Wanna know how I started writing?
I made the horrific mistake at my rural middle school talent contest of singing Delta Dawn (while holding a faded rose, mind you) to a crowd that made the boys from Deliverance look like the Walton brothers. I was booed offstage.
I ran, stage left, directly at my mother and began to yell. “How could you let me humiliate myself like that?”
“You were only being true to yourself,” she said. “And no one should ever stand in the way of such honesty, or such fearlessness.”
She then presented me with a little, leather writing journal and a copy of Erma Bombeck’s “At Wit’s End” and said, “You will need both of these to make sense of your world.”
Writing– and humor – not only helped me make sense of the world but they saved my life.
I quickly learned, however, that writers – all artists really – aren’t ever really given the OK to write, or to create, no matter how much it means to their very existence. And, because of that, most artists start scared, defined not by inspiration but by fear.
Story time again.
Roughly eight years ago, I began writing my first memoir, America’s Boy. Check that: I
actually started it as a novel, as I was too afraid to tell my own story of growing up in the Ozarks. Luckily, I had a muse, an editor, a critic and a believer in the form of my partner, Gary. After reading what I had written, he said: “It sounds nothing like you.” I was crushed. But it was just what I needed to hear.
And so I started over, eventually visiting my family cabin and writing by long hand what would turn out to be the first chapter of America’s Boy while seated on a stoop with my feet in an Ozarks creek.
There was a point – finally, a point – as I sat with my feet in the creek when I was simply writing. Not thinking, writing. Writing as I had – before fear – when my mom gave me that writing journal.
And everything simply clicked. My voice, my humor, my tone, my narrative flowed from my soul. I wasn’t writing any longer. I was my writing. The transition from Wade the person to Wade the writer was seamless.
It came because I finally was able to overcome those fears that had shackled me my whole life:

What would people think?

Did I have the right to tell my story?

What if people hated what I wrote?

Am I good enough?

No one can make it as an author, right? What if I fail?

Who the hell do I think I am, calling myself “a writer”?

For a while, these fears paralyzed me again.
I made the decision – without Gary’s knowledge – to reach out to a number of authors I admired, whose work I loved. I wasn’t asking for a hand-out, or a connection, I was seeking the simplest of things: A response. A single line. “It’s gonna be OK, kid.” “You can do it, Wade.” They didn’t even have to mean it. I just needed to know that they had once been like me.
I just needed to know that it was OK to keep going.
That there was no “golden key to the kingdom.”
I got zero responses.
And, that’s when it hit me: Rather than be paralyzed by my fear, I decided to believe in my writing, I believed I could change the world.
I realized that all published writers were once unpublished writers.
I realized that writers are like babies taking their first steps: You have to do it by yourself, but it helps a whole lot to have someone helping you along the way.
I finished my memoir, I spent months editing it until I was moving around commas, and I did my homework. I spent months writing my query. I spent months researching agents. I spent months believing in myself, even though it seemed no one else – besides Gary and my mom – did.
One week after submitting 15 query letters to agents I admired, I had received seven offers to read my manuscript. Less than a week after that, I had three formal offers of representation.
I believe that if you have a unique voice, discernable talent, an incredible work ethic, amazing professionalism, skin of steel, a heart of equal parts stone, empathy and love, and a feeling that if you aren’t writing, you may just curl up and die – then you can make it as an author.
I believe that if you just want to write, without a goal of being published – to write a family history, to diary for yourself, to become a more powerful business writer – that you need a hearty, “YES! Good for you! Go for it!”
And that’s why I formed Wade’s Writers, and why I hold writing workshops. I am the guy who got no response and became a bestseller. I am the guy who decided if he ever had any level of success, he would attempt to help other emerging writers.
So here I am.
I can’t make you write. But I do think I can make you a better writer. More importantly, I can give you tools to succeed. I can give you inspiration and hope. I can help you crush those fears – in life and craft – that are holding you back.
If you want to write, I urge you to join me at one of my workshops or retreats. www.wadeswriters.com (Gary will be there to hold your hand, too!).
Remember, every published writer was an unpublished writer.
You just have to start.

The Go-To Gay....on Valentine's Day

http://chicklitcentraltheblog.blogspot.com/2012/02/go-to-gayon-valentines-day.html

Wade Rouse was here back in November to share a "dude's" perspective on chick lit. We liked him so much (Amy was even lucky enough to meet him in person last year) that we invited him back again for a monthly column called "The Go-To Gay." After all, without gay guys, a lot of our chick lit heroines would be missing out on some awesome best friends! This month, Wade is
sharing why gay guys make the best dates for Valentine's Day.

