Lewis DeSimone

Announcing my new novel, The Heart's History

2012-01-24T19:57:00.000-08:00

I'm thrilled to announce that my next novel, The Heart's History, will be published by Lethe Press in May 2012.

From the cover:

This is Edward—architect, friend, lover, mystery. Everyone has their own Edward—a kaleidoscope of images struggling to define a man who has never let anyone get too close. But now, Edward is dying, and all of his loved ones are desperate to understand him, to connect fully with him, before it’s too late.

In this beautiful and haunting novel, Lewis DeSimone, author of the acclaimed Chemistry, explores the hidden depths of love, the struggle to maintain a balance between connection and individuality. Edward’s illness is set against the backdrop of a sea change in gay culture, a time when AIDS is assumed to be simply a manageable condition, and when the drive for assimilation—through marriage, or the military—has begun to trump the distinct characteristics that were once a source of pride. Deftly shifting perspectives to paint a compelling portrait of a man and a community on the cusp of a critical transition, The Heart’s History gives hope that, despite the impossibility of ever achieving true oneness with another person, it is the attempt itself that gives life its greatest joy.

***

I'll be posting more about the book as the publication date approaches. In the meantime, it's available for pre-order at amazon.

Eat, Pray, Throw Up

2010-09-26T14:11:00.000-07:00

When I learned that Julia Roberts had gotten the lead in Eat, Pray, Love, I was at first appalled. How on earth could an actress whose range extends all the way from the feisty but shallow Pretty Woman to the feisty but shallow Erin Brockovich ever play someone on a spiritual quest?

Then I read the book. And now I believe that Roberts—who, despite attempts at girl-next-door cuteness, is really best at playing selfish bitches—is, once again, perfectly cast.

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing again and again while expecting different results, then I’ve grown one step closer to the loonybin each time I picked up a memoir and hoped to actually like it. The truth is that memoirs don’t get much better than Eat, Pray, Love. And that’s the problem: memoirs don’t get much better than Eat, Pray, Love. In other words, memoirs pretty much suck.

I did start out liking the book—really, I did. I especially enjoyed the Italy section: hey, I’m of Italian origin, I love pizza and gelato and flirtatious men—what’s not to like?

But it didn’t take long for my mood to turn. About a third of the way through, I realized I didn’t like the narrator. Still, I thought, that was hardly a deal-breaker: I’ve read Ayn Rand novels, for god’s sake; I’m used to self-centered heroines.

But as the book went on, the narrator became more and more obnoxious, and I could no longer pass my distaste off as interesting. The genre itself was the problem, I soon realized: in a novel, the author has the luxury of hiding behind a character, and she can make the character as bitchy as she wants without earning the ire of her reader. But in a memoir, that defense is gone: in a memoir, the narrator (however obnoxious) is, as far as the reader knows, indistinguishable from the author. That is the point, after all, isn’t it?

So, in the end, it wasn’t just the narrator of this book I disliked: it was the author herself.

But even that didn’t completely explain my growing revulsion for the book. I’ve hated authors before and still liked their work (once again, Ayn Rand comes conveniently to mind).

No, I decided, ultimately not liking the author wasn’t the problem, either. The problem was that I didn’t trust the author. I didn’t trust her one bit.

And that, I realized, is the key for me with any work. Whether it’s a memoir, a novel, a poem, or a recipe, I don’t have to like the author, but I do have to believe that she’s not selling me a bill of goods.

Unlike Oprah, I was not surprised when James Frey’s alleged true story fell into a million little pieces. After all, he had written it first as a novel and called it a memoir only because memoirs sell better in the confessional age that Oprah herself helped to create.

As I understand that controversy, the problem was simply that Frey was passing off the fictional as the real. I fear the problem with Eat, Pray, Love goes a lot deeper. Or, more to the point, a lot shallower.

I’ve read a lot of memoirs and a lot of novels, and one thing that all those pages have taught me is this: there is a great deal more truth in fiction than in memoir. Not verisimilitude—this happened and then that happened; she was wearing a red dress—but truth of character and purpose, self-awareness.

Memoir, this genre that in recent years has come to take up 50% of bookshelf space (if you can find a bookshelf in the Kindle age), is comprised largely of whiny exercises in self-pity and/or self-aggrandizement—but precious little self-awareness. This is the genre of “Mommy, look at me!” And frankly, I can understand why Mommy turned away in the first place.

My suspicion was aroused early on, when Gilbert refuses to elaborate on the reasons her marriage fell apart, claiming respect for her ex-husband’s privacy: “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss his issues in my book.” But as I got deeper into the story—300 pages of “me, me, me,” and we all know how enlightened and spiritual that is—I started to develop my own theory about why the relationship ended.

One thing Gilbert does reveal at the beginning of the story is that she signed a contract for the book before her year’s journey began—in other words, this year of spiritual discovery started with a paycheck. Along the way, her narrative notes a lot of gastronomic pleasure in Italy, a budding romance in Indonesia, and one briefly described but profound meditation in India (which quickly pales into the background once said love affair begins in the next chapter).

Then, near the end we get the longed-for climax. And it’s a flashback.

When it comes time to reveal her most profound spiritual experience, Gilbert tells us about her first trip to Indonesia—before the year of pilgrimage that constitutes the arc of this book. And the experience is lovely—the kind of enlightened moment many people strive for. But she had it before the story of this book began. She had it before she signed the contract and got her advance.

I spent 300 pages with her, waiting for the epiphany that she could have revealed on page 25 if she’d chosen to tell her story chronologically. But instead she chose to construct a narrative that is at its heart false: this is not a spiritual story any more than the beginning of the book is an open depiction of a marriage in crisis. It’s as if Odysseus had already arrived home at the beginning of the poem and then spent 20 years sailing around the Aegean just for the hell of it.

