“Making The Rounds: Defying The Norms in Love and Medicine”

Defying expectations of a woman growing up in Arizona in the 1960s, Patricia Grayhall fled Phoenix at nineteen for the vibrant streets of San Francisco, determined to finally come out as a lesbian after years of trying to be a “normal” girl. Her dream of becoming a physician drew her back to college in Arizona, and then on to medical school in conservative Salt Lake City.

A chronicle of coming of age during second-wave feminism and striving to have both love and career as a gay medical doctor, Making the Rounds is a well-paced and deeply humanizing memoir of what it means to seek belonging and love—and to find them, in the most surprising ways.

The excerpt below is when Patricia has just arrived home from the hospital after being up all night in the ICU. I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. But my lover Dani had let herself in to my house revved up for another confrontation as our relationship continued to crumble. I was sure she was sleeping with Jennifer on her softball team. This excerpt begins mid-fight. (Laki is her nickname for me).

I was limp as a wet dishrag when I arrived home, looking forward to a glass of wine and a nature program on TV.

Dani was there, eating a TV dinner at the kitchen table. I frowned, annoyed to see her, and wished I’d gotten my key from her. She had her mouth full and greeted me with a curt nod.

Why is she here? I tensed with anxiety that she was gearing up for another pointless discussion. In the six weeks since I’d given her the ultimatum about wrapping up her affair with Jennifer, she’d given me no sign she had.

“Can we dispense with our usual hand-wringing diatribe this evening?” I asked before she even opened her mouth.

Dani put down her fork and looked up at me. “I don’t under- stand myself for getting involved with a woman who is so totally egocentric.” She took in a forkful of processed mashed potatoes.

“I’m the one who’s egocentric?” Dani was the most solipsistic woman I’d ever met. Was this her way of justifying her affair? “You’re so caught up in your own world, you have no idea what I’m going through. You said you’d be here at eight o’clock last night. You didn’t show until ten when I needed to be in bed asleep.”

I paced the floor, preparing to go on a rant.

Dani cut me off. “You see only that I’ve wronged you by sleeping with Jennifer and that’s all you care about. You can be caring, loving, and generous—it’s true. But

I’ve seen it happen only when it holds an advantage for you.” She took a swig from the glass in front of her, half-full of something amber-colored.

“It’s hard to be caring and loving when you’re running off to the Vineyard with Jennifer, sailing with Helinka, out to the bar with your softball team. You hardly make any time for us when I’m not working. Have you fed the dog?”

“No, not yet.”

Buto looked up at me, her gaze expectant. I walked to the cupboard and got out her kibble, filling her bowl. She was out of water, too. Sensitive to our tone, she didn’t leap on her food.

Dani ignored our dog and carried on.

“Maybe you thought you could push me around. But I drew the line—my refusal to ditch friends so you could control me. Yes, I’ve slept with another woman because you weren’t fulfilling needs of mine. Sexual needs were at the bottom of the list, Laki. More important to me is acceptance with unselfish, unconditional love. I didn’t have to bargain for it like I have with you.”

I snorted. “So, you’ve found a woman who is giving you unselfish, unconditional love like an infant at mama’s breast? Even when you disappoint her, as you no doubt will?”

Dani gave me a dark look, got up, opened the cupboard where I kept the Cointreau to top up her drink. I wondered just how much she’d had before I’d come home. Was alcohol fueling this?

As she reached for the bottle, I walked over, caught her wrist, and squeezed it—perhaps a little too hard. “Don’t—no more.”

Dani looked surprised, then defiant as I stared her down. My heart pounded. She could overpower me in any physical confrontation. I held on to her wrist and felt her close her fist. Is she going to hit me?

Then she lowered her arm, and I let go.

She stayed put, still close. “Never have I experienced such overwhelming aggressiveness as I have with you.”

Who is she talking about? “This aggressive ogre is hungry.”

I moved away and rummaged for something to eat in the refrigerator. I found only wine, mayonnaise, and ketchup. The freezer yielded a spinach soufflé, but it would take an hour to bake. I settled for snacking on stale peanuts while I warmed up the oven for the soufflé.

Dani still hovered, but I was fed up.

“I’m so tired of this. Of you making me into a raging ogre who ignores your sensitive feelings and thwarts your creative energy. Go fuck whoever you want, yourself included.”

I flounced into the sunroom, turned on the reading lamp, took out a magazine, and flipped through the pages, too tired and upset to read.

