PDF File of Did YouEver See A Horse Go By? A Coming Out Memoir by Frank DeFrancesco

I am finally putting this out there for anyone who wishes to read it.

I am definitely in a different place than I was when I wrote the original book in 2014. Looking at it now I find it to be a bit raw. By that I mean I see how emotionally and psychologically revealing I allowed myself to be. And perhaps how vulnerable. It is a little disconcerting to see myself so "naked" in print now. Hey, as the song goes, "I am what I am!"

The other point to be taken here is that the print copy was never anywhere near the success I had naively hoped it to be! (See posts below for the Amazon reviews) And even though several copies were verifiably purchased, I received approximately $20.98 in "royalties" - and I never really knew how many print copies or Kindle or e-copies were sold.  I was dismayed that the print book was way overpriced by the publisher.

I decided not to serialize my memoir as it would require way too much effort to cut and past and do that on a weekly or daily basis. Besides the sections of the book would be in reverse order. So....

Here is the PDF file of the complete book: Did You Ever See A Horse Go By? A Coming Out Memoir  (C) 2014, 2022 Frank DeFrancesco

(This is the Revised, Re-edited edition with New Material and a FEW New Color Photos as I had to delete some because the file was too large)

It is also on the Blog dedicated to the book. 

If you click on the box in the top right hand corner the file will open in a new, larger window which may be easier to read. Then zoom out or in with your browser controls to find your best viewing comfort.

We Have Winter -Mostly Photos

 Just a few photos of our recent snow storm. Not quite New England, but pretty decent. Not much else to say here...

I've been working on a re-edit of my book for which I have recently re-acquired the complete rights. I am planning on re-publishing it, probably a PDF for free or perhaps installments here on the blog. Not sure at the moment. If anyone has suggestions, glad to entertain them.

I don't think I want to go the print/digital purchase route as that didn't work for me last time. I am not a self-promoter and print books require "marketing" for which I have no patience.

Anyhow...fighting with editing on Mac Pages is taking up my time as I try to stay off my feet due to a knee problem...osteoarthritis, lack of cartilage and a torn meniscus. The knee was the size of a small cantaloupe 10 weeks ago and is now just about back to "normal" but must be careful. I did go out to shovel snow...carefully.

Our Cheshire Cat 

Leon

The Giant Yuccas

Under the Ponderosa Pine

Front of House

Mom's Mary "Of the Snows"

Courtyard

Closeup of Above

The Jemez From the Ridge

So Many Junipers

So Many, Many Junipers - Top left - Sandia Mountain (Albuquerque) in the Clouds

CURED - Trailer

As I described in my memoir, I went through therapists like Kleenex. Fortunately I didn't have electroshock or other draconian "treatments" to cure me. But now, at 72, I consider myself, if not fully cured, nicely aged.

Let's Not Forget...It is Pride Month

There won't be any parades or festivals this year, but I still need to have a little Pride this month.

So I offer some of my all time favorite music selections for your listening pleasure - if you are as old as I am these will "bring you back" to a time that, for me at least, was as exciting and joyous as I have ever experienced. (See the excerpt from my memoir below.)

























Here's an excerpt from "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By? - A Coming Out Memoir:

“Well, I’ll tell you about the first time I went to Backstreet Café down on that industrial road in the Westville section. The road was rarely used in the daytime and even less so after dark, unless you were going to the club. I hadn’t been out long and I’d only been to the Chez Est a few times—which is mostly an S&M bar, you know, which is what the guys do a lot of there.”

“I just love those Stand and Model types,” Bobby J. said, in case someone didn’t get the S&M reference.

“But Backstreet was different,” I continued. “It was the first big disco club I’d ever seen. And the location was like a secret that only we gays knew about. I remember seeing this big, plain, one story brick industrial building without any signs or bright lights. Nothing on the outside to let you know it’s a popular gay nightclub and disco on the inside.” 
...