Eat, Pray, Love is nicely written and humorous. (I haven’t even touched upon how amusing are its Stepin Fetchit depictions of the Balinese—those whom the Great White Woman educates, enlightens, and buys houses for—with other people’s money.) But at its core it is, for this reader at least, a manipulative exercise in disingenuousness.

The ad for the film shows Julia Roberts licking gelato off a spoon. How apt—delicious, sweet, and completely devoid of nutritional content.

Advent? What the heck are we waiting for?

2009-12-01T08:16:00.000-08:00

Last week, I was asked to speak at my church, Metropolitan Community Church of San Francisco, about my thoughts on Advent. Having recently become an atheist, I was concerned that my thoughts might not be received that well. But, as I discovered when I gave this talk, atheism is alive and well--even in church. MCC strives to be a multifaith organization, and it attracts people from every religious stripe--even those with no religion per se. My discussion opened a dialogue, and the atheists in church came rushing out of their closets. Richard Dawkins would be proud.

*****

When I was a child, December was all about anticipation. I spent the entire month, from Thanksgiving on, looking forward to Christmas. But, of course, my sense of expectation had nothing to do with Christianity per se, or even Jesus. What I spent the month waiting for was presents.

I would scour toy ads in the newspaper, circle the items I wanted, and not so discreetly leave the clippings where my parents would see them. This was sometime after my belief in Santa Claus had faded: I knew it was my parents I had to work on, and that no one was checking to see whether I was naughty or nice. Besides, I was always nice. I deserved everything I wanted.

And sometimes I actually got it. On one particular Christmas morning, I got spoiled more rotten than usual. At one point, surrounded by toys and a pile of discarded wrapping paper as high as a snowdrift, my mother passed me another present and I started to cry. “No more!” I wailed, exhausted. Now really, what child complains that he has too many toys? I still haven’t figured out what that moment says about me.

But it does say something about Christmas. I spent a month waiting for toys, a month of delicious anticipation, imagining the moment when I would walk up to the tree and find the mound of brightly colored boxes with my name on them; imagining the toys that would litter the floor that afternoon as I ran from one to the other as my interest waxed and waned. I spent a month wanting. And then I got what I wanted. And it was too much.

Too much, or not enough? Was I in despair because I thought I didn’t quite deserve such largesse? Or was I upset rather because it wasn’t enough? Because what I really needed was something that didn’t come in a box.

It wasn’t until my twenties that I really understood that—long after the toys had dried up and my presents became more pedestrian things, like sweaters and books and Madonna albums. (The other Madonna, not the one in the Christmas story.) As an adult, I was no longer looking through a glass darkly: I saw the truth, face to face. Christmas, in my parents’ home, was inevitably about presents and food. That was how my parents showed their love: my mother bought us things, and my father cooked. And they fought. Every Christmas, like clockwork, they fought. But why should Christmas be different from any other day?

We watched Charlie Brown and listened to Linus tell the story of the baby Jesus. We even went to church on Christmas Eve, now and then, and sang the hymns. I fell in love with the story of Jesus, but I saw it only as a story. I think I always saw it only as a story—no truer, in a literal sense, than Homer’s Odyssey, or Peter Pan. I got presents for Christmas, more than I needed, more than I wanted. What I didn’t get was peace. What I didn’t get was a true sense of connection, the image of family I watched every week on The Waltons. Ultimately, Christmas was hollow. And in my twenties, I began to dread it—the long flight back east to visit a squabbling family, where the Christmas spirit was as much a myth as Santa Claus himself.

Frankly, I don’t understand Advent. If God is eternal, then what are we waiting for? If the Messiah has already come, why do we need to watch the clock for his arrival every year? And if the Christmas spirit fills the world only on December 25, then what’s the point?

Life, they say, is what happens when you’re making other plans. And I have always had lots of plans. I would be happy, I thought, when I moved into a bigger home. And I was, for a few hours. I would be happy when I published my first novel. And I was, for a few days. I would be happy when I fell in love. And I was, until it ended. … So I would be happy the next time I fell in love. And I was, until that ended. And then the next one … well, you get the picture.

The achievement of each goal merely led me to another goal. And I found that I was constantly living for the future, constantly waiting. Every season was advent. I was making plans, hoping for the future, and in the meantime, life was passing before my eyes.

Waiting—hoping, imagining a happy future—is, in the end, a distraction. If I focus on the happiness to come, I won’t have to think about what’s wrong in the present. Hoping gives me permission to be lazy. All I have to do is wait, and one day I’ll be happy.

Well, ultimately, it doesn’t work like that. Ultimately, the present is all we have, and I am responsible for mine. The present is where the future comes from. It doesn’t come from a star hovering over a stable, or a deity dropping down from a cloud for 33 years, or staying on the cloud and listening to prayers.

In the end, this moment—now … and now … and now—is all we have. We don’t need to wait for Christmas. We have our present already.

The Voyage In

2009-09-03T21:39:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading Virginia Woolf’s debut novel, The Voyage Out. It had been sitting on the to-read shelf of my bookcase for months—but each time I returned to that shelf, in search of new reading material, my hand strayed from its spine, intimidated by the memory of how challenging Woolf can be. Inevitably, I would forsake her for something more accessible, less taxing. But recently, when I was in the midst of a serious bout of anxiety, a dear friend told me that Woolf was precisely what I needed. I needed the validation of the inner life that her work offers, to counteract the doubts I was having about my own obsessive wrangling with identity and the boundaries between myself and others.

And so, I cracked open the book at last. I was expecting another Mrs. Dalloway, another To the Lighthouse, something dense with stream-of-consciousness narrative and elusive storytelling. But what I found was quite different. Yes, Clarissa and Richard Dalloway do make their indelible appearance in the book, but the narrative style is much more accessible than Woolf’s mature work, the plot more straightforward—almost, dare I say it of a Woolf novel, linear.