Dani spoke softly to the dog in the kitchen, urging her to eat. Soon I heard Buto crunching her kibble and listened for the sound of Dani leaving.

She didn’t leave. She followed me into the sunroom and sat in a chair near me, her face partially hidden in shadow.

“Last week, I relived the most awful years of my life,” she said, her voice shaky. “Years of depression, attempted suicide, and the odd looks from people who knew.

“You didn’t have a ghost of understanding. You only expressed hurt and anger I spent the weekend with Jennifer.” Dani looked on the verge of tears.

I remembered there was a time when she’d turned to me for solace and comfort, and I’d been happy to give it. Over the past year, though, I’d been less available both physically and emotionally. So had she. Whose fault was that?

“Sorry, I’ve run dry of unselfish, unconditional love.” I re- turned to flipping the pages of my magazine, not looking at her.

Dani banged her fist on the table between us, rattling the lamp. “You insist on monogamy from me. But what about you cheating on Maryann? Most important to me is approval of who I am. I get approval from you if I bend myself to your will. But it’s all conditional, Laki.”

I looked up at her. “You’ll find it will be conditional with Jennifer too. Are you so naive that you think a woman will be there to love and comfort you, no matter whether you meet her needs as well?”

I winced inwardly, realizing that’s exactly what I had wanted of Cass. I buried my face in my magazine.

Dani jumped up and snatched the magazine away. “I could say many bitter things, Laki, but I would only dislike myself for it. I love you even now. We can be such great friends and we play together better than anyone I know. That’s hard to give up. But it’s gone too far. We’ve hurt each other too much.”

Her tone had softened, but I ignored it. She’d slept with Jennifer. She was still sleeping with Jennifer. That was all I could hear. I was finished with her. Blood pounded in my head. Also tempted to say further things I might regret, I realized there was no point. It was over.

“Just go,” I said.

Dani headed for the door, grabbing her coat and bag on the way, forgetting about Buto.

“Leave the key!” I shouted to her retreating back.

The door slammed, rocking the walls. I slumped in the chair. Only then did I cry.

After a good cry, I poured a glass of chardonnay and thought of my doomed relationship with Dani. Could she ever really see me? My sensitivity and vulnerability, my real—not imagined— strengths, and my genuine love for her? But satisfying my need for love and security with Dani this past year was like trying to buy a cantaloupe at the hardware store

Patricia Grayhall is a medical doctor and author of Making the Rounds; Defying Norms in Love and Medicine as well as articles in Queer Forty and The Gay and Lesbian Review. After nearly forty years of medical practice, this is her debut, very personal, and frank memoir about coming out as a lesbian in the late 1960s and training to become a doctor when society disapproved of both for a woman. Patricia lives with the love of her life on an island in the Pacific Northwest. patriciagrayhall.com/

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Set in 1990s New York, Slow Reveal paints a portrait of artists who defy the arbiters of culture and challenge social norms. Art, addiction and family dynamics capsize the Kanes when they discover the parallel life of Katharine, film editor, mother, lover and wife.
“A poem is never finished, only abandoned,” wrote Paul Valéry, an outcome echoed in her decade-long affair with Naomi, a lesbian poet. Katharine’s marriage to Jonathan collapses in his struggle with sobriety when he’s ostracized for politicizing art and abandons his career for advertising. Faced with confrontations from her two grown daughters, an installation artist and an aspiring writer, Katharine hangs onto her former life. When unforeseen tragedy strikes, devotion and commitment are not the guardrails that keep their work or relationships on track but rather a form of entrapment.

A captivating story about relevance at the end of the 20th century, the novel questions the voracious demands of contemporary society through a riveting portrayal of turbulent family life, impacted by art shaped by the media and influenced by social and political injustice. Success is redefined by the courage to embark on the artistic process, as risky, messy and unpredictable as building intimacy and trust in love.

Please enjoy the following excerpt.

Naomi tried on every jacket and pair of pants hanging in her cramped closet. She couldn’t decide which one looked best, berating herself for wanting to look that good in the first place. Her indecision had nothing to do with vanity but more perversely, how she would replace Jonathan at his own memorial service. Attending wasn’t her idea. Katharine insisted on it. She needed her there but never explained why.

