K.M. Soehnlein

Literary Death Match and other balancing acts

That thing on my head is a crown, not a dunce cap, though I do feel a bit duncey today after publicly displaying my complete lack of knowledge of pi... But I'm getting ahead of myself. The crown was what I got, along with the medal around my neck -- which, if you could see it, would show a fist-bump comin' at ya -- for winning Literary Death Match. The event at the Elbo Room was packed; I wasn't really sure who was in the crowd because I was pretty much blinded by the spotlights. (Seriously, how do performers ever get used to that?)

I read a heavily-edited-for-time version of "Harmony Moore Has To Die," one of the autobiographical stories I've been writing over the past few years about the years I spent in New York in the late 80s-early 90s and was involved in ACT UP. I was right out of college, and I thrust myself into the world of social-change-through-civil-disobedience in a big way, and so went from being a barely out of the closet student to a more or less full time queer activist. "Harmony Moore" is about a character named Eliot, a fictional composite of two different friends, both of them now dead: Luis Salazar, a very sweet boy who I spent a night in jail with in Albany, New York, after we were arrested at a "die-in" outside the state legislature, and Bradley Ball, a larger than life figure who once threw a birthday party at which he invited all his friends to bring a cake, and then, over the course of the night, threw every last cake out the window of his midtown Manhattan apartment. In the story, Eliot comes out in drag as Harmony, wearing "a platinum wig that had seen better days," and for the hell of it, I pulled from my pocket a wig of that description and wore it for part of the reading. It helps to have a husband who's both peformed in drag and directed theater if you're going to try that outside of your home.

The crowd, and the judges -- Josh Kornbluth, Peter Sinn Nachtrieb and Ayelet Waldman -- all responded strongly to what I wrote, but in a very hilarious Death Match style, which meant jokes about prison sex, points deducted for cliches ("sunken cheeks" was kind of lame, I admit) and observations about how the spotlight shining through my ears turned them a distracting transparent pink. Public comments about the way my ears stick out...jeesh, it's like I was back in middle school...but that's the nature of Literary Death Match, a fine balance between public glory and public humiliation. They picked me as the winner of my round over a very droll Jim Nelson, who read a funny, sexually explicit and somewhat cringe-inducing story about an awkward threeway in a hotel room.

For the finale, I was up against Katharine Noel, who, along with her husband, Eric Puchner, won the second round with their completely charming essay about being writers in a relationship; Eric's text was frequently intercut with Katharine's "footnotes," as she was quick to correct his version of things, usually declaring them "total exaggerations." They also ran down a "scorecard" that tallied which of them had more Amazon reader reviews, translations, prizes and so forth. (This seemed to horrify Ayelet Waldman, whose husband is the super- successful Michael Chabon, and who for her own peace of mind is clearly not keeping that kind of scorecard.) Eric and Katherine had been selected over Michelle Richmond, who read a really enjoyable piece called "Turndown Service" written from the point of view of her husband, Kevin, a man no one in the literary community is sure even exists, because he never shows up at any of her readings. Michelle, you've only deepened the mystery!

Our lovely and sadistic hosts Todd Zuniga and Alana Conner forced Katherine and I to step into garbage bags, then hop across the stage and write on a posterboard "ten different digits that are part of mathematical pi" (a trick, since there are of course only ten digits, right? But I still got totally flustered and wrote somethign that began with 2.14....Oy!). Then each of us had to balance a copy of David Foster Wallace's big, fat novel Infinite Jest on our heads, and walk back and forth across the stage. I hit the finish line first without dropping the book -- all those years of practicing my supermodel posture paid off -- though I'm told that Katherine, who was in the lead up until then, had waited for me before she started the final leg, so maybe I only won by a gift? Oh, well, what's winning anyway, when you look so darn ridiculous in your paper crown?

By far the best boost of the night for me was the praise I got for my story, which has given me the push I needed to get back into this material. With "Robin and Ruby" already in production, I've been feeling around for my next big writing project. I'm pretty sure that these ACT UP stories are what I need to be writing. Over a post-Match dinner at Corner, Kevin went out of his way to convince me that it's time to finally commit to this. I've been reluctant, I think, because that time was so important to me, and important to history, too -- ACT UP was instrumental in changing the way AIDS drugs were tested, and the way AIDS was talked about in the media and viewed by the government. How to translate something so big into what is essentially a rather modest form, a series of short stories, linked together by the point of view of one unformed young man? Talk about a balancing act.

UPDATED: Changed the original pic to this one, taken on the street outside.

