might count as interesting. So here we go!

6 Things Learned About Publishing A First Novel

#1:  Don't be afraid to make friends. I don't consider myself all that shy, but I draw the line at emailing a stranger to say, "Hi there, can I blog for you?" I feel like it's the writer equivalent of a cardboard sign asking for SPARE CHANGE? I really had to overcome that internal resistance. The reality is that I have continued to meet generous, thoughtful writers who offer fantastic assistance and opportunities. And it's less like asking for spare change when I actually make friends with these folks. I forgot that it's okay to say to a stranger, "Hey, wanna be friends?"

#2: Find your audience. I definitely had the naïve notion that getting published was like ringing the dinner bell and all the cats come running. But it's mostly up to me to find people who might like this book. Facebook novice that I am, I only recently discovered many potentially interested groups. I posted links and reviews to bears, gay men, gay erotica, and a few groups devoted to personal transformation.  A woman named Mama Goddess who owned one of these transformation groups blessed me and allowed me to post my link. A few days later she wrote, "I'm reading it. I love it."

#3: Be ready to talk books. Hanging out in a San Francisco bar last weekend, a friend of a friend pointed to my new Alcatraz T-shirt and said, "Cool shirt." Moments later he confessed that he had a slight fetish for prison sex scenes. I handed him a King Perry business card with the website address. "I wrote a book with a really crazy prison sex scene." His eyebrows shot up and he pocketed it.

#4: Shut your pie hole. Not everybody cares you got a book published. Get over it. That big purple dinosaur, Barney, has about 30 books published, and he's not even real. Who the fuck reads Barney's Favorite Easter Stories? Is he Catholic? (Note to self: learn the secrets of Barney's publishing success.)

#5:  It stings. I saw a not-great review the other day. The reviewer didn't hate it; she just didn't love it. I could totally appreciate what she wrote and my brain said, "Good for her. She was fair even though she didn't like it." And my heart said, "Ow." But honestly, I've read a dozen amazon, goodreads, and website reviews which made my eyes pop open in delight and sweetness. Just today, Tom Webb of A Bear on Books published his King Perry review and it made me cry.

So, really, go back to #4:  Get over it.

#6: Know your Peanuts. Last week, a reader emailed me: Hey, your narrator mentions Sherman as a character in the comic strip, Peanuts. I looked on wikipedia's page for minor Peanuts' characters. There's no Sherman.

 Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. I thought I had researched that carefully. I found the Wikipedia page in question and did not see Sherman's name. Shit. I thought I had researched that detail, made sure I wasn't bullshitting, and was relieved to find confirmation of Shermie's existence just a few moments later. But boy, oh boy, I will tighten up my research for the next book, documenting facts and where I pulled them.

Goddamn it.

I was going to try to be interesting, and ended up blogging about minor Peanuts' characters who may or may not be named Sherman. I might not be that interesting. But I have made a new friend in Dawn, and that, she turns out, is pretty damn interesting.

- Edmond

Teaser Excerpt for King Perry 

Dreamspinner Press

GBLT, Contemporary

Purchasethe eBook from Dreamspinner

Purchase the paperback from Dreamspinner

Purchase the eBook from amazon.com

Purchase the paperback from amazon.com

A book from The Lost and Founds series.

In a trendy San Francisco art gallery, out-of-towner Vin Vanbly witnesses an act of compassion that compels him to make investment banker Perry Mangin a mysterious offer: in exchange for a weekend of complete submission, Vin will restore Perry’s “kingship” and transform him into the man he was always meant to be.

Despite intense reservations, Perry agrees, setting in motion a chain of events that will test the limits of his body, seduce his senses,  and fray his every nerve, (perhaps occasionally breaking the law) while Vin guides him toward his destiny as ”the one true king.”

Even as Perry rediscovers old grief and new joys within himself, Vin and his shadowy motivations remain enigmas: who is this offbeat stranger guiding them from danger to hilarity to danger? To emerge triumphant, Perry must overcome the greatest challenge alone: embracing his devastating past. But can he succeed by Sunday’s sunrise deadline? How can he possibly evolve from an ordinary man into King Perry?

A Bittersweet Dreams title: It's an unfortunate truth: love doesn't always conquer all. Regardless of its strength, sometimes fate intervenes, tragedy strikes, or forces conspire against it. These stories of romance do not offer a traditional happy ending, but the strong and enduring love will still touch your heart and maybe move you to tears.

 Scene Set Up: 

Perry and the narrator, Vin Vanbly, met a half-hour ago in a crowded art gallery. They know little about each other, except that Vin was raised in foster homes and Perry is an investment banker. Vin has an unusually strong interest in learning about Perry, so in this excerpt, Vin tricks revelations out of Perry as he tries to get to know the man he intends to "king."

Excerpt:

 Let’s see how he handles some forced intimacy.

“Hey, Perry, ready for an art gallery game?”

He says, “Does this involve the shovel painting or the onion rings?”

“Neither. The game’s called Big Secret. We both share something big and juicy, not just ‘I cheated on my ’94 income taxes,’ but a big ugly secret about ourselves that almost nobody knows. I’ll go first.”

