My first night at home in Michigan -- after four months away -- was not supposed to unfold like this:

"Is the Lady of the House OK?"

Or this:

"The roof, the roof, the roof IS on fire!"

But then again, this is my life. Gary and I are magnets for drama: We endure more daily ordeals than the Hunger Games.

After four months in California, which included a robbery, a sick father and much drama, a week on the road doing events, and a weekend with my father who took us to an all-you-can-eat buffet I'm certain included fried Democrat and char-grilled liberal innards, Gary and I arrived home late last night with zero energy and exploding bladders (and SUV).

We both teared up (Dramatic much? YES!) as we pulled down our long driveway, stopping to admire the beautiful lilacs, unfurling ferns, full-on green. We ran around our yard, our woods and our gardens, Mabel sprinting beside us. We couldn't be happier to be home.

Then we started the nightmare of unpacking.

"Jesus! We're like the Joads!" I screamed, after a half hour, still hauling bags, and books, and luggage, and laptops, and artwork, and endless crap from our four months on the road.

"I don't know them," Gary yelled to me. "Are they like the new Kardashians? Oh, my God! I didn't establish an 'arrival experience' for us! We need mood lighting! We need a fire! We need cozy!"

What I needed was some Ativan and a bottle of Malbec.

But this is our routine.

Like life, we also have set rules for unpacking after a trip: I am the mule, Gary the organizer. I get it out; he puts it up. That's why I finance the gnomes that Gary places in our woods, that's why I buy the Henri Bendel firewood-scented candles that Gary lights in every room of our house.

Which is what I thought I was smelling as I hauled yet another load of random stuff (bags of Barbies, desert rocks, posters of my noggin) into the house. That's when I heard:

"CALL 911! CALL 911"

I was so exhausted, I thought I was dreaming.

"THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!"

I thought Gary was joking, so as I entered our knotty-pine cottage, I began to sing, and gyrate, "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire ..."

"No, gurl! The roof IS on fire!" Gary screamed. "CALL 911!"

There, my partner stood, nude, mind you, because he likes to unpack naked as it gives him a feeling of "freshness and freedom," flames shooting from our ancient wood stove, sparks shooting out of the pipes, Gary's chestnuts literally being roasted.

I ran outside, dialing 911, and there I saw flames shooting out of our chimney. I hadn't seen any flame burn higher in my life, until Gary ran outside, still nude, running in circles, screaming in a high-pitched voice, "My McCoy pottery! My dishes! My house!"

The 911 operator instructed me to evacuate the house, and then asked if my wife needed medical assistance. Gary grabbed the phone, "My house is on fire! Hurry!" "We're doing everything we can, ma'am," the operator said. "You need to remain calm."

I watched my wife -- she with the dangling participle -- run back into the house. And then back out. And then back in.

"Put on some pants, lady," I instructed, holding Mabel.

And then we waited. And prayed. Our bungalow was all pine. All wood. Inside and out. One errant flame, and it would be gone in the blink of an eye. I loved this house. But I also knew -- after our recent robbery -- I had what mattered most in the world beside me: Gary and Mabel.

Suddenly, as if God heard our prayers, it began to rain. The sparks began to die down.

The firemen arrived, trucks screaming down our little, gravel drive.

They got on our roof. They tested our wood stove. They used a heat device to detect temperature. They said it had been very close. Very, very close.

I sighed. Gary cried. Mabel peed.

Lessons learned:

Clean your fireplace every year.

Firefighters are true heroes.

I love my family.

Wear some pants when you start a fire.

It's good to be home.

It's good to HAVE a home.

http://chicklitcentraltheblog.blogspot.com/2012/04/go-to-gay-turning-fear-into-fierce.html

For my gardening Gary, the month of March is the equivalent of being pregnant: There is a whole lot of waiting – coupled with occasional agony – until the big event occurs.

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!