Read to the Death

I haven't been this excited (or terrified) about a reading for a long, long time (probably since I had to read an Armistead Maupin story at an Armistead Maupin tribute, with Armistead himself in the house). I'm talking about Friday night's Literary Death Match, sponsored by Opium Magazine, at which I'll be one of four writers competing (or five, since two are teamed up together, which seems like an unfair advantage). It works like this: two writers read and are judged by a panel seated on stage, usually with drinks in their hands. Then two more read, and then the winners of each round compete in a "death match" that has nothing to do with writing -- stuff like laser tag, shooting hoops with Nerf balls, or a staring contest. (If I make it to the final round on Friday, please, please, please no sports-like activities. A staring contest, now that I can handle. Bring it on.)

The LDM phenomenon has been one of the best things to happen to the writing world in a long time -- the competitive aspect is pretty good-natured and mostly provides an entertaining frame around the well-written fiction that gets read. The couple times I've been to LDM the crowds were big, much larger than most of the bookstore readings I've been to, but usually as respectful. I say "usually" because there was the time a very drunk heckler stood up and tried to shut down Wesley Stace, shouting "No, you're doing it wrong!" Of course, if you can handle your heckler in style, you'll likely score some points with the judges.

LDMs have been held in New York, Boston, Chicago, and as far away as Beijing. I hear there's one planned for Rio de Janeiro. Hats off to globe-trotting organizer Todd Zuniga, who'll be c0-hosting Friday in San Francisco:

Literary Death Match
When: Friday, June 12; Doors at 6:30, show at 7:15 p.m. (sharp)
Where: Elbo Room, SF
647 Valencia St., (415) 552-7788
Cost: $10 (and an issue of Opium8--$2 off the cover price!)
With: K.M. Soehnlein, Jim Nelson, Michelle Richmond and Eric Puchner / Katharine Noel

Library Laureates

Last night at the San Francisco Main Library I was thrilled to be honored as a Library Laureate, one of 35 writers selected as part of an annual tribute to the local literary community -- and as a way to fundraise for the Friends of the Library. It was quite a schmancy night -- the wine flowed, the catered hors d'œuvres kept coming and folks were dressed to kill. The theme of the night was Evolution -- in honor of the Darwin bicentenary. A handful of men wore Darwin garb -- bowlers and beards -- and there were women dressed with feathery references to various exotic and endangered species. (Someone dressed as Annie Oakley and someone else as Indiana Jones, and though I didn't really get the evolutionary connection there, I do love a costume.)

After a group photo -- how do you corral thirty five adults onto a stage for a posed pic? very slowly -- and a wine reception, they sent everyone off to different wings of the library to eat dinner at tables for ten, with five tables in a room. I don't travel in the major-donor circle a whole lot, so I didn't know what to expect, but Kevin and I were at a lively table, which included another writer, an literary agent and a number of library volunteers. The two women I sat between were great conversationalists. (I learned a lot about Andrew Carnegie's role in creating free public libraries. "He wasn't very good to his workers," I was told, "but he was good to the public.")

The "laureates" had been asked to prepare five-minutes worth of remarks to deliver during the (very pretty) dessert course; our subject was to be evolution, or our own work, or libraries in general, and as is often the case with a rather loose assignment, some folks were quite prepared and held the room's attention, others didn't and rambled. The highlight for me was author and critic Jonathon Keats's commentary about how evolution has actually been a somewhat "stupid" process; he cited such evidence as the fallible human eye and our awkward spinal column, which doesn't make it very easy for folks to sleep at night.

For my remarks, I had put out a call via email and Facebook asking for "what the library means to you." Within a few hours I was flooded with replies -- everyone, it seems, had specific memories to share. I pieced them together and added my own; I even dug out my 1974 summer reading card, issued by the Westwood Public Library. Here's what I said:

In preparation for tonight, I polled a few family members and friends for their memories of the library as a way to stimulate my own memories.

I got some wonderful responses – my editor at Kensington Books, John Scognamiglio, wrote: "The library is where I first fell in love with books and why I have a career in publishing. My mom took me there when I was either four or five and we checked out HARRY THE DIRTY DOG and I was hooked …"

A couple of my friends who are now mothers bemoaned the fact that their children find everything online now, because they’re missing out on the more sensory aspects of the physical building. One wrote: "I was in love with it — the smell, the quiet, the shiny gloss of the card catalog. I really don't think kids get that love any more with electronic searches."

In fact the sensory, or even sensual aspect of the library was commented on by a few. One female friend wrote:
"The library meant a place where I could read what I want, uncensored, while still being able to make out with my high school boyfriend in the stacks… Libraries = rite of passage coupled with freedom of speech. Not easily re-created online..."
 
