When I made sure everything was all right with Uncle Charles and my cousins, I asked why she was calling me so late, and she said something that warmed my heart.
“Baby, I just finished your novel, and it’s beautiful. Will you please forgive me for what I said the other day? Now I finally understand what you were trying to tell me,” Aunt Gee said. Through my tears I told her that of course I could forgive her and thanked her for calling. That night when I went to bed, I knew nothing was going to stop me from publishing my book.
The following week, I started contacting printing companies and getting price quotes on what it would cost to produce my book. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the money to even print a book proposal.
Greg, one of the local salesmen from a printing company I had contacted in Nashville, called me to make sure I had gotten his price quote. We talked about what I was trying to do, and he suggested we talk over lunch.
In a heartbeat I went back into IBM mode. I put on my best blue suit, white shirt, and red power tie and met the young white salesman at the Colony Square Sheraton. I was as confident as a seasoned politician as I laid out my plans for my novel. I explained to Greg how my novel, though controversial, would be a big seller, basically because one like it had never been written. Greg was impressed, and even though he made it clear that he had little interest in my novel’s content, he thought we could do business. He suggested I form a company, submit a credit application, and see what happened.
Since my credit was as bad as milk left out in the sun, I felt my neck stiffen and began to think about how I was going to raise the money to get my novel printed. I got more encouragement from Carlton and Dellanor and came up with the name Consortium Press. A couple of days later, I rented a closet-size office on Peachtree with a loan from my aunt and cousin Kennie and submitted my application to Nicolstone Printers.
A few days later, another prayer was answered when one of the first calls I received in my new office was from Debbye, an employee at Nicolstone. She told me she was going to approve my application despite the fact that she couldn’t find any credit references for Consortium Press. Another dream maker, another sign.
THE EMPLOYEES AT Nicolstone Printers in Nashville, Tennessee, treated me like I was their biggest customer on my trips to review the page proofs and the color separations for my beautiful cover, which was designed free of charge by Deborah Roberts of Austin, Texas, a wonderful artist who had assisted me with the Ovation Arts Council program.
Nicolstone rushed production so that I could get my 5,500 books before December 10. I originally wanted to print only 1,000 books, but the salesman convinced me it made more business sense to go with the larger press run. I hoped to get the books into local bookstores before the holiday shopping season, and thought it would be the perfect way to celebrate my first year in Atlanta. It didn’t matter that I had zero commitments from bookstores. A couple of the stores I had talked to explained what an important commodity shelf space was during the holidays and couldn’t offer much hope that they could stock my book.
Yet it seemed that every time an obstacle would appear, a dream angel would magically move it away. I wanted to kick off my career as a writer in my hometown of Little Rock in front of my family. After reading the corrected proofs of Invisible Life, my friend Janis offered to have her newspaper host a reception in my honor. She also got a local minority AIDS organization to cosponsor the event.
In my excitement about the publication I hadn’t given much thought to how my family in Little Rock would feel about my first work, especially when even I felt a little uncomfortable reading some of the content aloud as I practiced in front of a mirror. I still hadn’t had a conversation about my sexuality with my mother, although like most mothers of gay children I was sure she knew not to expect a lot of grandkids from me. I called my aunt and asked for her advice, and she said I should at least tell my mother what the book was about. When I expressed my apprehension, my aunt agreed to help. I didn’t think I could take being rejected by my family or my hometown. I was prepared to point out that the novel was not a picture of my life but just my imagination in overdrive.
I don’t know what my aunt said to my mother, but whatever it was it worked, because when I called my mother, she seemed excited about my coming home and my book. Her being happy that I was coming home wasn’t something new, but she actually mentioned the book. She told me that my grandmother, sisters, uncles, and cousins were excited also.
Two days before the Little Rock reception I received a call informing me that the books wouldn’t be ready in time. When I told the customer service rep about the reception and how it was too late to cancel, she promised to have ten copies waiting at my hotel. At least I would be able to read and show the book.
I was really nervous when I entered the reception area of the Legacy Hotel. A few minutes before I came downstairs, my cousin Jackie came up and wished me luck, and she, Dellanor, who had flown in from Atlanta, and I formed a circle and prayed.
When I walked into the room, I noticed that the crowd was smaller than I had hoped for, but about fifty people were there, including more than twenty-five of my relatives and a few childhood friends. I had told Dellanor before we left Atlanta that I hoped more than a hundred people would show up since Janis had sent out more than two hundred invitations. But there was a proclamation and a personal note of congratulations from then Governor Bill Clinton, presented by one of his top black aides. Lencola had flown in from New York to introduce me and offer moral support. Though it had been more than ten years since Lencola had been Miss Arkansas, she was still as popular as ever in the state.
The reception was great. I started off by saying that if nothing else, writing the book afforded me the opportunity to publicly thank my mother and grandmother for all their love and support. Being able to express my love and thanks was something I had dreamed of doing since I was a little boy. The only way I had been able to tell them how much I loved them in years past was in cards or letters. I thought about what my mother and grandmother had done for me, and I felt tears forming in my eyes, but I blinked them back.