Perry’s face registers confusion, and he says, “Wait—”

I say, “See these tiny, crisscrossing marks right here by my hairline?”

I take his hand and guide his fingers to my skull, ignoring the alarm on his face and resistance in his arm.

“They’re from rat bites.”

He jerks his fingers away and looks at me with naked disgust.

Ow.

But I can do this. I can show Perry all my love.

“When I was twelve, I used to hide in the basement of this one foster home. The guy and his lady neighbor pretended to be married so they could get foster money from the state. His name was Billy. Shitty place to live. Billy's idea of a garbage disposal was to throw food down there for the rats to eat. I would hide from him every third Wednesday of the month, and I thought if I lay still, the rats would get tired of biting me, but honestly, it wasn’t a great strategy. Twice, child and family services hospitalized me.”

With one hand, I draw quotation marks in the air. “Scars.”

All my love.

“I know that this makes me seem creepy, because it is creepy. It’s disgusting. That’s why it’s one of my big secrets. This is me showing vulnerability, Perry, and if you look into my eyes right at this second, you will see I’m afraid of you thinking I am disgusting.”

His face changes as he sees me, really sees.

Shit. That was harder to say than I thought.

“Your turn,” I say, as if I’ve been waiting for him to speak and my nod is additional encouragement to break his silence. “Something big.”

Perry looks around us. “Vin, I never said—”

“Go,” I say, adding the slightest urgency to my suggestion. “Do it fast.”

He pauses.

“C’mon, something big," I say in a commanding tone. “Go.”

“I don’t cry,” he says, the words falling out of his mouth. “I mean, I can. I broke my hand playing softball when I was twenty-eight and I—no, no, honestly, I didn’t cry then. I swore a lot. That’s mine. I don’t cry anymore. I’ve even tried watching sad movies, but nothing.”

“Could you ever?”

“I cried some at my mom’s funeral,” he says, “but that’s the last I remember, ten years ago. I miss her all the time; I just don’t cry. I don’t know if that’s normal.”

I nod and take this in. Good reveal. I say, “Your mom died when you were twenty-four?”

He says, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

He steps back, careful to make sure he’s not bumping into anyone, and he glances around to see who may have overheard. The crowd fills in the gaps around us, but nobody’s eavesdropping, and the constant chatter around us muffles our conversation. Nevertheless, this uncomfortable turn of events has left a crease between us.

I say, “Relax. It’s just a game to learn about each other.”

He says, “No, of course.”

His face and tone don’t match his casual words, a surprised discomfort lingering as he thinks about what he shared with a stranger. But his expression morphs quickly into something else.

“Seriously, are those…?” His fingers move tentatively toward my skull, and I turn my head to give him free access.

He slowly traces his way along my bristly hairline as his fingers tenderly express what verbally he cannot. He pushes over the blond spikes and stops to stroke the tiny canyons in my geography. I’ve run my fingers over them enough to understand that only the softest touch can fully trace the grooves.

Fifteen minutes ago, this great tenderness would have been far too intimate for a first meeting in public, for how little we know each other. But we’ve crossed another threshold together. His repulsion is gone, replaced by sad curiosity.

“Does it hurt?”

“Now? No. Just looks funky when you notice it.”

“I didn’t see it until you pointed it out.”

“Uh huh.”

He presses harder, still in the realm of gentle, as he explores further. I hate it when anyone caresses these freakish souvenirs from a fucked-up childhood, yet I have to admit his fingertips soothe me.

“Were you scared?”

“Terrified.”

“Wait, why were you hiding again?”

“I hid from Billy, the guy who owned the house. He hated the rats, even though he fed them.”

I can’t explain more than that. I think he’s had enough creepy stories for the night.

A woman sidles up to the paintings and oohs in appreciation.

“People suck,” Perry says slowly. “They really, really do.”

Our new neighbor says, “Excuse me, who did this?”

“Richard Mangin,” I say, louder than necessary.

Perry looks disappointed but nods. His arm falls away, and he takes a step back.

“Is that a Dalí reference?” the woman asks, a petite blond with dangly, gold bracelets way too big for her slender arms.

Perry looks annoyed.

I don’t mind; I didn’t want to get all chatty about me.

Besides, it’s show time.

***

EDMOND MANNING has always been fascinated by fiction: how ordinary words could be sculpted into heartfelt emotions, how heartfelt emotions could leave an imprint inside you stronger than the real world. Mr. Manning never felt worthy to seek publication until recently, when he accidentally stumbled into his own writer’s voice that fit perfectly, like his favorite skull-print, fuzzy jammies. He finally realized that he didn’t have to write like Charles Dickens or Armistead Maupin, two author heroes, and that perhaps his own fiction was juuuuuuust right, because it was his true voice, so he looked around the scrappy word kingdom that he created for himself and shouted, “I’M HOME!” He is now a writer.

In addition to fiction, Edmond enjoys writing nonfiction on his blog, http://www.edmondmanning.com. When not writing, he can be found either picking raspberries in the back yard or eating panang curry in an overstuffed chair upstairs, reading comic books.

Feel free to contact him at remembertheking@comcast.net.