A male friend expressed how the library was the site of a recurring fantasy of coming upon one particular high school hunk – a lifeguard at the local swim club – in the stacks where a particular book with homosexual content could be found.

And of course like many young, closeted kids, for me the library was a place where I could learn about things that back then weren’t discussed in the government or the media, much less classroom.

But even before the library became associated with the sensual and illicit, the library was really important to me as a kid – our town library in Westwood, New Jersey was only three blocks from my house, and there was a large and active children’s room. The two librarians were sort of like good cop and bad cop – Mrs. B who always smiled and hugged you, and Miss T. who was more likely to shush you.

My sister Kim remembered that she was working at the library at one point, shelving books, and she heard Miss T’s “horrified voice saying…. 'Oh no!  Not the card catalogue!' and I knew she was talking about the movie, The Breakfast Club, which had just come out.  Perhaps you remember the scene where Judd Nelson is pulling index cards of out the drawer and stuffing them back in randomly.”

The library had a summer reading program. You’d read a book, then go in and report back on it to Mrs. B., and she’d mark it down on your card and at the end of the summer you’d get a certificate. I actually have my summer reading card from 1974, when I was in 4th grade and read 15 books. Here's what I read:

1. Encyclopedia Brown & the Case of the Secret Pitch
2. Franklin Delano Roosevelt
3. Paul Revere
4. Crazy Horse
5. Encyclopedia Brown Solves the [something?]
6. John F. Kennedy
7. Encyclopedia Brown Gets His Man
8. Nathan Hale
9. Encyclopedia Brown Keeps the [something?]
10. Encyclopedia Brown Shows the Way
11. Encyclopedia Brown Tracks Them Down
12. Johnny Appleseed
13. If You Sailed on the Mayflower
14. Farmer Boy
15. Abraham Lincoln

Apparently I was into mysteries and history. I don’t read as many mysteries as I used to, or as many biographies. But I still keep track of the books I read every year. There’s no librarian to report back to, no hug from Mrs. B, but that’s OK. Reading has become its own reward.

After I spoke, a woman at my table told me that the summer reading program still goes on at her local branch library in Noe Valley, in much the same way it did in Westwood. I was also told that the services the library provides are, since the economy tanked last year, in greater demand than ever. The good news from last night is that the Laureates dinner is going to help meet that demand: $250,000 was raised. That's a lot of Friends for the library.

What the 80s mean now

I suppose it was inevitable that the Passing on the Pen reading at the GLBT Historical Society would turn away from questions of gay fiction and toward those of history. Both Trebor and I read from stories set in those years I think of as the AIDSies -- late eighties/early nineties, at the height of the AIDS epidemic. Just saying "AIDS epidemic" positions me as someone who came of age at a time when the spread of HIV was exponential, unstoppable, and talk of "long term survival" was mostly wishful thinking.  ... We are each more than simply a member of a generation, but none of us can escape being shaped by historical forces, it seems.

Aug. 12 Reading with Trebor Healey

You're Invited: On Tue. Aug. 12, I'll be reading an excerpt from my new novel -- which for lack of a better word is a sequel to "The World of Normal Boys." It doesn't have a title yet. I'm calling it "Robin and Ruby" because it's told through the voices of both Robin MacKenzie and his younger sister, during one intense weekend during the summer of 1985. Most of the book takes place down the Jersey shore. [And for those of you not from New Jersey, it's always "down" the shore, not "on" the shore or "at" the shore. Just sayin'...]

I'm reading with Trebor Healey -- check out his novel "Through It Came Bright Colors" and his collection "Perfect Scar and Other Stories." ... When Trebor and I were signed up for this event, we decided to start exchanging emails about a bunch of different topics, like what it means to write "gay fiction" and which authors have been influential to us. But our correspondence quickly became mostly about sex. We'll probably read from some of our letters to each other -- maybe the sex part, maybe the less jizzy stuff.

The reading is part of a series sponsored by the GLBT Historical Society and the Lambda Literary Foundation. The series is called "Passing on the Pen" and looks at queer writers of different generations (though Trebor and I are more or less the same age, and we both agree that we're still a little young -- relatively speaking -- to be slotted into something "historical").

DETAILS: Tue. Aug. 12 - Passing on the Pen, with authors K.M. Soehnlein and Trebor Healey. At the GLBT Historical Society, 657 Mission Street #300, Tuesday, August 12, 6:30-8:30 p.m.   Preceded by a special archives tour at 6:15.