“I was with Joel, you know, Joel Comeau, my first and only ex. After paying our five bucks and getting our hands stamped, we walked past the bouncer into the main bar and I felt like Alex in Wonderland. It was like walking through some enchanted portal into a world invisible to most earthlings... It was like Dorothy going from a black and white world to Oz, which was suddenly in Technicolor and stereophonic sound.”

Carl said, “I’ll tell you, Backstreet was nothing next to the big clubs back in the seventies, especially down in the City, and I’m not even talking about Studio 54. Sorry, Fran, go on with your story.”
...

“Well, I had nothing to compare it to,” I said. “There had to be hundreds of pulsating bodies on the dance floor and plenty of guys without shirts... The DJ was playing It’s Raining Men by The Weather Girls, which was already a classic. I think the whole building was vibrating. You could feel the thumping base of the disco music and the energy of the crowd on the dance floor. And everyone was just letting it all hang out, as we used to say, and everyone was echoing Martha Wash, ‘It’s Raining Men! Hallelujah!’”
... 

“Dancing among that crowd was such a thrill, such an exciting feeling. And knowing that we were all frickin’ gay and that there were thousands more like us in gay clubs everywhere, it was like being let out of solitary confinement. Like, for the first time in my life I could say ‘fuck you’ to all the straights in the world, whether they deserved it or not. Like there was solidarity in our numbers and we were really fucking special!”

“Yeah, Fran,” Carl kidded. “They gave that coming out party just for you.”

Bobby J. thought that Carl’s comment was a hoot and gave out an audible “hoot” for emphasis. I gave it back. “Fuck you, too, guys. It was just so great. And the feeling of being free to just let go! It was amazing. I took to being out on the dance floor like it was second nature. Shit, who needs booze or drugs, I can get high just dancing my buns off to High Energy and You Spin Me Round. Yeah, remember that one, ‘like a record baby,’ you know?”

“Yeah, Fran, like a record, you’re still spinning ’round,” Lee said with a knowing smile. We all laughed. But I couldn’t resist adding, “Well, we should be thankful we have places like Backstreet and the Chez Est. There are, no doubt, poor, disadvantaged homosexuals in rural areas of North Dakota who have never seen the inside of a gay disco.”

“Deprived homos,” Bobby J. said, “or should I say, depraved homos?” We all laughed again, even though it wasn’t that funny. Bobby J. hooted again.

2016 Carnival in Provincetown

Over so many years of going to Provincetown, I've never been to Carnival. For one, you have to book way in advance, and two, the price of rooms skyrockets from exorbitant to out of sight.

BUT...it looks like fun....

https://www.facebook.com/droningprovincetown/videos/1740942639506174/

Can't share the video, but can share another link HERE


Nevertheless, my new book takes place in Provincetown during Carnival week 2006. If only I could sit down and finish the thing....

An excerpt:

Traffic wasn’t too heavy on Saturday morning until they hit the Mass Pike, but even then it was moving steadily to Buzzard’s Bay. Once on Route 6 on the Cape it was practically bumper to bumper. Jack was driving because he was much calmer in traffic.

“It looks like all of New England is being funneled onto Cape Cod this weekend,” Andrew said. “Where on earth are all these people going and where will they park when they get there?”

“That is just a little a bit of hyperbole, don’t you think?” Jack observed. “Unless they’re all going to Provincetown. Then there definitely will be a problem with parking.”

Andrew continued, “I expected a four hour drive or so from Hartford, but we’ll be lucky to make it in six at this rate.”

“It’s ten-thirty. Barely four hours since we left Terri’s house and we’re already ten miles out of Orleans. We should be in P-town in half an hour provided we keep moving.” 

It was close to thirty-five minutes later after driving through the pine tree-lined road that they came to North Truro. Andrew pointed out the rows of quintessential one-room cottages on their left and Pilgrim Lake on the right. 