Like her later work, The Voyage Out veers from the consciousness of one character to another, often in the course of a single paragraph, so that one has to keep looking back to keep track of whose head one is in at any given moment. But if the gist of most of Woolf’s work is that, essentially, nothing happens—that is, nothing much external, the sort of thing that passes for action in the vast majority of novels (marriage, death, car chases)—her first foray into full-length literature is quite different. On the surface, the plot is almost Victorian—a young woman, mourning the death of her mother, goes on a journey across the ocean and falls in love. That, in Woolf’s world, is a lot of plot.

And yet, ultimately—and here is a key to Woolf’s genius—the story is still an internal one. The title refers less to Rachel Vinrace’s voyage across the sea than to her voyage deeper into her own psyche. Many of the passages describing her budding love for Terence Hewet are heartbreakingly beautiful—skating on just this side of sentimentality—and soon one realizes that Woolf is deliberately playing with the notions of Victorian literature, turning it on its head. Rachel is madly in love with Terence, and he is madly in love with her, and yet he ridicules her to her face as a silly woman, incapable of deep thought by mere virtue of her sex. They are completely ill suited for each other, and that very knowledge seems to be what confirms them in their relationship: they do not belong together, and so they must be together.

Not the ideal novel to read when one is in the midst of a romantic crisis. Or perhaps it was precisely the novel I needed to read. Rachel and Terence’s story ends tragically, but the tragedy seems less a symbol of the nature of their relationship than a reminder of the fragility of all human bonds. In the end, Woolf’s sense that we are all mysteries to one another is the whole point of her elusive style: she turns her attention to the minds of one character after another because none of them (including the narrator, including the author) has a handle on the whole truth, because—try as we might—none of us can ever really know what it is like to occupy someone else’s skin. So while Rachel and Terence appear to be a bad match, who among these characters is a good one? Richard and Clarissa Dalloway? Well, there’s a whole other novel to disillusion us of that notion.

One could read The Voyage Out, or any of Woolf’s work, from a pessimistic standpoint—as testament to our inability to fully understand one another. That, one could argue, is the essence of the tragedy of the human condition: we continuously long for something we can never have. Or one can read the novel as a reminder that connection is actually ever-present. Woolf’s fluid movement from one character’s mind to another suggests, ironically, that they are all pieces of a whole—a single consciousness splintered into fragments, perhaps, but all connected, all one.

Several years ago, I reached a turning point in my writing career when I wrote the death scene for a central character in one of my (still unpublished) novels. After finishing his last chapter in the book, in which he has a deathbed conversation with a close friend, I turned off the computer and crawled into bed. And lying there in the dark, I began to sob. I sobbed over the death of someone who had never existed—a character I had created out of thin air, not even basing him on anyone I knew. I cried over the death of a character I didn’t even really like that much. But something in the chapter moved me deeply, and I remember thinking: If this is what being a writer is, if good writing is always accompanied by this much pain, then I don’t want it. Real life is painful enough without creating more opportunities to tear out my heart.

When I later workshopped the chapter, one of my fellow writers pulled me aside and confessed that it had had a similar effect on her. She, too, had cried at the death of my not-so-charming character. A light went on at that moment, and I understood why we do what we do, we writers. We rip our own hearts open in order to share their inner workings with the world. And in the process, we may even open our readers’ hearts, too—push the boundaries of their own compassion, enlighten them about the lives of others, shine a light on our shared humanity, make a dent in the walls that separate us.

One March day, in her sixtieth year, Virginia Woolf put rocks in the pockets of her coat and walked into the River Ouse. The victim of a lifetime of anxiety and depression, she finally decided that she could no longer stand the pain. For decades, she had bled her pain onto the page—for the benefit of the rest of us—and I, for one, am extremely grateful. I am also humbled. My own pain can’t compare. Neither, I fear, can my talent. But I can still live by Woolf’s example: I can refuse the temptation to surrender to sentimentality. I can choose to bleed onto my own pages, to pour real life into my work, real life with all its pain and discomfort, all its contradictions. And in sharing that truth, I can reach out and join hands with you. Maybe then, we can pull each other out.

Tone Deaf

2009-05-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

Let the record show that I gave up on American Idol weeks ago. Unlike last season, when there was some real competition, this time around I lost interest when the final 12 emerged and turned out to be a single great talent surrounded by 11 mediocre wannabes. I didn’t tune in again until the two-part season finale, when I saw Adam Lambert predictably leave Kris Allen in the musical dust on Tuesday night. Of course, when the dust settled the next evening, it was—appallingly—Kris who was left standing.

I want to believe this absurd decision is simply another example of bad taste in a country where Lindsay Lohan is a big star and nobody’s ever heard of Patricia Clarkson, where Dan Brown’s pablum sells millions of copies while Philip Roth languishes on the top shelf. But this time I think there may be more going on.

Much has been made of Adam Lambert’s ambiguous sexuality—the eyeliner, the flamboyant costumes that make him part Gene Simmons, part Elton John, and a whole lot of Freddie Mercury. So I suppose, in this age of Carrie Prejeans whose fake breasts are bigger than their brains, we should consider it a breakthrough that someone so probably gay made it even this far on today’s ultimate homage to conformist Americana.

But in the end, America in its infinite wisdom decided it was willing to go only so far in its political correctness, and musical taste once again lost out to intransigent homophobia. And so Adam Lambert becomes the bridesmaid instead of the bride—and in a state where the likes of Miss Prejean have decreed that he shall never marry at all. Runner-up status is, one could argue, the reality-show equivalent of domestic partnership: Adam is equal, but separate.