It was smooth from that point on. I read the first chapter of the book, and no one booed or threw anything. In fact, the applause at the end was warm and supportive. My mother and grandmother were the first people in line to congratulate me and tell me once again how proud they were of me and how much they loved me. There was no mention of the book’s content or what I had said in my talk about how writing the book was forcing me to deal with my own truths.
In many ways, it was in that hotel reception room, in front of my family, that I took a huge step in dealing with my reality, even though I didn’t say, “I’m a black, gay man.” I was just beginning to say it to myself and be okay with that.
Looking into my mother’s eyes, I recalled what she had once told me when I had called her, drunk out of my mind, crying about how sorry I was about not being married and making her proud. She told me I was her baby and she loved me no matter what. My mother’s love was unconditional, but it had taken me most of my life to understand what that meant.
Before I left Little Rock, I had my first taped radio interview and got about thirty people to pay $12.95 for a book I promised to send once the finished product arrived in Atlanta. I left Little Rock feeling like home was always a place where love and support could be found in ample supply.
I was now ready to face the rest of the world.
I BEGAN PLANNING for my Atlanta debut, where I was assured that my books would be available. One of my fraternity brothers and Carlton’s partner, Jerry Jackson, along with Carlton, had agreed to sponsor my Atlanta party, and they sent more than two hundred invitations for a Sunday-afternoon signing the week before Christmas.
Late Friday evening, I was sitting in my empty office awaiting the arrival of my books. When a gruffy-looking trucker knocked on my office door, he told me he had to collect twelve hundred dollars for shipping freight before he could start t
o unload the books. I didn’t have twelve hundred dollars, and I didn’t know what to do, so I went down to Dellanor’s office, which was in the same building, and once again sought advice. She thought about writing a check from her business, but she knew I wouldn’t be able to pay her back and that her business partner might get upset. We spent about fifteen minutes thinking of people I could borrow the money from. Every time we thought of someone, I would realize they had already done something for me and I didn’t want to seem greedy. It was almost six o’clock, and everything was getting ready to close, when Dellanor pointed out that Nashville was an hour behind Atlanta time. She suggested I call the printer to see if I could get someone there to help me.
I called Nicolstone and located someone in accounts payable who didn’t know me from the man in the moon. I explained my problem and how important this was, my voice cracking and almost pleading that she help me out. There was silence on the phone for what seemed like a minute, and then she asked to speak with the driver. I went outside and got him. When he got on the phone, I couldn’t tell from his expression what was going on. All I know is that he hung up the phone and started moving the books into my office.
I was ready for my close-up in my literary birthplace.
SUNDAY CAME, AND I WAS full of nervous anticipation. Several friends chipped in so that I could have a suite at the hotel where the book signing was being held. I got there about noon to dress and make sure everything was in place. Tim Douglass, my “little brother,” had come down for moral support, and another close friend, Ken Hatten, flew in from Dallas with several beautiful sports jackets for me to choose from. I ended up wearing a beautiful cobalt-blue wool jacket that Tim had brought to wear himself. It looked nice with my black slacks and beige pullover. It seemed like it had been years since I had money to purchase anything new.
Paul Dedman, a tall and extremely handsome ex–pro basketball player I had met coming out of a Federal Express office, also came early to see if he could do anything to help. Paul was straight and ended up being the hit of the party. There were so many people, men and women, who wanted to know who Paul was. He didn’t seem interested in meeting his new admirers, telling me he was there only to support me.
The one-bedroom suite was full of hope and love. I had another circle of prayer and I went into the reception and was greeted by more than one hundred people. Some were familiar faces, some not.
My reading and talk about why I wrote the book went smoothly. There was one very touching moment when I acknowledged little Daniel, who had been understanding when I cut down on our visits to write and learn about publishing. We still saw each other often, and I called him almost every day to see how school was going. When I thanked Daniel for bringing a new type of love into my life, this tough little man-child broke into tears and buried his face in my chest. It took everything I had to hold it together as his mother and I gently massaged his close-cut head.
After the party, Dellanor and I learned that we had sold forty-three books. I had hoped to sell at least one hundred, but I felt the party had been a success. Back in the suite, several well-wishers came up for wine and snacks, and many of them had already started reading the novel and were telling me how good it was. I was focused on staying sober and celibate and really felt happy and proud—something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
The next week, armed with my letter from a future president of the United States and copies of my book, I returned to several local bookstores. Christmas was approaching, but I found very few bookstore managers in a holiday mood and I was still facing rejection. One store, Oxford, which at the time was the largest independent bookstore in the South, did agree to take ten books on consignment. This meant they wouldn’t pay me until they had sold the books.
I was starting to feel the pressure as I thought of the 5,000-plus books in an office space I could barely pay for even though the rent was under three hundred dollars. Still, even in my worried state, some good things were happening. Many of the forty-three people who had purchased the book were calling trying to get additional copies. I was driving all over the metropolitan Atlanta area, delivering books from the trunk of Dellanor’s maroon Toyota.