“Oh, my. Those quaint little cottages are still there. They are like a harbinger of the land of OZ. When Jack saw the sand dunes rising up from the great pond on the right he glanced over to Andrew. He was about to point out the dunes as if Andrew hadn’t already noticed them. He could see that Andrew had a tear running down his cheek.

“Drew, are you crying?” he asked.

“Oh my god, Jackie, we’re back. I can’t believe it. We’re here,” Andrew was trying desperately to hold back tears. “Our first summer together. Kind of where it began. I mean, you know, all in love and horny as hell.” Andrew giggled at what he’d just said, mixing sentimentality and horniness in the same sentence. Then he burst into laughter, the tears streaming down his cheeks like a waterfall.

His emotions were contagious and Jack got teary-eyed as well while laughing uncontrollably. “You are still a horny little devil, that hasn’t changed.” And they both laughed some more. Jack said, “After all these years. I think there’s still a magic here, like there was back in ’72.”

“Let’s hope so,” Andrew said. Then, after a short pause, he added, “I’m sure I’m feeling it already.”

Jack signaled and then pulled over onto the sandy shoulder. He turned to Andrew and gave him a kiss, a good, long, smack-on-the-lips kiss. He wiped the tears from Andrew’s cheek with the back side of his fingers, then kissed Andrew’s cheek. They took a moment to take in the view. 

“Oh, Jackie. Coming back here was definitely a good idea. It feels like a coming home.” Andrew held Jack’s hand tightly and kissed the fingers that had wiped his tears. “I think it is definitely the right place. I can’t believe we haven’t made it a point to come back here until now.”

“Let’s pull it togehter. We’ll be at the guest house any minute,” Jack said. “and it’s unbecoming to arrive for a vacation with tears in your eyes.”

Jack turned left onto Conrad, then right onto Bradford Street, following the directions he’d printed out to the little alley where Adrian’s Guest House sat nestled on a bit of real estate between Provincetown’s two major streets. There were four parking spaces. Jack pulled into the only unoccupied space, the one with a number 3 painted in white on the pavement. 

The guys checked in at Adrian’s front desk where a young man with an Eastern European accent ran their credit card, explained the house rules “breakfast is from 8 to 10 and do not forget your key if you are going to out past one AM because the main entrance will be locked” and politely directed them to room Number 3. After unpacking the car, and freshening up, Jack said, “I’m famished. Let’s go grab a bite for lunch.” 

In Celebration of Woodstock August 15-17, 1969 - An Excerpt From My Memoir

Soon after my return, [from my junior year in Italy] I got together with a couple of my college friends, Michael Buonanno and Wayne Chesney. Wayne, as I’ve mentioned before, was a bit effeminate despite his tales of womanizing, and Michael, a lanky bookworm-type with dark-rimmed glasses, was a self-proclaimed intellectual and free thinker.

Both were interested in attending (but Michael was the more eager) a concert we’d heard about that was scheduled for later that summer in nearby New York State. I was elected to get us all tickets for the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival, which was to be held from August 15 to 17, 1969.

Since I was the only one of us with a car, I also provided limo services. I picked up Michael in Springfield and Wayne just outside of Albany and we drove down to Bethel, New York, to join a half million or so other young people who were gathering to listen to Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin, the Lovin’ Spoonful, and dozens of other performers who had become icons of the counterculture that was sweeping the country.

We were hearing news reports on the radio about huge traffic backups on the New York Thruway and on rural roads leading to the music venue. Despite the reports about all roads being totally jammed, we decided we would try to get through. About twelve miles from the farm where the Woodstock Festival was taking place, we came to a dead stop. It was Friday afternoon.

Of course we were not the only ones. Cars lined the road and people, these so called hippies mostly, were sitting on lawn chairs or on the hoods of vehicles eating sandwiches, drinking Boone’s Farm, and smoking grass.
.
.
.
Many of the concertgoers began abandoning their Volkswagens, Chevy vans, and beat-up pickup trucks along the side of the road and walking. Some were saying it was a ten-mile walk to the gate, others were saying more like twelve or fifteen.