The writings of bestselling humorist Wade Rouse – called “wise, witty and wicked” by
USA Today and the lovechild of Erma Bombeck and David Sedaris – have been
featured multiple times on NBC’s Today Show as well as on Chelsea
Lately on E! and People.com. His latest memoir, "It’s All Relative: 2 Families, 3 Dogs, 34 Holidays and 50 Boxes of Wine," just launched in paperback February 1st from Broadway, and he is creator and editor of the humorous dog anthology, "I’m
Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship: Hilarious, Heartwarming Tales about
Man’s Best from America’s Favorite Humorists" (NAL). The book features a
Foreword by Chelsea Handler’s dog, Chunk, essays by such beloved chick lit
authors as Jane Green, and 50 percent of the book’s net royalties go to the
Humane Society of the United States. For more, visit his website, or friend him on Facebook or Twitter.

"Valentine’s Gay"

My partner, Gary, and I keep two separate calendars, one work and one social. Our social calendar is filled with dates with our many “gurlfriends,” our besties who want to spend QT with us to try a new coffee spot, hip restaurant, or simply dish.

“We wish our husbands were more like you!” our gurls often lament sometime in the course of our date.

That got me thinking as we approach Valentine’s Day: Do gay boys (“GBs” in future references) make better dates? Would you rather spend a night with your husband or your gusband (gay husband)? Is our great date history myth or reality?

Let me lend some perspective: The first Valentine’s Day I celebrated with my partner, Gary, with whom I’ve now been with 16 years, I made the tragic error of turning to my married, straight fraternity brothers from college for romantic advice. I was recently out and very inexperienced with dating. “OK, dude, here’s the inside scoop,” one my best friends, who was recently married,
explained to me over beers. “I never buy my wife perfume, because it will conflict with her phermones, or something stupid like that. I never buy her clothes, because I’ll get her an 8, and she’ll be all, ‘What makes you think I wear an 8? Do you think I’m that big? Are you even attracted to me?’ So what I always do is take her to her favorite restaurant, like Applebee’s, and I always give her a sexy gift, like lingerie. In a small. She loves it. I love it. It’s a win-win. Just play it cool. Be quiet and mysterious.”

I left our brotherly beer bash totally confused, kind of like when I see a Coen Brothers movie.

Still, being new to the whole relationship game, I listened and made reservations to Gary’s favorite restaurant in the city. I wrapped Gary’s gift in shiny paper and dropped it off before our dinner so it could be “specially delivered.”

Despite all the planning, the evening unfolded awkwardly, like a cheap card table. Although the restaurant was romantic, I acted like Clint Eastwood all night. There were awkward pauses in the conversation, and none of the spark that accompanied our time together. Still, when the waiter brought over the dessert cart, with my gift, as instructed, already positioned in the middle of the tarts and brulees, Gary gasped.

I looked around the restaurant. People had stopped eating, and were staring, transfixed, women
nudging their husbands in that irritated manner which seemed to imply, “Thanks for the wrist corsage, you jackass. Leave it to the gays to always do it right!”

What amazing gift had this amazing man purchased for his sweetheart?

A ring?

An island getaway?

Suddenly, I felt this overwhelming pressure – like the emergency door on a plane had suddenly been thrown open mid-flight over the Atlantic.

Gary furiously untied my bow and unwrapped the tissue paper – dotted with hearts.

And then he pulled out a three-pack of Hane’s underwear.

“Hane’s?” Gary finally gasped, fuming, very loudly. “Hane’s Her Ways?! Are you kidding me? You got me … underwear?”

He yanked a sticker off the plastic bag. I had forgotten to remove the price tag.

“They’re boxer briefs,” I purred, trying to sound turned on. “In black. Your favorites. And
they’re very sexy.”

“Hanes ARE NOT SEXY!” he began yelling, standing up, knocking his chair over. “What this says to me is that you are the type of man who will buy me a vaccuum for Christmas, and a robe on my birthday. “You are not romantic!” Gary screamed, throwing his pack of underwear into my lap. “No, I take that back! You are not even … human! What happened to Wade?!”

And then he left. To a smattering of applause.