From the valet box on her dresser, she found the studs for the cuffs of her starched black shirt. The macabre image of funerals as weekly tributes came back full force. She’d been to too many over the years for friends and artists who died of cancer and AIDS. They were her peers, just like Jonathan, not her elders as was commonly the case except for the demise of her mother, given her rapid deterioration from Alzheimer’s. The only saving grace was her father, who buffered her mother’s degenerative decline by finding Devon Donovan, a doctor who treated the terminally ill without the notoriety of Kevorkian. Death, unlike life, had become a close friend. Intimate, dependable, remarkable in ways, someone she could trust, someone who reliably showed up only after a brief absence and never lacked enthusiasm for her own personal struggle.

“This,” she said, dangling the leather harness she used to seduce Katharine, “is completely inappropriate, therefore I will wear it fully accessorized.” Her somber mood was broken by this crazy gesture. The inanity of it all… She imagined cutting through the crowd of mourners yelling, “Thou art art!” pointing to the urn of Jonathan’s ashes. Cruel and unbecoming, yes, but honest. Why weren’t people honest anymore? Have lies been told so often they now appeared absolute and irrefutable?

She dropped the briefs she planned to wear, walked out into the living room sporting her harness and over to the window where she pulled up the shades and yelled, “Cocks and crows be damned. I stand before thee naked. A man, a woman, a monster.” And she cackled and crowed maddeningly before whisking a bottle off the cabinet, lifting the cork and guzzling it down then spraying her woolen rug with a shower of ruby wine, rubbing it in for good measure with the heel of her bare foot. Sick and tired of the tidy lies, she fixated on the stain. There will be no more deception between us.

In Katharine’s absence she could not dispute her claim.
The act revitalized her and her dynamism returned. She recalled the last time they spent together. Bathed in the pale moonlight, Katharine’s face showed subtle signs of confusion, that slight slant of the lips and the faint trace of the dimple on her left cheek. Their fingertips touched and the lightning struck with a force that traveled the length of their bodies. No longer imprisoned by thoughts, they ventured out feeling the curve of the earth, their orbit a slow spiral down where gravity was not essential.

With the pulsating rhythm of her sex locked up in a harness, she felt the energy bound up and turned inward. She wasn’t fixed on a singular mind set about what makes a man, what makes a woman. To her, it was not the body or the genitals but the orientation of energy. An orientation that was not absolute. She always loved women but knew that to love them truly she had to love herself. It hadn’t been easy, not because of her identity but her disorientation around gender, like those little icons stuck on the walls of public toilets indicating which door to use. She rarely interpreted the symbols correctly. They made no sense to her, which accounted for the way she often walked blindly into the wrong bathroom. As if there were no subtleties in the evolution of the human race…

One glance at the clock over the kitchen stove and she dashed into the bedroom to dress. If she didn’t pull herself together, she’d be late for the memorial service. She knew her presence would make things worse and she hated herself, their relationship, for that.
Darting
in and out
of time
in lame attempts
of swift escapes
from savage ways
that ravage
every
last
bit
of
flesh and bone and wit.

Edward Albee Fellow and fiction grant recipient, Melanie Mitzner is the author of Slow Reveal, published by Inanna Publications in May, 2022 and selected for Best Women’s Fiction Writers 2022 Debuts. An excerpt was published in Bloom. She’s a finalist in four fiction and screenwriting competitions. Her work appears in Gay & Lesbian Review, Wine Spectator, Vol1Brooklyn, Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly, Hamptons, The Groovy Mind blog, Society for Curious Thought and Submerging Artists. As a former journalist for tech, she covered television production/visual effects. https://www.melaniemitzner.com

Melanie Mitzner Photo Credit: Robert Laliberté

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“She said she wanted to test my boundaries!” squealed Camila towards her car’s passenger seat where her mobile phone was lying on loud speaker.

Julie’s voice was gasping from the other end of the connection.

“Where is she?”

“Behind me! In her Lamborghini!”

Looking in the rear-view mirror, Camila debated how they’d got to this point.

She looked away.

She knew how they’d got to this point. Harriet had been right: she’d said yes.

She’d gone to the office at the end of the corridor at five and said yes.

Why had she said yes?

Real life doesn’t play out like a movie. Electric connections mostly mean you’ve got static in your jumper. Camila Moore knows that; she’s not daft. She has two teenage boys and bills to pay, plus the only man she’s ever been with has traded her in for a gym bunny. Returning to work’s the answer, but when she finds herself in the wrong room, wrong place at the wrong time, the last thing she expects is to be promoted out of obscurity into the arms of Harriet Imogen Pearson, media darling, hotshot entrepreneur and notorious lesbian playgirl.