Or perhaps it’s a lot simpler than that. Perhaps the tween girls who make up the supposed majority of American Idol voters just wanted to vote for someone they could imagine kissing who might actually kiss them back. One hearkens back to the 2000 election, when many people preferred to vote for the guy they’d want to have a beer with (even though he was a recovered alcoholic) rather then the one who might actually do something.

I have nothing against Kris Allen per se. He’s certainly talented, easy on the ears and the eyes. But the gap between his talent and Adam’s is huge. Picture Halle Berry competing in the Miss America pageant against Janeane Garofalo—pretty, but hardly a beauty queen: who would you vote for?

Will Young, the very first winner of Britain’s Pop Idol, all the way back in 2002, was gay. Now, seven years later, America still can’t catch up—even when the truth is glaringly obvious.

My Divas--Auntie Mame and Camille Paglia

2009-05-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

I'm proud to be a contributor to the new volume My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them (ed. Michael Montlack), which was recently published by the University of Wisconsin Press. It's a wonderful collection of essays about how iconic women, real and fictional, have served as role models for gay men or, by example, helped them emerge from the confines of the closet. My own contribution, on the flamboyant Auntie Mame (as portrayed on film by the great Rosalind Russell) was recently hailed by Camille Paglia (writing on Salon.com) as her favorite essay in the book. Her review devotes an entire paragraph to my work, which is an amazing compliment.

More Saints, More Sinners

2008-05-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans. It was my second time participating in this event, which I feel has now become an annual tradition for me. It’s such a wonderful opportunity to get to know other queer writers and share tips on craft as well as the business side of publishing—which, let’s face it, is something none of us is too excited about, especially these days. I, for one, need all the help I can get negotiating the murky waters of publishing and promotion. It just doesn’t come easily to writers, who prefer the solitude of the computer to mercenary schmoozing.

This year’s festival was enlightening and great fun. Stephen McCauley, author of several enjoyable novels, including The Object of My Affection and Alternatives to Sex, gave a master class on characterization, offering several tips that you’ll probably see in my next book. Mark Doty, amazing poet and author of a number of moving memoirs, including the recent and brilliant Dog Years, gave an enlightening talk on memoir. Through a deceptively simple exercise, he demonstrated a way to trigger memories and the associative insights that can turn them into art.

Michelle Tea offered an exciting and entertaining perspective on book promotion, including extensive tips on conducting a reading tour. Later, we bonded over our shared experience of growing up in downtrodden Chelsea, Massachusetts, the setting for her own wonderful memoir, The Chelsea Whistle. Michelle also received the much-deserved Jim Duggins Outstanding Mid-Career Novelists’ Prize.

I used to think that writing was an irrevocably solitary affair. Through events like Saints & Sinners, I have learned that the whole business of being a writer can be made more enjoyable by sharing it with a community. At panels and a number of social events this year, I got to spend time with new friends and old, sharing war stories about writing and publishing—and just bonding over the crazy life of a writer. I had a great time hanging out with Paul Lisicky, author of Lawnboy among other works; Peter Dubé, whose new anthology Madder Love promises to keep me reading late into the night; Dorothy Allison, who brought back wonderful memories of her workshop at the Lambda Writers Retreat last year; and the list goes on: Aaron Hamburger, Rich Merritt, Michael Walker, Brian Sands, Carol Rosenfeld, Gary Zebrun, Sal Sapienza, and Gregg Shapiro (whose new poems blew me away).

If it weren’t for the muggy New Orleans weather and the decadence of Bourbon Street (which gets old really fast), it would have been very hard to leave. Already looking forward to next year, though!

Now Available from Lethe Press

2008-04-30T19:36:00.000-07:00

Chemistry is now available in a new edition from Lethe Press. I'm excited to be relaunching the book and to be working with such an innovative publisher. Even if you've already read Chemistry, please take a look at the Lethe edition and its sexy new cover. (They call it a “perfect paperback,” which I can’t help thinking of as a compliment.)

They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but I think this one really captures the feeling of the novel--simultaneously erotic and disturbing. Two years out, Chemistry has new life. And isn't that what it's all about?

Summer Flings

2007-11-08T20:45:00.000-08:00

My short story “Fratelli” has just been published in Best Gay Love Stories: Summer Flings, an anthology edited by Brad Nichols (Alyson Books). I haven’t read the entire collection yet, but it promises a great variety of tales. My contribution takes place in Florence, where, under the shadow of Michelangelo’s David, a rather jaded young American meets a bold Italian who won’t take non grazie for an answer. Suffice it to say, this one is strictly fantasy.

Wide Stance, Narrow Mind

2007-08-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

A couple of nights ago, I reveled in the show Avenue Q, as puppets had sex on stage and a monster sang the praises of Internet porn. The show is full of political incorrectness (and is therefore near and dear to my heart), including songs like “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” and “Schadenfreude.”

I’ve been humming the latter all day as more details of the Larry Craig incident have spilled out. As the show explains, the term schadenfreude is derived from the German for “happiness at the misfortune of others.” And no misfortune makes me happier than a homophobe hoisted by his own … petard.

First Mark Foley chases after nubile male pages, and now Larry Craig solicits sex in a men’s room. Why, this is more fun than Rush Limbaugh’s drug habit!

I’m happy because such incidents expose the hypocrisy of the Republicans’ fascist stance on gay rights. I venture to say that Mr. Craig’s heterosexual marriage was damaged a hell of a lot more by his restroom tap dance than it was by my “husband and husband” friends in Massachusetts. And yet Craig was so threatened by the specter of same-sex marriage that he voted to enshrine discrimination into the U.S. Constitution to prevent it.