What had gone so wrong, despite, of course, the Hane’s horror, I fumed in my head as we drove silently home.

The next morning, I met one of my best girl friends for coffee and talked about our Valentine’s dinners, which had unfolded, eerily, the same.

“You know it’s not really about the gift, Wade,” she said to me.

“Really?”

“OK, it kinda is,” she laughed, “but it’s more than that, too. It’s about the date: The dinner, the conversation, the romance, the little things. My husband loves me, and I love him more than anything, but I don’t always get the emotional depth, honesty and resonance that you and Gary share. I don’t get the fun that you and I have when we go out. Just be yourself from now on.”

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t being myself. I wasn’t being romantic. I was being a practical
romantic. I was acting like my dad, who often got my mother a trash compactor or dishwasher for her birthday or Christmas.

I don’t mean to stereotype men – gay or straight – but there are some commonalities that unite most straight males: They often don’t enjoy intimate conversations. They can be bad sharers. Some don’t love to dance, laugh, and compliment as much as the GBs. Most gay men, on the other hand, listen. Intently. We offer advice. We are romantic. We are fun. We compliment. And when we do, we mean it. Wear a great pair of heels, and we’ll notice. Trying a new lipstick color? We’ll gush.

Why? We pay attention. The reason is that we don’t take anything for granted. We celebrate life. Oftentimes, it’s because many of us went through difficult times in our lives: We were worried we might not make friends, or we were fearful our families might turn their backs on us. Most of us fought like heck to find partners with whom to share our lives. Thus, we give back to those who love us unconditionally – friends, family, partners – a torrent of spirit, a heaping dose of our unfiltered, unedited selves.I believe we do make better dates, if for any other reason than that we realize life is short and can often be very difficult, so we need to celebrate – in a big way – with those we love. For lack of a better phrase: Life is too rich to go cheap, to be all Hane’s.

So, ladies, pass this advice on to your men: Although the National Retail Federation estimates
that – even in a recession – the average man will spend over $135 on gifts for his sweetheart, tell your husbands to act a little more like your gusbands. Tell them it’s OK to be romantic, to celebrate you, to talk, and laugh. Tell them it’s OK to gush, to compliment, and to cherish your alone time together. If they do, congratulations. If they don’t, be honest.

Go ahead, of course, and enjoy your Valentine’s gifts. I mean, I went ahead and bought Gary a trip to the Caribbean to make up for my Hane’s hell. And then, the next day call your gusband for lunch and tell him how it went. And if you don’t have a gusband, email me or Gary, and we’ll share an e-date to remember.

A special Valentine's thanks to Chick Lit Central and Happy Valentine's Day To All!