Camila can’t believe it; she’s an ordinary woman, nothing special – in her view – so what’s Harriet’s motivation? What’s her end game?

Are Camila’s feelings just infatuation or is it real life love?

Kiki Archer is the mistress of chick-lit romance for girls of all ages and inclinations.

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It was eight o’clock and everyone at the party wanted to know where she was. “She’s running,” Jen said when one person and then another came into the kitchen to ask for Chris, who was, I quickly gathered, the guest of honor. Chris was always running in those days, although I didn’t know that then; I didn’t yet know anything about her. Later I would learn she often ran for two or three hours, and on hot nights like the one of the party she set out in the cooling dusk and ran until long after dark.

She finally arrived just before nine, wearing cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt, her short blonde hair still wet from the shower. From the kitchen I heard a loud welcome and then a chorus of teasing for her lateness, and even from where I stood at the counter, slicing baguettes and trying to appear as though I belonged, I could see the teasing was a beloved ritual; they had been waiting on her for years and—running or no running—they would wait again.

“She’s been in New York,” Jen said, motioning to the porch with her paring knife, “but she joined a Philly firm last month, and she’s back in the neighborhood.” She reached for a beer bottle and took off the cap. “Let’s bring her a beer,” she said, “and I’ll introduce you.” I followed Jen out to the porch. She held open her arms, then stepped back. “Is that shower or sweat?” Jen asked. Chris didn’t answer, only took the beer bottle and walked into the embrace.

“I’m Chris,” she said as she pulled away from Jen and turned toward me. She put out her hand and smiled at me in a way that seemed to turn her eyes into small suns, the skin around them folding into thin rays. She was taller than me and her hand was strong; I could see the muscles in her tan arms, in her shoulders. She wore a red string around her wrist, and when I looked down I saw that she wasn’t wearing any shoes. I didn’t understand how it was possible for someone who looked like her to be a lawyer.
I had been invited to the party to meet a man. The man was a poet, and he was quick-witted and wiry in the way of many poets I would later meet. The introduction was a kind gesture on Jen’s part, the sort of thing a married woman did for a friend who had, at the tender age of twenty-three, broken up with her live-in boyfriend and moved to a downtown studio apartment. I was lonely in those days, although I didn’t recognize what I felt as loneliness. I thought I was just becoming an adult.

Eventually we all made our way to the table. I sat next to the poet and across from Chris. There was a toast to her return and she inadvertently drank from my wineglass. I toasted her with water, and when she turned away I took back my wineglass and emptied it in one long swallow.
Later Jen would tell me if she had known about me she wouldn’t have bothered with the poet. I told her not to worry. What I didn’t say was how could you have known when I barely knew myself? I only dated men, only sought men. But I noticed women. Occasionally I would meet a woman and her hand would linger against my palm when we were introduced, her gaze would seek mine at the table. I came to understand the wordless, daring question she was asking me: Am I right? I learned to answer with my own lingering hand, my own glance away and back again: Yes, yes, you are. And although I learned to not be afraid of my wanting, I also did not act on it. I turned away, I took back my hand; I waved my good-byes from the door. I was’t interested in what came next. My desire was simply too quick to cool. It was moody and adolescent, but because I was not an adolescent I didn’t let myself begin something I couldn’t keep aloft.

Which is why I did not expect what happened at the dinner party. I did not expect that the flicker of wanting I felt at the sight of Chris on the porch would not fade, and that I would, again and again over the hours of the party, meet her gaze and seek her attention, pass her bowls of food and keep my hand on them too long, waiting for her hand to press against mine. That night I felt my desire bloom heavier than it ever had before, which had the mysterious and miraculous effect of allowing me to see her desire, to see her watch me and speak to me in a way she was not watching or speaking to anyone else.

When it was late and I had clearly missed the last train back to the city, someone at the table said something to Chris about a girl and Chris smiled and took a long drink from her beer bottle. And I knew then what I could do—what I could make happen—and I knew it with a novel and heady certainty.

I stood from the table and went upstairs to the bathroom, went upstairs to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see my face; I wanted for a moment to be alone with the truth of what I knew was coming. And when I came down the stairs again and stopped on the landing to see Chris’s laughing face, to see the light around the table in a house that was otherwise entirely dark, I couldn’t catch my breath. Not because I was afraid, but because I was—finally, fully, hopelessly—lit.