Michael, not one to think about practical matters or miss out on something he had his mind set on, said, “I think we should walk. Everyone else is.”

Wayne, more cautious and a little out of shape, said, “I don’t know. I suppose if it were a mile or two. But they’re all saying maybe ten miles or more. I don’t think I can walk that far. Besides, that means walking all the way back to our car later.”

“Yeah,” I said, “if we can even find the car again.”

I was quickly coming to the conclusion that we were not the free spirits we pretended to be. “Well,” I said. “I’m not really willing to leave the car here. I’m really not as laid-back as all these freaks and potheads. What if a bunch of these guys on LSD decides my car is a spaceship or something and break in so they can return to the earth from whatever planet they’re on and save the universe?”

I had no clue what tripping might be like, but it was my car, and I had the last word. I convinced them it was prudent to return home.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

We dropped off Wayne in his upscale Albany suburb late that evening. Michael and I headed home. It rained hard overnight.

On Saturday evening we heard that the traffic jams around the concert had cleared and the roads leading to the festival were open. Michael and I decided to head back to Woodstock early on Sunday morning. We didn’t call Wayne because it would take too long to drive all the way up to Albany again.
.
.
.
When we passed the gate, or should I say walked over the chain link fence, it was early Sunday afternoon. Most of the concert was over, but groups that had been delayed due to the rain and technical problems were still playing or waiting their turn.

What I remember most is the smell. The aroma of deep, dark, fermenting-hay-and-manure-enriched mud. And alternating whiffs of wood smoke from smoldering campfires and the unmistakable and ubiquitous aroma of cannabis sativa, pot. The combination created a sensory backdrop for the music of The Band, Blood Sweat and Tears, Crosby, Stills ,Nash and Young, and the other groups that played on through the night as we sat on a piece of plastic that we had found left behind in the pile of trash, in the middle of what had recently been a cornfield.

Michael said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to try to find some grass; I want to get high for this music.” He knew I had never smoked pot and I declined his invitation to try it now, so he didn’t insist I join him. He wandered a few yards away and soon ended up talking to a group of guys and girls. He was laughing his odd, snorty laugh as he took a joint from some guy with long, unkempt hair and a barely discernible yellow bandana that, when he gestured, caught the glow of the campfire in front of him.

Michael took a deep drag and held his breath. “Thanks,” he must have said while trying not to breathe out too much of the potent smoke. Then I’m sure he followed with, “I’ll have another toke, if that’s OK.”

He was not shy about asking complete strangers for something he wanted. He sat down with his new friends until he was sufficiently high to enjoy the music and then wandered back to where I was sitting.

“After the joint, we did a bowl of hash. That’s some good shit,“ he said. “I’m really fucked up.”

We sat, Michael swaying his head to the sounds of Ten Years After. I was probably the only spectator at Woodstock who wasn’t stoned. We sat, me most uncomfortably, on our plastic real estate while others around us were so stoned or high or drunk that they didn’t care about mud or smells or being comfortable.

I was the one who had suggested coming here, but, even though I may have looked like one of the crowd, it was not easy for me to go with the flow. It was never easy for me to go with the flow. I’m not even sure I knew what the phrase meant.

Here I was at Woodstock, in the midst of America’s youth subculture, trying again to fit in. Three months before, I’d been wearing an Italian fitted camicia and hip-hugging black velvet pants at the fancy farewell dinner dance, sipping Sambuca at a trattoria and hailing taxis with feigned European sophistication.

Now, on a smoky August night, I sat with Michael as shirtless hippies made love to their women in the open air on sleeping bags or in sagging orange tents that moved tellingly with their sexual tempo. Rock bands I’d never heard of serenaded all of us into the night.

We’d been mostly awake for more than a day. The sun was rising. It was Monday morning. If I had nodded off at all it was a half-sleep, not dreaming, not fully awake, the music hypnotic except when the microphone squealed every time an announcement was made from the stage; the campfire and marijuana smoke and people walking by, talking, laughing, asking things like, “Hey, man, anybody got some acid?” or “Where are the Porta-Johns?” all wove their way into my sleep/wake dream.

