My best consolation is this: And it doesn't seem to bother anyone except the gay writers in question. Everyone from my film agents to my closest friends heaved a collective sigh when, two years ago, I came out with a novel entitled Undiscovered Gyrl. Troop is past 70 and in failing health. Because, at the time, I had no connections of any kind, almost no one read them. Gay male friends were supportive, openly delighted by the literary ventriloquism. By the time my next B. Producers and executives kissed my ass, writing assignments fell into my lap, and Movieline hinted that this could be the role that finally landed the film's lead actress her Oscar.
The world goes on its way, unaware that it's missing anything. As I am candid to a fault, the thought of living in the straight closet was anathema to me, but I reminded myself that an author's sexual orientation really ought to have nothing to do with the acceptance of his work. Troop -- a fat, balding, slovenly, erudite, witty, chemically imbalanced, drunken gay man. Reading over the material, I realized that much of it was, but only if I could find a new narrator, an outside point of view that would free the stories from the merely autobiographical. Looking back now, I wondered if any of it was worth reclaiming. It was only my straight male friends, all of them ostensible liberals, who expressed disquiet. It's narrated by a year-old, promiscuous, female blogger, but so what? Certain that he is on death's doorstep, he boards a train to Los Angeles to make a movie deal on his novel Christopher. Gay male friends were supportive, openly delighted by the literary ventriloquism. The movie opened to scathing reviews and disappointing box-office numbers. My partnership with B. By the time my next B. To have done otherwise would have been to bitch-slap my muse. It's as though the books' spines had been marked with an invisible pink triangle. I mean, what if people confused me with B. Everyone from my film agents to my closest friends heaved a collective sigh when, two years ago, I came out with a novel entitled Undiscovered Gyrl. If only the straight literary world were this kind to gay novelists! The Advocate picked it as one of the best reads of the summer. The Chicago Free Press called it "one page after another of witty, outrageous, raunchy, insightful, tender, and romantic prose. If I had known, I would have dressed better and not kept my love for Antiques Roadshow a secret. My best consolation is this: Borders and other chain stores relegate them to the gay section in back. Others, more open-minded, expressed the polite hope that my next novel would be more mainstream. Which is part of the reason that B. Others thought I had lost my mind. Some refused to read the book. Sadly, right before shooting, my script, like the faces of so many aging Hollywood actresses, was improved to the point of caricature.
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