Excerpted from Given Up for You: A Memoir of Love, Belonging, and Belief  by Erin O. White. Reprinted by permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. © 2018 by the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System. All rights reserved. Order from local or online booksellers.

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Are you dreading Valentine’s Day? For those who don’t yet know what to get their significant other and might be light on ideas, money, or time—first, let’s admit it: Valentine’s Day is one of the toughest holidays to plan. It’s the one day out of the year focusing solely on love, romance, and couples. The ads are flying with hearts, candy, flowers, and cards. We can’t get away from it, so we might as well embrace it as best we can.

Want to do something different? Here’s a few tips for the book lover that might help. I’ve looked through our stacks at Sapphire Books Publishing and picked out some sweet romances, romances with steamy love scenes and romances guaranteed to make your lover blush. Of course, these are only a few of the fantastic romance books with a HEA, happy-ever-after published at Sapphire. So, if your girl isn’t into reading, it’s okay. She might be after this.

Tip No. 1: Romantic curves ahead

Read something romantic to her! What’s romantic? My friend, romance is in the eye of the beholder. Now, I want you to think about this—what is the end result? A great romp between the sheets? Do you want to show her how much you love her? Perhaps, you want to share your love of books with her. You need to know your goal so you can pick out what to read. Will she respond to something erotic, or romantic? Is it leather and whips, or is it sweet romance where lovers explore each other’s bodies in a gentle, loving way? Knowing that first is the biggest hurdle.

So, find a book, ebook or print. Hint: as long as the ebook doesn’t need to be read from a computer, you’re good here. Now, have her close her eyes as you read. If appropriate, ask her to visualize the characters as you and her. This might be a good time to experiment with roles, and maybe switch them up. Whether it’s romance or erotica, pick out your favorite chapter and read it to her. If it’s too long, pick out your favorite scene. There are lots of great books out there with awesome chemistry between characters.
Whether it’s Addison M. Conley’s debut novel, Falling for Love, or Linda North’s “Wind and Dreams,” there are scenes in these books that singe the pages. Maybe your lover has an interest in a particular subject—for example, cooking and food—you can check out Shannon Harris’s new novel, Add Romance and Mix. Find out what her interests are and look for books that combine both of those things. Love and … you get the idea. If kink is her forte, check out American Yakuza I or II by me, Isabella. You’ll find some hot bondage scenes in this series that will not only spark a fire, but she might even ask you to read them again. Oh, and you don’t need a bondage club or lots of extra rope to do a faux-bondage reenactment. Just use your imagination. However, make sure your lover is up for this if you’re acting out a scene. A safe word might make her feel better about what you are about to embark on. Also, don’t judge if she says no to the extreme—it’s what gets both your motors running that makes the night a romantic success. Finding what works for the two of you is the key to a magic Valentine’s night.

Tip No. 2: Practice makes perfect

Practice your reading. Break out the book way before Valentine’s Day and read the passage. Read it over and over again. You want to be able to emphasis words: knowing them by heart so you can look into her eyes when you recite them will help you make a connection. She’ll be watching your lips as you push out every huff, moan, and sigh. So, do yourself a favor and make it look effortless.

Tip No. 3: Caution: Could be addictive

This tip is only for the adventurous among you. Act out your favorite scene from a book. Think about it, the author has already done their research— so now all you have to do is put it to use. Okay, so maybe you don’t have a cutlass or a sword at your disposal, but think of all the fun ways you can recreate settings from your favorite book. Candles, dinner, a bubble bath (just about every book has a hot bath scene), a trip to the adult store, or even those old neckties you have lying around for those kinky moments— these simple touches won’t cost an arm and a leg, and will go a long way to setting the scene and impressing your girl. Improvise. Trust me, taking a chance might end up being the best choice you’ve ever made—outside of choosing your partner.

Tip No. 4: More practice

See tip #2. Practice, practice, practice. She’s going to love it because you went to all this trouble to come up with a romantic night so completely different than anything she’s experienced before. You’ll get your swagger on by being prepared, and knowing that what’s coming next is so outside the norm of your routine that it could change your bedroom—for the better—forever.