The Porta-Johns, just beyond the field of tents, had evidently been overflowing for days, and entering one was pretty disgusting, even to pee. I was glad that circumstances had shortened the time we had to spend there, the free music not quite making up for lack of creature comforts.

The misty light of sunrise revealed the debris of what had been, for a few days, a small city of half a million people. Empty wine bottles, soda and beer cans, paper bags, blankets, clothing, trampled nylon tents, and smoldering campfires dotted the pasture.

We were too tired to be very hungry. We had eaten the chips and sandwiches we brought along and made a breakfast of some grapes, a package of peanut butter crackers, and a couple of warm Cokes. We wandered around the field taking in the sights—lots of shirtless, barefoot young men caught my eye—as we headed toward the gate.

“You ready to leave?” I asked Michael. “Or do you want to hear more?”

Much of the crowd had already deserted the venue during the night as even hippies had responsibilities that came with Monday morning. Neither Michael nor I had anywhere to be.

“Yeah, I’m ready to go. I hope we can find the car,” Michael said. “I think we came in from over there.” He pointed to the left.

We walked along the side of the road past a wooded area and a pond where people were swimming and washing up. There were a few naked guys and girls splashing around and I envied their freedom. I couldn’t see much from the road, so I also envied their up-close view of the activity.
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Buy The Book HERE

A Much Needed Kick-In-The-Pants From One Of My Readers

I have of late thought about discontinuing this blog...as I often feel I have little to say or no energy or enthusiasm to say it. 

But I received a comment today from Kathy, one of my loyal readers after posting about my meager royalties from my published memoir.  She said:

I don't know much about this sort of thing. Maybe you need to build up your online presence. Post more often on your blog and when someone leaves a comment it might help if you acknowledge that comment. Also, comment more often on the blogs you visit. I have seen some very popular blogs that receive numerous hits. One example is a blog written by a man who writes about nothing in particular. But yet he's open and honest in his telling of everyday, mundane matters. He shares his thoughts on the funny and the absurd and yes, even those things that piss him off. His blog is no different than yours in terms of content. The big difference is that he posts something almost every single day. His readership is through the roof and many people have asked him to write a book. If you can build a relationship with your audience they will think of you as a friend. It takes time and effort to build up a readership. You have to be dedicated and disciplined. I am interested in your life and when I first found your blog I went back to the very beginning and read every post. Something has changed and you have lost the desire to write. It's a shame because you have so much to offer.
"I could be telling you about the wind storms in New Mexico or the Sunday brunch at San Marcos Cafe. Or about the Community Garden in Cochiti Lake or about Leon's job at the Mini-Mart".
Why not write about this stuff? I would like to know how things are going because I am invested in you and think you and Leon have a story worth telling.

My reply:

Wow!

Thank you Kathy, for your very thoughtful and engaging comments. You are right, I have lost some of my enthusiasm for writing. Other things have become priorities, and maybe not for the better. Our move to New Mexico, while providing great topics for writing, has taken up a great deal of time and energy...

I am lousy at self-promotion and I become easily discouraged. After so many years of having a blog with less and less feedback from readers and "demands" from family and friends to keep them informed via Facebook, a format that I deeply despise, I find that I have little time or energy for the more creative stuff that I was aiming for with Reluctant Rebel.

You have given me much to think about and maybe a little incentive to get back to basics. Facebook sucks the life out of me! One feels obligated to check on "friends" from time to time, read their posts and re-posted cute sayings and trite platitudes, watch funny videos and view every comment that people make on everyone else's post. Little energy is left for thought or writing. I don't know how some writers and bloggers continue while also keeping up with FB, Twitter, and a slew of other social media.

Perhaps I will try reviving RR and only post links to it on FB.