While I laugh at his comeuppance, I must acknowledge the pain of the self-hatred that led to it. If the long-standing rumors are true, Craig has been having sex with men for at least 20 years. And yet he married a woman (and adopted her children) and voted to curtail the rights of people who do openly what he denies. For “gay Republicans” (I still think the phrase should be considered an oxymoron), homosexuality is something you do with your genitals, not something you are in your heart.

The truth, of course, is that sexuality is one of the most fundamental aspects of a person, and the sexual urge is second in power only to the survival instinct. In my view, psychological health depends on an understanding and expression of one’s sexual desires. Sex can be bottled up for only so long. It isn’t sexual expression that causes perversity, but sexual repression.

The Catholic Church’s antediluvian teachings on sexuality are at the heart of its child molestation scandal. For centuries, the church has been a haven for homosexual men who hope to defeat the sexual desires that the church calls shameful. The priesthood is the biggest “ex-gay” club in the world. But, as we have learned, sexuality can’t be curtailed; it can only be channeled in other directions. In the case of Larry Craig, it comes out in a bathroom stall; in the case of too many priests, it comes in the form of a helpless child.

The Larry Craigs and Ted Haggards of the world loudly proclaim that they are not “gay” even when caught performing distinctly homosexual acts. And, in a way, they’re right. The dictionary in my head makes a distinction between gay and homosexual. Gay denotes a cultural identity, a psychological process, an awareness of the self. To be gay—openly gay—is a choice. It’s a choice to accept yourself, to be who nature intended you to be. To have homosexual desires and bury them—or, at best, channel them into a dirty little secret—is quite the opposite kind of choice. At best, it’s pathetic; at worst, it’s dangerous.

So, to all my gay friends out there, a word of warning: Watch out in men’s rooms. The next time someone widens his stance toward you, he just might be a Republican.

Paris Hilton, je t'aime

2007-06-09T12:45:00.000-07:00

On the subway home last night, I overheard people gossiping about Paris Hilton. Hardly an unusual occurrence. As everyone in this media-saturated world knows, her court appearance yesterday didn't go very well. According to news accounts, she was a nervous wreck throughout the proceedings, and she screamed and cried as she was taken from court and back to jail. The people I overheard on the subway were laughing at her situation, but I was unable to join in. After seeing the pain on her face in the now infamous photo of her crying in the back seat of a police car, schadenfreude is the last thing on my mind.

Despite her wealth and fame, I see Paris Hilton as a tragically sheltered person. This is perhaps the first time she has been so boldly confronted with the so-called real world, the first time her parents were unable to protect her from the consequences of her actions. I came to love Paris on "The Simple Life," where she clearly learned to sympathize with the less privileged (as opposed to Nicole Richie, who came across in the show as heartlessly immature). But sympathy can take you only so far. Paris now is learning the much trickier skill of empathy.

She's not in San Quentin. Her environment for the next 40-some days is probably quite comfortable as far as jails go. But that doesn't mean she's prepared for it. When I saw the anguish on her face yesterday, I remembered myself around her age, when I found myself on the other side of the country from my parents and the life I had always known. I was a basketcase in that unfamiliar world, even though it was one I had chosen. I was unprepared to live so independently, and no matter how much I told myself it would all be fine, my body didn't believe it. I sobbed, I trembled, I was nauseated. I think of it all as growing pains now, but then it seemed like the end of the world.

We needn't think of Paris Hilton as alien because she's rich. People are so fond of calling her "spoiled," forgetting that someone else did the spoiling. Her parents gave her every material thing she could want, but did they prepare her to live life as a responsible adult? Is it her fault that she's now struggling so painfully?

We call her "privileged," but clearly there are important things that we less privileged people have that she does not. I've never thought of Paris Hiton as flaunting her wealth, but I certainly see people disliking her because of it. I am not apologizing for her crime: it was real, and she deserves some measure of punishment. (Whether her crime merited 45 days in jail is debatable--particularly in a world where George W. Bush and Dick Cheney are still free to walk the streets and kill thousands.) All I ask for is simple compassion. It's not as much fun as laughing at someone's pain, but if we can't feel compassion, then our sense of superiority is revealed for precisely what it is--resentment and cruelty.

Saints and Sinners

2007-05-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

I will be attending the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival this month, a wonderful opportunity for LGBT writers, editors, and readers to get together in New Orleans. This will be my first time at the annual festival--and my first visit to New Orleans in many years. I’m eager to participate in some small way to the post-Katrina renewal of this wonderful city. At the festival, I’ll be appearing on a panel entitled “Realism and Romance: Oh My!” (Sunday, 13 May, at 11:30 a.m. a the Bourbon Pub/Parade). Provocative title, don’t you think? Considering that the “romantic” elements of CHEMISTRY have elicited great interest from its readers, I’m sure it will be an engaging topic. Other writers on my panel, moderated by Kelly Smith, are Marianne K. Martin, Clarence Nero, and Bett Norris.

Unanswerable Questions from Virginia Tech

2007-05-01T20:05:00.000-07:00

When Cho Seung-Hui killed 33 people at Virginia Tech, including himself, the media were understandably flummoxed. And ever since, the news has been dripping with the “why” question—as if understanding his motivation, or the circumstances that led to his act, would offer some balm to the rest of us. If only we could understand why it happened, these stories suggest—if only it could be made to make sense—then maybe we would be able to accept it and move on.

And so now we are confronted daily with evidence of Cho’s mental illness, from secondhand reports to his self-videotaped rantings. Ah, we can say with a collective sigh, he did it because he was crazy.

But the questions don’t stop there. The next is more of a “how” than a “why”—how could an obviously insane person, someone with a history of involuntary commitment, legally obtain guns? There’s more comfort in asking “how”: “how” suggests a process, something we can imagine taking control of. “Why,” on the other hand, connotes an issue far beyond our comprehension. “Why” is the realm of karma, where the gods alone decide.