Tip No. 5: BYOB

Write your own romance scene. Break out a piece of paper, a good pen, and think about how special she is to you. Often, we writers are inspired by our own wives and lovers when we write a romantic scene. While it may seem harder than it looks, if you’ve read romance books, you might be surprised to find out how easy it really is. Now, if you have a hard time reading a graphic—or mildly graphic—sex scene, then don’t write one. So, what do you do then? Think of the most romantic evening, day, or time you’ve spent together, write it out, and then read it to her. Craft a story around it and give voice to it. The craft of letter writing has fallen by the wayside, but think about how you feel when you receive a card or letter in the mail. The same excitement holds true for a romantic note. So, I want you to think about the payoff here. Not in sexual terms, but in a way that can be special for you both. Writing about how much you love her will make her feel special. Make it more personal than the short little quip you put in one of those cheesy Valentine’s Day cards. The benefits you reap in the short term may uncover the key to many more in the future for your relationship.

Now, find your favorite book and get practicing. I’ve added a couple of links below to books that might help you on your voyage of exploration. Sign-up for our newsletter to keep up with all the new releases coming in 2018. If you need more inspiration check out: Sapphire Books Publishing

Falling for Love by Addison M. Conley – Check out chapter – Chapter 13

Add Romance and Mix by Shannon M. Harris – Check out chapter – Chapter 22
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Wind and Dreams by Linda North – Check out chapter – Chapter 28
American Yakuza I
American Yakuza II by Isabella – Both books are loaded with hot and steamy ideas
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Short Story more your speed? Check out: Last Train by Isabella

Isabella is a bestselling author of over thirteen novels. She writes everything from kink, suspense, fantasy, to romance. Her next novel, “Twisted Deception,” comes out this June.

The post Hot alternative for Valentine’s Day first appeared on Lesbian.com.

She concocted this scheme with our friend Heather, who lives in Vegas and knows all the cool things to do. I have a feeling this trip will be a lot different than the one I took to the Lambda Literary Conference back in the early 1990s.

Before my sweetheart and Heather, I traveled alone, so there was no chance of doing anything riskier than surviving the unexpected snowstorm I hit in the mountains of Northern California. But truly, I was more petrified of attending the Lammys than I was of mountain passes or ziplines.

I knew Jennifer Abod, producer of “The Passionate Pursuits of Angela Bowen,” back in New Haven in the 1970s. When I ran into her this summer, she said she remembered me as “very, very shy and very, very skinny.” I mumbled something about being fifty pounds more substantial now, and she may have recognized that the shyness has endured. Or else thought I had the verbal skills of a feral banana.

The truth is that I’m just as shy and timid around people as I was in the seventies. And in the nineties. The easiest part of that Lammys trip for me was walking from my backstreet motel along the fabled “Strip” to the awards ceremony. When I entered the massive room of white table cloths and strangers, I had to about face and find a toilet immediately.

A while later, I found the Naiad Press table and assumed I belonged there, in the one empty seat I saw. This wasn’t long before Naiad changed direction, remaindering books and returning rights to poorly selling writers, but I didn’t know that yet. Nobody but me was freezing me out. Everyone was proper and I was my usual bump on a log self with no conversation in me. Fortunately, I was next to Naiad Press and “Poets and Writers” editor Christie Cassidy, a playful femme who valued my work and gave me the courage to make a brief presentation on stage—to an award winner who wasn’t in the audience and hadn’t sent a proxy. What could be worse for someone like me than to find myself alone on a stage with an unclaimed trophy?

After the lengthy program ended, I felt as isolated as when I’d arrived. I didn’t know who to talk to and was scared someone might talk to me. I slunk through the glamorized halls of the casino, breathing ghastly amounts of cigarette smoke, feeling like a feral banana, an invisible one at that.

That doesn’t change. I go to literary events now, like Saints and Sinners, where I’m warmly welcomed, know my way around a podium, and still quake in my shoes in crowded rooms without my sweetheart. Sometimes I come away from a conference with little memory of it because it takes so much of my spirit to participate.

I know I’m not alone. Even with improved social skills it takes everything I have to start a conversation, or to join a group of laughing, talking people. I’ve been accused of snobbery when I’m actually hiding out. Or people think I don’t like them because I seem standoffish, when I’m actually dying inside, ashamed of my shell of reticence and not knowing how to emerge from it. Or maybe I am snooty, having missed any lessons on small talk.