http://metrosource.com.s123317.gridserver.com/2011/12/29/musical-pairs/

Wade discovers that his life-long loveof musicals isn’t compatible with his partner’s aversion to them, but wonders if his tune can be changed. The first musical I remember watching was Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. My mother sat down with me and some Jiffy Pop, and — in a matter of moments — this chubby, gay little boy from the Ozarks was transported to a more magical world. It made me want to dance while raising a barn (though both tasks would have been relatively impossible considering I was, at the time, roughly shaped like a Rubik’s Cube).More than anything, Seven Brides — along with West Side Story, Funny Girl and Hello, Dolly! — taught me that it was okay to express myself creatively and that escaping into a fantasy world, where love and happiness were just a song and dance away, was a way to survive.Personally, however, I was not gifted in the song and dance department. God knows, I tried. But I realized it was not for me when I was cast in a production of The Pirates of Penzance (solely because they “needed boys”). I ended up giving a performance that even a kind critic might describe as a nightmarish attempt to simultaneously channel Johnny Depp, Johnny Cash and Johnny Weir. But even if I wasn’t meant to be in them, I never stopped adoring the magic of musicals.I was under the impression that most people felt a similar appreciation until college, when I held a showing of Yentl for my fraternity and was nearly blackballed. But I chalked that up to the tastes of straight men. However, when I met my partner Gary, I was excited to share my love of musicals with the love of my life; so I surprised him with tickets to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. As we drove to the theater, Gary began to seem more and more visibly uncomfortable. Seconds before the show was about to start, Gary leaned over and confessed: “I hate musicals,” he whispered in my ear.I actually screamed.“Shh!” he said. “I just don’t understand why they have to sing everything. Why can’t they say it? It’s weird.”“It’s a fantasy!” I protested, standing for emphasis. But the show was starting; so I sat back down, stewing, wondering how the man I loved could feel this way. As I watched the show, I tried to see it from Gary’s point of view, actively asking myself, “Is this stupid?” But before long, the lights had come back up, and I was applauding wildly with the rest of the audience — still a confirmed musical theater junkie. I asked Gary if the show had changed his opinion. “I kinda nodded off,” he said. I briefly considered killing him — imagining myself acquitted by a judge (played by Alan Cumming) and a jury (of gang members from West Side Story). But, as I thought about it, I realized that Gary and I were both, in our own ways, hybrid gays. Gary hated musicals but he loved gardening and do-it-yourself home improvements. I liked musicals, but I also loved sports. Yes, it hurt that he couldn’t share something that I loved, but couples have survived worse. Flash forward to 2002, when the film version of Chicago, with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger, was hitting theaters. One weekend afternoon, I walked into the kitchen and said, “I know you hate musicals, but I have to see Chicago. So I’ll be back in a few hours.”“Can I come with you?” Gary asked.“You can’t ruin this for me,” I said.“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”Nevertheless, I sat with my fists clenched through opening of the movie, tensely waiting for Gary to start rolling his eyes or snoring. But I noticed, as Catherine rocked “All That Jazz,” Gary’s foot began to tap. Next, he began snapping his fingers. Finally, a miracle occurred: jazz hands. Gary actually flashed jazz hands as the song climaxed.“I loved it!” he exclaimed, bouncing up and down as we left the theatre. Seeing an opening, I bought the soundtrack, and we played it endlessly. For the next step in Gary’s musical rehabilitation, I rented Moulin Rouge. It put Gary to sleep.“But it was brilliant!” I insisted.“It was weird,” he said. “And boring.” So it seems that — when it comes to musicals — Gary and I are, for the most part, destined not to see eye-to-eye. But at least we’ll always have Chicago. Wade Rouse

Some words just belong together.

Like peanut butter and jelly.

Or Captain and Tennille.

Wade and Winter, not so much.

We do not go together, to quote that song from Grease, like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

But I am learning.

I am not, by nature, “hardy.” I prefer to wear flip-flops instead of boots. I like tank tops more than sweaters. The only lake effect I enjoy is sand between my toes and a bronzy tan.

I grew up in the south and then lived in a city that had relatively mild winters.

As many of you know, I came unhinged my first winter along The Beach Coast. I yelled at the snow. I chastised the wind. I belittled blizzards.

It didn’t do any good. It still snowed. A lot. It was still cold. And, you know what, once I shut up, I realized winter here was not only quiet but also quite beautiful.

The hush of a world covered in snow.

A wonderland of white replacing the dead, brown earth.

The icy lake, the waves seemingly frozen in mid-air.

Red cardinals sitting atop icy branches, deer leaping over snow banks, snowball fights, cross-country skiing, long walks in our winter woods.

More than anything, I found great comfort and inspiration in the quiet and isolation.

There is a beauty, I learned, in this seasonal slowdown, if you can just learn to slow down yourself.

It took me a spell, but I finally did.

And when that happened, I found a calm in waking early in my winter world, relishing the quiet I once only dreamed I might have, making coffee and padding in thick socks up to my writing studio overlooking snowy woods, a virtual winter wonderland, a writer’s paradise.

Once I got the rhythm of winter, I could appreciate the glory of the snow as it piled up on the branches of the sugar maple just outside my window. My lunch breaks were walks in the woods with my dogs. I wrote until the sun set. I did the same thing the next day and the next.

By the time spring arrived my first winter here, I had nearly finished a book.

Winter had not only granted me peace and quiet but also a bonus gift of additional free time that I could now spend outside.

Don’t get me wrong: I still love spring, summer and fall more than winter. Gary and I still leave in the dead of winter and head to California for warmer climes (though more and more of that is now work-related and –required), but I have learned to be at peace with winter along The Beach Coast. Winter is like that family member that can drive you crazy, challenge you, get under your skin. He or she can be totally annoying, but is the person you secretly kinda like, the one you end up understanding, and respecting, after a long period of time.

And that, I’ve come to realize, is a great gift.

Winter and I may never be as close as M&M’s, but we’ve earned one another’s respect, and when we play nicely together, we make a pretty good team.

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