I can offer the short answer. Cho was able to acquire guns for the same reason that Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris were, or Son of Sam, or Aileen Wuornos. They acquired guns because we live in a society whose priorities and values are upside-down. In the United States, guns are a basic human right. Unlike healthcare or a living wage or marriage or control over your own uterus, a gun is something that anyone can have.

But it’s the first question I really want to get back to: why. In the popular view, that was the simple issue: Cho killed 33 people because he was mentally ill. Next?

I haven’t heard much discussion about why he was ill—what biological or experiential circumstances twisted the chemicals in his brain, gave him delusions, denied him the ability to connect with his fellow human beings. Mental illness allows him to be dismissed. It allows the rest of us the comfort of assuming he was inexorably different, that such a thing would never happen to us. It allows us to dehumanize him.

Chemistry was my attempt to get past that initial fear of mental illness, my attempt to rehumanize its victims—indeed, to see them as victims rather than monsters. Granted that Zach, the character in the book, is not as severely troubled as Cho evidently was. I don’t know if I could have written such a sympathetic portrait of someone whose delusions were as debilitating and dangerous as Cho’s. But my experience researching the book—and, of course, my experience living through the circumstances that inspired it—gives me a perspective that I find missing from the current national discourse.

Perhaps it’s none of my business to know why Cho suffered as he did. And it certainly doesn’t, in any way, excuse what he did. But, whatever the reason, it is well to remember that there were 33 victims at Virginia Tech. We may never understand, and surely we will never accept. But let’s also refuse to live in denial. Mental illness is not a deus ex machina; and turning our eyes from it will not make it go away.

Imusick of Imus

2007-04-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

I have an annoying habit of turning on the "Today" show as soon as I roll out of bed. For the past week, every single morning I have been greeted by yet more hand-wringing over Don Imus's controversial remark, the three-word phrase (or is it two? I assume there's a hyphen in there somewhere) that--if you listen to the media--has all of America in an uproar. I don't mean to minimize the offensiveness of the remark, but I have grown weary of the media's obsession with it. Like everything else they cover on TV's so-called news shows (let's leave Jim Lehrer out of this), their attraction to this story has nothing to do with the politics--just the ratings. Imus's racist, sexist remark is easy to condemn, and easy to get people riled up about. So now, every morning I must be exposed to no less a cultural critic than Al Roker telling me how I should feel. Doesn't everyone turn to their weatherman for political insight? Of course, every time I see him, I can't help remembering a time not long ago when he was describing the weather in "Than Franthithco." I wrote an email to the "Today" show in protest and never heard back. Given that this man has made a career out of adolescent humor, it's quite possible that he was merely doing an impression of Sylvester the Cat, but I couldn't help hearing a twinge of homophobia in that lisp.

Speaking of which--and now I'm getting to my real point--remember when Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, proclaimed that "homosexual acts" are "immoral"? Do you remember it? Probably not, because it disappeared from the TV news faster than Britney's bleached locks. Here we had the highest-ranking officer in the most powerful military the planet has ever known disparaging 10% of the world's population to justify his own bigotry and discriminatory practice. Don Imus, who is, after all, admittedly a shock jock (from whom one should expect offensive, mindless babble--isn't that why people tuned into him in the first place?) has no such power, no such clout. Don Imus has only the power that the media and the non-thinking public give him. If we shut off the radio and the TV, he is completely harmless. On the other hand, we close our eyes and ears to General Pace at our own peril. Which one do you think matters in the long run?

Of course, the real question is: which kind of hate is acceptable in America? Ask Matthew Shepard. Ask Allen Schindler. ... Oh wait, you can't ask them: they're dead.

Los Angeles Reading

2007-03-03T11:50:00.000-08:00

I'm excited about my upcoming reading in L.A. Please stop by if you're in town:

A Different Light Bookstore
8853 Santa Monica Boulevard
West Hollywood, CA
Thursday, 29 March 2007
7:30 p.m.

I'll be appearing with my friend Bill Valentine, author of the moving memoir A Season of Grief. I look forward to meeting you there!

Charmed Lives: Reading on Feb. 25

2007-02-13T22:17:00.000-08:00

My essay “Left with Love” appears in the recently published Charmed Lives: Gay Spirit in Storytelling, edited by Toby Johnson and Steve Berman (Lethe Press). This wonderful collection includes fiction and personal essays examining the role of spirituality in gay men’s lives. My essay describes my time as a volunteer at an AIDS hospice in San Francisco, where I had the most profound spiritual experience of my life. I will appearing with the editors and fellow contributors to the collection on Sunday, Feb. 25, 2007, at 2:00 p.m. at the San Francisco Public Library. Please stop by and hear some words of wisdom.

Lambda Award Nominee

2007-02-11T15:49:00.000-08:00

Chemistry has been nominated for a Lambda Literary Award in the category of Gay Debut Fiction! I’m thrilled to be in the running for this prestigious award. Winners will be announced on May 31--please stay tuned!!
For the most up-to-date information, please visit my Web site, www.lewisdesimone.com.

New Web Site

2006-09-18T20:03:00.000-07:00

I am pleased to announce the launch of my new Web site, www.lewisdesimone.com. On the site, you can find information about my novel, CHEMISTRY, including reviews and an excerpt from the book. Also check the site for regular updates about booksignings and other appearances.

Please click here:

Welcome

New York Reading

2006-09-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

The book tour has begun! If you're in New York on September 27, 2006, please join me for a live reading from CHEMISTRY at:

Bluestockings Books
172 Allen Street
New York, NY 10002

Wednesday, 9/27/06, at 7:00 p.m.

I look forward to catching up with old friends and making new ones.