Thank goodness for women like Mercedes Lewis, who created “Con Virgin” programs at The Golden Crown Literary Society conferences—Vegas being the site of this year’s conference. New attendees get special attention. There are events just for them, if they choose to participate. If they’re not too nervous to accept. I’m one of the latter, more likely to go off in my miserable, lonely corner and become more self-consciously obvious than I would be if I could blend into a group.

In the end, it’s all about ego. I’ll do almost anything, apparently, to protect my ego from being bruised. But, I have learned how unfair that is to others. I’m one of millions; when I hide, when I won’t risk being tongue-tied, I could instead be making life easier for someone as shy as myself.

I’m still the same person inside, and it’s punishing every time I reach out, but I’ve learned, if I’m not adept at talking, I’m a pretty good listener. If I can manage a few seconds of greetings and questions, if I can get out of myself and show interest, I’ve found that people are generally quick to tell their stories, dreams, ambitions.

Not as quick as my sweetheart and Heather will be, high above the theme park called Las Vegas, but no feral banana either.

Copyright Lee Lynch 2018 / January 2018

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Twenty five years ago, when this book was written, there had once been a town in Western Massachusetts with a large and growing lesbian population. There was a feminist film collective, a feminist book store, a collectively owned and run women’s restaurant, a mostly lesbian populated rooming house, and a few miles away in two directions, lesbian owned women’s land. A course of study at the state university that is now known as some version of Women, Sexuality and Gender Studies was then known simply as Women’s Studies. In the bigger universe there had been women’s recording companies, women’s music festivals, a half dozen dedicated feminist and lesbian-feminist publishers, theatre companies, little magazines, news rags, literary reviews, and filmmakers. The Stonewall Riots had incited a movement by then and ACT UP was clearing the path for AIDS activism. Ellen DeGeneres was not yet out as a lesbian (when she took that step she would call herself gay) and we would have to wait another twenty five or so years for Jill Soloway’s “Transparent” to make its way to what we now call television and delight and disturb us with all kinds of queer and Jewish family brilliance.

Back then, the terms cis-gendered, gender non-binary, gender-fluid and gender-queer were just a twinkle in some graduate student’s parent’s eye. We women who were attracted to and slept with other women called ourselves lesbians, and, much to the consternation of women similarly inclined who were a generation older than us, dykes. There was often considerable misgiving (read judgment) among middle class white women my age around women who named themselves butch and femme. Drag queens were viewed with suspicion, and transgender was seen by the general public as a medical term, not a political one. This was a period when lesbians, coupled or single, were choosing to have babies by turkey baster or otherwise, and while some women were joining together in ritualized ceremonies, not only was the idea of state sanctioned same sex marriage a different gleam in some future legal eagle’s smarty pants eye, it was spurned as an attachment to patriarchal values by many of us because, as Joni Mitchell put it in her cis-gendered song, My Old Man: “We don’t need no piece of paper from the city hall….”

So this book reflects the language of the time in which it was written (Fifteen years ago an irritated cis-gendered male student of mine once went through and actually counted the number of times the word “lesbian” appears in this book). A central plot of Running Fiercely… clearly reflects the fact that in 1992, marriage was a privilege “enjoyed” by heterosexuals where a certain type of lesbian might be considered held captive by the expectation that she participate in the ritual as a bridesmaid. At the same time, another type of lesbian might feel outraged and wounded to be left out of the ritual and cause the kind of trouble the bride’s sister Nadine makes when she is left out (kept out?) of the wedding altogether.

Who knew that just a few years later so many of us would be able to get that piece of paper from the city hall, and enjoy the celebration and legal protections that go with it?

When I finished writing this book in the early ‘90s, Sarah Schulman’s “Sophie Horowitz Story” had been out in the universe for 11 years; Elana Dykewoman’s “Riverfinger Women” for 20. By the time Nancy K. Bereano published the original edition of “Running Fiercely” in 1992, that brilliant, farsighted publisher had made sure that works by visionary activist-artists such as Audre Lorde, Jewelle Gomez, Dorothy Alison, Alison Bechdel and Leslie Feinberg among so many others had seen the light of day. Work by Jewish lesbians appeared in anthologies such as “Nice Jewish Girls” (Evelyn Torton Beck, editor) and “The Tribe of Dina” (Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz and Irena Klepfisz, editors). Lesbian poets, Jewish and otherwise, for whom the personal was absolutely political such as Klepfisz, Lourde, Judy Grahn, Gloria Anzaldua, Cherie Moraga, and Adrienne Rich found homes in both mainstream and small presses. It was a rich and glorious time in feminist and lesbian publishing.