Thank you for being such a loyal reader. I really appreciate your comments, your encouragement and the kick in the pants that maybe I need to get me back on track. People tell me that writing takes discipline - something I apparently have little of. I'm not sure I can change that character flaw, but I will have to try re-prioritizing some things. I'm not sure our dog Benni will appreciate not being priority #1, so maybe writing will have to come in at #2 or #3....

Thank you again, Kathy, whoever you are and wherever you are...and I will use this as the post for the day.

Royalties (no not Royalty)

Got my $20.98 author royalty check the other day - from the publisher. (That's not a typo). I'm not sure what that represents as there were other outlets on line besides Amazon where my account has me down for a total of 9 sales!

If that is the total of my on-line sales, it comes to approximately $2.33 per book.

I wonder how that will effect next year's taxes.

I figured I'd have sold a few hundred thousand copies by now and that Hollywood would be contacting me for the screenplay and movie rights. Well, I'll give them another year.

The thing is, it's a pretty good read if I do say so myself. One problem is that the cover price is too high - something I had nothing to do with. I know I would hesitate before spending $25 for a memoir by an unknown author. I might not even pay $25 for a great book. 

I'd give rebates if I could, but at $20.98 profit, that ain't going to happen. That's less than the price of a single copy...now that I think of it.

Hey, but if you have 25 bucks buy the book. 

But only if you will ACTUALLY READ IT. I wrote it for a reason...

Movie Rights Still Available

Author as a young gay boy with Puppy

I want to share an email I received the other day. And my humble response:

Dear Frank,

I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed your book!... Of course I can tell you. It’s simple: “Wow, Frank, I really loved your book!” There.

I started it yesterday morning, blew off the gym, and read it all day and into the evening, finishing it late last night. I couldn’t put it down ... I simply could not stop reading. I don’t know what took me so long to actually get around to it, but I am so glad I did.

So much of your story resonated with me. It’s well paced, you write very well, and the inherent truths behind your saga are authentic and wonderfully expressed. I also enjoyed your poetry. Just lovely.

Your book evoked so many of my own memories of that time (the 70s, the 80s) and the idiotic hang ups we all had. I’d always thought the title was odd, and it wasn’t until I got to the part that explained it that it suddenly made sense. And it was funny, to boot. 

I could blab on for hours, but ... I just want to tell you that I am so impressed with your achievement.

The only way I can express this is by comparing your story to my favorite movies … the “sleepers”... not the blockbusters that get all the attention. ...Your book hit me like that. And I loved it.

Richard,

Your note nearly brought tears to my eyes. You don’t know how scary it is to put one’s self out there, especially in front of people that you know, to be judged on both your life’s foibles and your writing. 

So I was thrilled to read your comments, especially knowing you and that you do not hold back on expressing the good, the bad or the ugly.

Thank you so very much.

Now three favors to ask:

1. May I use your comments on my Facebook Page and blog?

2. Would you do a review on Amazon?

3. Contact your people. I want to sell the movie rights.

I got favorable replies to favors 1 & 2.

An Excerpt From the Afterword

An excerpt from the "Afterword" of "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By/"

Peter, the friend to whom I addressed the Preface, died from complications of AIDS, like too many other people I have known. I never finished composing that letter to him in 1987 and so it was never sent. Here, many years later, I include an Afterword, addressed to him.

May 2014
Dear Peter,

I’ve somehow survived to 2014. I am old—or pretty nearly old as life journeys go. In the grand scheme of things, I am nobody and my life is irrelevant. So why should my story, my experiences beginning more than half a century ago, matter to anyone? Why should I bother to write down these snippets of my life?

The answer to that last question: I had to write this account, even if no one ever reads it, because I was compelled to do so in the same way as I was compelled to come out; it was a matter of survival. And if I am to live any semblance of an authentic life, I must come out unreservedly and often; because coming out is never only an event: it is a continuous process and one that challenges me daily.