One of the guests, an Atlanta hairstylist, K-Lavell Grayson, who actually crashed the party, called and asked if I could bring ten books to his midtown salon. He was convinced he could sell them. K-Lavell’s call and kindness would play an important role in the future marketing of my novel.
As the year was coming to an end, I had sold only 117 books, including the ten at Oxford, which had placed an order for fifteen more. There were no calls from any of the magazines and radio shows to whom I had sent complimentary copies, and I was beginning to feel I had made a terrible mistake by self-publishing. A few days before the New Year, I walked around the grounds of Carlton’s home, gazing at the golf course that was right behind his house. There was a hammock that I had swung in many times during the summer months, and it still looked inviting on this cold and gray December day.
I climbed into the hammock, and after a few minutes I started talking to God in a voice barely above a whisper. I told Him that I felt writing was what He wanted me to do but that I needed a sign. I basically wanted to make a deal with Him. I said to God and myself that if I sold more than two hundred books before the beginning of the year, I would pursue my new career with such vigor and passion it would make Him proud.
After I prayed and made my deal with God, I was still nervous about ways to get rid of the books, even if it meant passing them out on street corners. All the calls I received from people whom I had met at the Atlanta book party were positive, and I told myself that by publishing a book I had accomplished what I had set out to do. I had accomplished a big goal, and now I knew I could do anything if I put my heart and mind to it.
On December 29, 1991, I got an answer to my prayer in the form of a phone call. I was downstairs in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when Carlton yelled that I had a long-distance call. For some strange reason, I raced upstairs to Carlton’s room rather than take the call on the wall phone in the kitchen. I was hoping maybe it was a magazine or radio station wanting to do an interview, something that might provide me a reason to renegotiate my deal with God. When I answered the phone, the caller told me his name was Dr. Henry Masters and he had met me briefly at my signing in Little Rock. I recalled the olive-brown man who had come in late as we were packing up. I had a couple copies of the novel left over from my ration of ten, and I gave him one since there was no one around. Dr. Masters apologized again for being late but went on to say how much he had enjoyed my novel.
Then my life changed. Dr. Masters explained that he was responsible for AIDS education at a clinic in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and he thought my book could be a powerful tool in educating the African American community about AIDS. He went on to say that he had discovered he had some extra money in his budget that he would lose if he didn’t spend it before the year’s end. Then he asked me if there was any possible way for me to ship and bill him for one hundred copies of Invisible Life before noon the following day.
A chill came over my body that had nothing to do with the winter cold. For a few seconds, I was speechless. A huge smile broke out on my face, and I started jumping up and down. Carlton started smiling without even knowing why I was so excited.
I told Dr. Masters that I would get him the books quicker than he could finish an Arkansas hog call. I hung up the phone and shared my news with Carlton and breathed a huge sigh. I went into my bedroom and got on my knees and gave a prayer of thanks to God for His sign. I pulled out my little black book where I was keeping track of sales and determined that with Dr. Masters’s order my grand total was now 233 books sold.
I borrowed Carlton’s car and quickly drove to my office and picked up the books and shipped them via Federal Express that evening. I went back to my office to prepare an invoice to fax to Dr. Masters.
As I was leaving my silent office, I noticed that the soothing winter dus
k was draping the city. It felt like snow was coming. I thought of all the people who had made my dream possible and I thought of my “angels”—Richard, Randy, Larry, and Willa—and how proud they would be. How proud they were. Then I looked at the boxes of books lining the walls. As I closed my office for the last time in 1991, I had a vision, or as Randy would say, “I visualized.” For the first time since the books had been stored there, I imagined my office the way it had looked when I first signed the lease. I pictured it empty. Before July of 1992, it was.
EPILOGUE
Weeks before Richie died, he gave me some important advice: “Spend some time alone, Lynn,” he said. “You might be surprised by how much you’ll learn to like yourself.”
Richie’s suggestion at the time seemed impossible. My entire life I’d always wanted to lead any life other than my own. Why would I want to spend time with me? Yet when I became a writer, I joined one of the most solitary occupations in the world. As it turned out, I’d picked a profession that would allow me no other choice than to spend many days and evenings alone.
IT’S EARLY SPRING 2003, and I’ve spent the bulk of the winter in New York City writing the final chapters of this book, which has been a part of the last seven years of my life. And since snow and what it represents has always been so important to me, it’s fascinating to note that many of those days were marked by record snowfall.
It was difficult at times to write my memoir, as I was forced to relive the tragic parts of my life. There were moments in my youth that I didn’t include here because I didn’t want this to be a “woe is me” memoir. At other times, I was afraid this book might jolt me back into a depression or that maybe some of my family members and friends would not want their lives shared with the world. Late at night I would worry that my fans, who always seem to be waiting for my next novel, would be disappointed to read about my life instead of the lives of Raymond Tyler and Basil Henderson.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted Page 24