And then, what Bereano called “rapacious capitalism” reared its head and for a number of years small press publishing of any stripe and independent book selling became extremely difficult. Hopefully, some graduate student in some gender-fluid journalism program not too far in the future will write their master’s thesis on what happened to small press publishing and independent book stores between the late 1990’s and early 2000’s at the hands of mega bookselling and publishing operations which stole the market and some of the authors. Yet now, some years later, thanks in part to e-publishing, self-publishing, and determined small press folks like the women of Bywater, other thriving independent publishers, and book store owners who refused to give up, we stole the market back.

So 25 years later, what is this book?

This book is a ‘70’s Jewish dyke’s reflection on the town she came out in and the family she grew up in –fictionalized, of course. It is a riff on the work of well- known Jewish storytellers like I.B. Singer, his brother I.J., Anzia Yezierska, and especially the beloved creator of the town of Chelm where all men are fools, Sholom Aleichem.

I made this book at a time when work by lesbian writers was nurtured and exploding into a welcoming and thriving culture. With that in mind, I invite you to imagine me, the writer, 25 years ago, sitting at my computer in a tee shirt and a pair of well-worn overalls, high tops on my feet, wild hairs flying in all directions, blasting Joan Armatrading and the Klezmer Conservatory Band on the stereo, as I made this story of one Jewish lesbian who never really left home and another, her sister Nadine, who was forced to flee.

Mostly, I invite you to enjoy.

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Wedding planner Lauren Hilliard weaves fairytales out of possibilities. It’s her business and she’s good at it.

Her brides love her for making their dreams come true, but she’s not managed to make the magic happen for herself — yet.

Trouble is, Lauren’s in love with her best friend and has been for 11 hopeless years. Years in which she’s secretly imagined the fairytale of possibilities if she had the courage to speak … which she hasn’t. So she doesn’t. And she won’t.

But what if the feelings are mutual?

Cue the latest magical rom-com from best-selling, award-winning author Kiki Archer.

Buy the book here:
Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0721QDM5L
Amazon.co.uk: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0721QDM5L

The post ‘A Fairytale of Possibilities:’ A new lesbian rom-com from acclaimed author Kiki Archer first appeared on Lesbian.com.

“Lost In The Starlight” hit No. 1 for lesbian fiction in the United Kingdom and Australia, it was in the top three here and in Canada, and it stormed up the mainstream romance charts on your side of the pond, so is your readership driven any longer by their sexuality?
I promote myself as a lesbian fiction author. I write lesbian fiction, i.e. the heroine of the story will always fall for a woman as opposed to a handsome hunk. However my latest two novels were aimed predominantly towards the straight female reader. I have a wonderful lesbian following who know what they’re getting with a Kiki Archer novel: laughs, loves and lesbians. For the straight woman, however, I wanted to show them it’s okay to be curious, it’s okay to read about love between someone other than the tall, dark and handsome business hunk and his quiet and shy, eager to please secretary. Lesbian love and the interactions between women are so deeply fascinating. You get pulled in to their emotional connection. There’s an intrigue that’s appealing more and more to the straight reader regardless of their personal sexuality preference.

So basically (as if us gals over here didn’t know) you don’t have to be a lesbian to enjoy lesbian fiction?
Exactly. Women are notoriously curious in all walks of life, yet there’s been a slight reluctance in the past for some to own up to this in the realms of sexuality for fear of labeling or stigma among friends and partners. Now, however, with greater acceptance and understanding, those women are able to delve into this wonderful world of lesbianism – even if simply through the reading of a novel – and explore the excitement that we’ve been lucky enough to know about for so long.

And what excitement’s in store for the readers of “Lost In the Starlight”?
It’s the story of A-list singing superstar, Honey Diamond, who has it all — the albums, the talent shows, the upcoming Hollywood film. But it’s her gentle light, endearingly shining through all the glitz and glam, that warms the hearts of so many. She a shy girl, who’s only ever known fame, born into a world that’s not true to life. The novel discovers how Honey finally experiences the love she so knowingly sings about. It’s a heartfelt romance peppered with laugh-out-loud humour and warming observations about falling in love.

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“Lost in the Starlight” is available on Amazon.com.

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