• The woman who cuts my hair when I’m visiting in South Carolina insists on making small talk and asks about my wife. She has scissors. How do I respond?

• At the auto repair shop, I tell the service tech, who I’ve just overheard making a homophobic comment, “If there’s a problem, call Lee, my, uh, friend? roommate? partner? significant other? husband?”

• Lee and I are holding hands on a deserted beach at sunset as some college kids approach in the distance. Do I let go of his hand?

Ann Bancroft as Ma Beckoff scolded Harvey Fierstein’s Arnold in Torch Song Trilogy: “You haven’t spoken one sentence since I got here,” she says indignantly, “without the word gay in it.” How often do I check myself so as not to offend the likes of all the Ma Beckoffs in the world with constant gay references?

• I am challenged daily to come out, again and again and again, because, even as things appear to be changing, there still exist subtle and pervasive societal and cultural norms that are intended to usher us back into our closets: the veiled but insidious beliefs, behaviors, words, and hatred that are still widely tolerated.

• I am challenged to come out, again and again and again, because of the hate and vitriol and rage that seem to escalate in response to every equal rights victory and with every courageous individual who comes out and who refuses to remain silent and invisible.

• I am challenged to come out, again and again and again, because too many gay kids still choose suicide as their only option to escape bullying and familial rejection; because some lawmakers still introduce bills that would take back our hard won rights and liberties; because some religions still wave signs declaring that “God hates fags” while others, less blatant, use more refined and educated language to condemn and vilify us.

....continued in the book

Unexpected Praises From My Younger Brother!

I got this email from my brother.

When I read it, it blew me away.

I never expected such praises from him. Mainly because he is usually rather reticent about such things. Or at least not quite as profuse. And he put it in writing, and he wrote a review on Amazon as well!

To be honest I thought he might consider my book to be 'just ok" and probably say some kind, but neutral, words to me about it when I see him at Thanksgiving.

But he emailed me this unsolicited praise; and of course his opinion is completely objective and unbiased:

I LIKED IT A LOT!!!! I literally could not put it down. I read a little over half of it last night, went to bed at midnight, couldn't sleep, got up at 1AM and read the rest of it. I haven't read a book like that (in one day - actually 2 since it was before and after midnight) in ages. 

I also wrote what I thought was a good review in Amazon. I might have gone a little over the top comparing it to other famous literary works but what the heck, a little salesmanship can't hurt, besides I really was enraptured with it which is more than I can say about most other books I've read. 

I guess knowing you personally has a lot to do with my level of interest in what you had to say and the stories you told and it was pretty much impossible to try and read it from a detached point of view, but you really do have a way with words. Parts of it were humorous such as in one of the first chapters when you guys are playing cards and you are telling anecdotes and trying to be somewhat deep and serious and the other guys just keep busting your stones. 

Many parts are very serious and inspiring. I don't have much more to say other than I don't remember being at the Cape with you unless you kind of made that part up.

My NOTE: Memories are funny things. I was positive my brother was at the Cape that time when we were there with all our cousins at a cottage in Harwich. There was a fresh water pond in back and we all went to the Mashpee PowWow and to Ptown for whale watching.  If I had doubts I would have checked it with my brother before putting it in print, but I was trusting my memory.

It doesn't change things in any substantial way however, so I defer to his memory of not being there! And I'll call my flub poetic license. 

So, to see what he thinks is so good, buy the book! (click on the book pic on the sidebar or go to Amazon here.

Below: Original mock-up of front and back covers.

Book Signing Last Evening

I was one of four featured authors at a book signing event at Bristol Public Library last evening. My mentor, Dawn Leger, (Chimney Crest Writers' Group and Lefora Publishing) gave me a very flattering introduction. I am very grateful for her support and encouragement and nudging me forward in my writing "career" if I may call it that.

I was the first reader. I introduced my reading with the quote on my book jacket, "I'm not sure the world really needs another coming out story, But I feel deeply the need to tell it."