Bluestockings

Readers Write

2006-08-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

I can't imagine a more gratifying review of my work. Please check out this brief blog posting (scroll down to June 10, 2006). Thank you, Sam, wherever you are!

blog.myspace.com/sam_wong

On the Shoulders of Giants

2006-07-09T12:18:00.000-07:00

Andrew Holleran, one of my literary idols, was in San Francisco recently to promote his new (and brilliant) novella, Grief. His reading at A Different Light was packed with fans eager to hear the latest from the author of the classic Dancer from the Dance, Nights in Aruba, and other greatly influential novels—and they were not disappointed. Grief is a very moving story, told with Holleran’s characteristic balance of humor and lyricism. It’s a rather quiet story, leisurely paced, whose emotions burrow under the surface and sneak up on you unexpectedly. Holleran is not a writer who hits you over the head; he knows it’s far more effective to get under your skin instead.

After the reading, as he was signing my copy of the book, I asked his advice about my upcoming reading at the same store on July 11. He was graciously encouraging—and I hope his own ease with the process rubs off a bit. It will be intimidating enough to take my place at the same table so recently presided over by a literary giant.

Live from San Francisco...

2006-07-08T09:36:00.000-07:00

This past Thursday I made my radio debut, an appearance on “Out in the Bay” on KALW FM 91.7. The host, Eric Jansen, interviewed me about CHEMISTRY and gave me the opportunity to read a couple of passages aloud. I admit to entering the studio with a little trepidation, but once we were on the air the butterflies flew out of my stomach and I really began to enjoy the experience. Eric and I had a wide-ranging conversation, from specifics about the book to the larger issues it raises—the effects of depression, the perils of dating, the lessons of self-discovery. It was a lot of fun, and I hope, interesting for the audience. The show will be rebroadcast on Sunday, July 9, at 2:00 pm PT and is also available online, at http://www.kalw.org/.

On the Radio

2006-07-05T09:21:00.000-07:00

Media Update:
I will be interviewed on "Out in the Bay," a show airing on San Francisco station KALW 91.7 FM. The program airs live on Thursday, July 6, at 7:30 pm PT, with a repeat on Sunday at 2:00 pm. Outside of the Bay Area, you should also be able to hear it on www.kalw.org.
I will be talking about my novel CHEMISTRY and promoting my upcoming reading at A Different Light Bookstore in SF on July 11.

Review in EDGE

2006-06-20T22:36:00.000-07:00

The first post-publication review has arrived. It's nice to know that most of my intention came through. Please take a look:

EDGE Boston :: Gay Boston :: Entertainment :: Books

Bay Area Reporter Profile

2006-05-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Please check out this profile of me that appeared in the Bay Area Reporter on 25 May 2006. This is quite exciting--my first media interview!

ebar.com The Bay Area Reporter Online

Advance praise for CHEMISTRY

2006-05-05T22:15:00.000-07:00

“LYRICAL AND INTENSELY MOVING. . . . DeSimone writes with passion and calm assurance about two men trying, not always successfully, to find a way to love each other. DeSimone's astute psychological analyses come to us in one beautifully written sentence after another. It's an irresistible combination.”—Robert Taylor, Author of Whose Eye Is on Which Sparrow?, All We Have Is Now, Revelation and Other Stories, and The Innocent

“BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN, Lewis DeSimone's Chemistry deals with mental illness with an honesty that is painfully real. 'Chemistry,' says Neal the narrator, 'is about reactions, two elements coming together and creating something new. . . . Two elements come together, and neither is the same again.' Readers of this novel will not be unmoved by the story of Neal and Zach, and of Martin, Neal's friend. We should all wish for a friend like Martin.”—Dale Edgerton, Author of Goneaway Road

“DeSimone skillfully maps the everyday romance and unexpected roadblocks between new lovers. This is A BRAVE AND ENGAGING NOVEL, deftly blending yearning, confusion, compassion, and heartbreak."—Jameson Currier, Author of Where the Rainbow Ends

“Chemistry is about attraction and repulsion—finding new love and nursing broken hearts. This wonderful, touching gay novel, set in the age of Prozac and AIDS, offers readers real characters they will care about and think about long after the story ends.”—Gary M. Kramer, Author of Independent Queer Cinema: Reviews and Interviews

“A THOROUGHLY ENJOYABLE READ. This is a love story. . . . and so much more. This sensual, erotic novel explores with unusual honesty the nature of romantic chemistry. What is it about a certain someone that attracts—his special qualities? Our vulnerabilities? Both? To what extent should we follow our hearts? Should we ever question whether a man who seems too good to be true . . . actually is? DeSimone handles these issues with grace, insight, and wit, while exposing his characters’ deepest intimacies.”—Daniel M. Jaffe, Author of The Limits of Pleasure

Guardian Unlimited Books | News | Blood on the red carpet

2006-03-14T22:51:00.000-08:00

I guess I'm in good company. For Annie Proulx's own version of the night cinema went crash, read this!
Guardian Unlimited Books News Blood on the red carpet

Cowboy Boots and Broken Hearts

2006-03-11T11:07:00.000-08:00

I wore cowboy boots this Oscar Sunday. I even thought about wearing my ten-gallon hat (a souvenir from my one and only visit to the rodeo), but decided to protect it from the San Francisco rain. Like several others I saw on the street that day, I was paying homage to Brokeback Mountain, the first gay-themed film to be a major contender for Best Picture.

I had been hearing the rumors of the eleventh-hour momentum of Crash, so I watched the ceremony anxiously, calculating the significance of each torn envelope. When Matt Dillon lost for Best Supporting Actor, that was a sign that the feared Crash juggernaut was more of a tugboat. When Brokeback Mountain won its first award, for Original Score, that was a sign that it was still a strong contender. When Crash’s theme song lost to the horrifying “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp,” I figured the writing was on the wall. Ang Lee’s win, of course, had been a lock all along, but it helped maintain my hope.

And then Jack Nicholson—the man who had once terrified millions by taking an ax to a door and crooning “Heeeere’s Johnny!”—said that one, onomatopoeic word: “Crash.” And so the ax fell once again, and this time it really hurt.

I had gotten my hopes up. When I’d first heard about Brokeback Mountain, I was doubtful that it could win the Oscar. But then it started gobbling up every other award out there, and in the process it made its way through red-state America, and I wondered if the world really was changing. My stomach churning all the way—fearing disappointment—I nevertheless took my seat on the hope train, believing that anything was possible.

I should have known better. In my own unofficial survey, the Academy has a terrible record. In the last 10 years alone, I’ve agreed with their Best Picture choices only 3 times. It’s gotten to the point where I’m grateful to them for even nominating the best film of the year (which they failed to do again this year, I might add, as the extraordinary New World languishes on its way to DVD). I’m used to being disappointed by the Academy’s aesthetic choices, but this time was different. This time I was thinking about politics. This time I was thinking about my very life. I had my hopes up because a lot of people are not as cynical as I am: a lot of them are still enamored of the Academy and influenced by what it has to say. The Academy’s stamp of approval translates to greater box office, and maybe even greater cultural acceptance. I am upset because that opportunity was missed. Without a Best Picture Oscar, it will be all too easy for people to forget the extraordinary impact of Brokeback Mountain. Its truckload of other awards don’t matter to the general public: that slender G.I. Joe-sized golden statue does.

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has never been known for embracing innovation. The list of groundbreaking films that have won the Oscar is particularly slim. Can they ever live down the shame of ignoring Citizen Kane? Why should we expect any more enlightenment now? The more artful a film is, the more it advances the medium, the less likely it is to be embraced by the Academy. (A genius, they say, is never welcome in his own time and place.)

Great art tends to be subtle, nuanced. But the Academy prefers its messages to be delivered with a sledgehammer. And this year, they couldn’t have picked a heavier sledgehammer than Crash. It’s a well-made film, but subtle it isn’t. In 21st-century America, Crash dared to take on the challenging issue of racism. Wow! And what did it have to say? Basically two things: Racism is wrong. And racism is universal. Crash developed those themes by revealing the complexity of its characters: everyone was both good and bad. That is to say, everyone was two-dimensional.

In Brokeback Mountain, the characters are a little more complicated than that. They are three-dimensional, fully fleshed human beings whose conflicts involve more than name-calling, whose struggles are internal as well as external.

The Academy took the easy way out. They made the safe choice, not the courageous one. By choosing Crash, they were able to maintain their credibility as open-minded. Ironically, they did so by taking a stand on an issue that 90% of Americans already agree on: racism is wrong.

It’s not so cut and dry with homophobia. And that’s the tragedy here. The Academy missed an opportunity to do something really significant this year. And if even an arts organization—an organization that is roundly accused of being “out of touch” with America—can’t fully embrace us, then we have further to go than I had hoped.

A few weeks ago, there was great controversy (in the gay press, at least) over Gene Shalit’s review of Brokeback Mountain, in which he likened the character of Jack to a sexual predator. He didn’t mean anything offensive, he claimed, and I tend to believe him. The truth is: he just didn’t get it.

A couple of days before the Oscars, Bill Maher was talking about Brokeback on his show and he reduced the plot of the film to: a couple of guys get together a few times a year to have sex. He didn’t get it, either.

Neither of these men, media figures who do not consider themselves homophobic, got the fact that Brokeback Mountain is a love story. They apparently just can’t get past the third syllable of the word homosexuality. If all Jack wanted was sex, then his occasional trips to see Mexican whores would be enough. If all Ennis wanted was sex, then his life wouldn’t be utterly destroyed by his failure to own up to the nature of his feelings for Jack. The tragedy of Brokeback Mountain is that Ennis is so terrified of what other people will think of his feelings that he chooses not to feel them. He chooses to hide the strongest emotion he has ever known: he chooses to suppress his very being.

And they don’t get it.

I guess it’s very simple, really: if you don’t have to think about it, you don’t bother to think about it.

I get this film instinctively, because I have lived it. I still live it in my soul. I know how it feels to fear violence and humiliation because of who you are and how you love. I know how it feels to bury your own feelings for so long that you’re afraid you’ll die.

I know I should be grateful that so many people have been touched by this brilliant film. I should be grateful that the Academy had the good sense and the courage to reward it as much as it did. But I can’t help hearing in my head a line from Malcolm X that appeared in one of those endless clips on the Oscar broadcast the other night. I can’t recall it exactly, but it went to the effect of: “Don’t stick a knife in my back 9 inches, take it out 6 and call that progress.”

So we have made progress of a sort, but the knife is still in our backs, in the back of every gay man and lesbian in this country. That’s just where we are right now. Still. Ennis Del Mar is alive and not so well, imploding a little more each day, while millions silently watch and don’t even bother asking why.

Letting Go

2005-11-25T12:14:00.000-08:00

I've been writing fiction for about as long as I was able to read it. I remember writing stories (of a sort) by the age of seven. And 23 years later, I actually managed to publish my first short story in a national magazine. I have since acquired several publishing credits, but at this moment--waiting for my first novel to come off the press--I feel once again like a novice. This is an entirely different experience. Last week, I proofread the final galleys and entrusted the rest of the process to my publisher and fate. The baby has finally grown up and, as wobbly as she may be, must now walk on her own. So when you settle down with her and enter the world between the covers, please be gentle.

Welcome

2005-10-05T20:13:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my blog. I'm still trying to figure this thing out, but the hope is that this blog can be a place for people to read works in progress and find out about upcoming publications. I'm very excited to announce that my novel CHEMISTRY will be published by the Haworth Press in spring 2006. I'll tell you more about it in the next installment. Please stay tuned.