“Now, take off the mask.”

This Gay Kid in My High School Lives in My Mind … Without a Name

Writing in today’s age of banned books, genders, and equality — namelessness means so much

I decided to write a novel when I was fifteen years old.

When I was in tenth grade, a girl came up to me in the hall at school and pointed to a boy with the most amazing blond hair I’d ever seen, a shimmering river of gold that brushed his hips as he walked. He was six feet tall, string-bean thin, dressed in white laced up pants, platform shoes, a gauzy shirt, and light makeup. The girl whispered that he had been beaten up by the jocks, hospitalized for three days.

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My answer surprised me: One

I caught my breath. Before I could exhale, lightning struck and I was rocketed into an emotional storm of shooting sparks. Hollywood Pride was finally launched, ready to be read. Again, my breath hitched. In an eyeblink, I stepped into a time warp and landed back in the high voltage arena of Hollywood High School, the setting for my novel.

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How Many of My YA LGBTQ+ Novels Do I Have to Sell to Feel Like a Success?

Finding the Light During Dark Times: Guidance I Learned From A Gay Man

Are you a shark or a dolphin?

A few decades ago, “Malcolm” strode into my psychotherapy office for his first session. Stunning suit, power-tie, perfect hair. He set his briefcase by his chair. Without waiting for me to say a word, he took charge of the session. He explained that he really didn’t believe in therapy, didn’t have time for feelings, had a high-powered career, and a new girlfriend. He was interviewing several therapists, to see which of us made the cut.

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