And as evidence for the need to tell my story - I read the article that appears in the link in yesterday's post below about the gay boy beat to death and tortured by his mother and her boyfriend.

Because he will never be able to write his memoir.

Because despite the gains we've made, there are people who still cannot see beyond their own prejudice, hate and misguided religious beliefs.

So, while the week for me has been full of celebrations - Leon's birthday, Leon's and my marriage, and my book debut, we remain cognizant of the fact that so many others have so little to celebrate.

And that we must do what we can to help move humanity forward.

So many people have asked how I chose the title for my book. I tell them "You'll have to read the book."

But last night I chose the reading that revealed where the title came from - partly because the excerpt revolved around a BYOB Halloween party that I had gone to years ago....

Those in the audience - well about 12 of them - learned the secret and still bought the book, so I am grateful to them.

Buy the book! Link to Amazon on the side bar.

A Very Nice Comment and a New Poster

I received some great comments on Facebook (!) from a woman I've known for many years. We both worked in public health during the 1980s, in the early days of HIV/AIDS, doing counseling and HIV testing and education.

Laura has been one of the most supportive allies of the LGBT community in Connecticut. Here is what she said about Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?

Laura Schlesinger Minor 
Just finished reading it. Thank you, Frank for sharing such intimate details of your life to help those of us who didn't have to hide who we are understand what it takes to do it. Having known you for close to a quarter century, I'm so glad to have this book to add depth to knowing what your earlier life was like. The epilogue in particular is very moving.

Like

Update On The Book - "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?"

YEAH!

Well, the PRINT version of "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?" is available in a paperback format from Amazon.

You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/Did-Ever-Horse-Coming-Memoir-ebook/dp/B00NTCZH7W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1411494101&sr=8-1&keywords=did+you+ever+see+a+horse+go+by

Update - "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?" - Paperback Edition

Given that the book turned out to be only about 200 pages, I just want to say that I did not set the price for the book - that was set by the publisher. 

I know it may be a little steep for some of you guys (it certainly would be for me). Sorry about that. 

Anyhow the paperback version (there will not be a hard cover edition) is currently available on FastPencil.Com at this URL:

http://www.fastpencil.com/publications/6943-Did-You-Ever-See-a-Horse-Go-By

I'm told it will be on Amazon fairly soon. Before long there will be used copies available for twenty-five cents, no doubt.

Anyhow, I am lousy at self-promotion, but if any of you read the book and like it, don't pass it on - tell your friends to buy their own copy!

I haven't even got a copy yet - I think I get 5 copies as a courtesy from the publisher. 

Thanks to all of you for reading this blog and for all your support.

 Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!

- Frank

P.S. THERE WILL BE A BOOK SIGNING AT THE BRISTOL PUBLIC LIBRARY ON OCTOBER 30TH at about 7:00 PM.

More updates to follow.

"Did You Ever See A Horse Go By?" - My First Amazon-Kindle Publication

We just got back from P-town after two weeks of fun, sun, surf, sand, and sticker shock, (more on that later) only to finally read and follow-up on some email.

My colleague and a member of Lefora Publishing let me know I now had an ISBN and sent me a link to Amazon.

I'm thrilled to say I'm now available on Amazon in Kindle form.

Now this is both scary and exciting: scary because I'm finally out there in a way that is very different from the blogosphere. Scary because being out there means being open to criticism from a possibly wider audience. People whose opinions may be not so nice. Oh, well! I think I'm ready for it. And exciting - well, because it's pretty damn exciting to be published - and by a publisher who thinks me worthy of print.

From what I can ascertain, the print version of the "book" is not yet available.

But for the Kindle edition, click here: http://www.amazon.com/Did-Ever-Horse-Coming-Memoir-ebook/dp/B00NTCZH7W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1411494101&sr=8-1&keywords=did+you+ever+see+a+horse+go+by

Coming Soon - More Details Later

I've just been informed by my publisher, Lefora Publications that my memoir will be published sometime in October.

Here is a mock-up of the cover: