Sycamore Hill; New edition of Sea, Swallow Me

Back row (l to r): Sarah Pinsker, K. Tempest Bradford, Karen Joy Fowler, Maureen McHugh, James Patrick Kelly, John Kessel. Middle row: Richard Butner, Kelly Link ,Yours Truly, Jennifer Marie Brissett. Front row: Usman Malik, Christopher Rowe, Gavin J. Grant

I participated in the Sycamore Hill workshop this summer with some brilliant authors.
2019 Edition: Cover by Matthew Bright
2008 Edition: Cover by Thomas Drymon

Forthcoming Story in Broken Eye Books Anthology.

My story “Underglaze” is in the forthcoming anthology Nowhereville: Weird is Other People — Tale of the Urban Weird (Broken Eye Books; TBD). Editors Scott Gable & C. Dombrowski have assembled a top-notch roster of artists, including Maura McHugh, S.P. Miskowski, Ramsey Campbell, Kathe Koja, Erica L. Satifka, Nuzo Onoh, Lynda E. Rucker, P. Djèlí Clark, Cody Goodfellow, Wole Talabi, Stephen Graham Jones, Mike Allen, Jeffrey Thomas, R.B. Lemberg, Evan Peterson, and more.

In the meantime, feast your eyes on this cover!

Song of Morrison

TONI MORRISON – February 18, 1931 — August 4, 2019

The first Toni Morrison novel I read was Tar Baby. At the time, it was considered to be a lesser work in her oeuvre because it was a love story. It was marketed as such — as it was about a black model and her ‘untameable’ Heathcliff-like paramour. My mother, who mostly read romance, had a copy of it, in among her stacks of Danielle Steele and Janet Dailey. I don’t think Mom enjoyed the book. She thought it was too weird.

I remember dipping into its pages and immediately being entranced by the language. It was dense, allusive, and mythic. It was also experimental, profane and erotic.  It was a love story, yes, but it was also about decolonization and identity. The novel moved between contemporary scenes and the long, rich shadow of cultural history. Gods and goddess, both disguised and not, appeared in the text. Ghosts were both metaphorical and real.

Tar Baby was my first Morrison novel, but it was far from my last. The Bluest Eye brutally shows the horrors of a colonized mind. Sula made the lives of black women into an epic. Song of Solomon is a magical realist tone poem for the black gaze. And Beloved laid bare the profound evil of America’s past. Morrison used and shaped forms and language itself to create a black American literary cosmology. She was and remains a deep influence on my work, and indeed, on world literature at large.

Upcoming Appearances and Forthcoming Works

OutWrite 2019

Washington DC

August 2, 2-3pm


Reading: A Crooked Looking Glass

Nino Cipri, Ruthanna Emrys, Craig L. Gidney, Margaret Killjoy. Moderated by Marianne Kirby

NecronomiCon 2019

Providence, RI

August 22 – 25


Friday Aug 23 1:30pm

HER OWN DARK MYTHOS: TANITH LEE – Capital Ballroom, Graduate 2nd Floor
Tanith Lee (1947–2015) wrote broadly, including work for children and adults, poetry, and television. With her lush, dark, and often deeply psychosexual prose, she created bizarre fantasy worlds and turned familiar horror tropes upon their heads. Join our panelists as they explore the work of this grand master of the decadently weird and impossibly strange.

Panelists: Paul Di Filippo, Craig Gidney, Paul Tremblay (M), Sonya Taaffe, Allison Rich, Daniel Braum

Saturday Aug 24 10:30am

Writers of African descent around the world have been contributing to speculative fiction since the days of Charles W. Chesnutt, W. E. B. Dubois, and George S. Schuyler, but their contributions have not always been acknowledged. Our panelists discuss the history and importance of this literary movement and how the Diaspora experience has shaped and informed it.

Panelists: Victor LaValle, teri zin, Errick Nunnally (M), Craig Gidney, Hysop Loreal Mulero, Chesya Burke

I also wrote the introduction to Love in a Time of Dragons a new Tanith Lee collection of her short fiction put out by Immanion Press which will be released in August!

The Wrong Kind of Gay

The opening anecdote in that now-deleted The New Republic hit piece on Pete Buttigieg was so outrageously cruel, that I barely skimmed the rest of the article, which was some vaguely defined bromide against Neoliberalism and assimilation. (You can read a great takedown of it by Andy J Carr here).  The thing that stood out was the author’s insistence that being an East Village ACT-UP style gay was the one Correct Way to be Gay. 

I remember the Doc Marten, tight jean, activist t-shirt crowd well enough. I had a boyfriend who lived on Long Island and would frequently visit him up there and go out to the East Village. I remember calling those type of gays “clones.” I distinctly remember them being cliquish, gatekeeping and mostly monochromatic. It was like High School the Sequel. It was not a nurturing and welcoming community.

I have always been The Wrong Kind of Gay. I have never been offered the keys to the kingdom of circuit parties, and Fire Island getaways. Part of it has to do with race. Part of it has to with the fact I’m outside the gay ideal. I’m 5’2, have been told that I remind people of Alfonso Riberio, the buttmonkey of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I will never been a tall black Adonis. When I went to clubs and bars, I was, at best, invisible. At its worst, I subjected to thoughtless cruelty and juvenile lookism. 

Picture it: Halloween in San Francisco’s Castro. The parade of over-the-top costumes. I think I saw a few Siegfried and Roy outfits, guys walking around with stuffed tigers attacking them. I remember one person dressed up as Hurricane Katrina, an elaborate concoction of paper maiche buildings under water with a phalanx of cotton clouds dyed virulently gray hovering above his head. I remember a man dressed as a flaccid penis, bravely trundling up and down the treacherously steep hill. 

I was dressed as the Masque of the Red Death, in a crimson floating satin robe, my face corpsepainted black and white in the semblance of a skull. I remember feeling euphoric, glad to be a part of the pageantry. 

Then a drunken guy bumped up against me. We’ll call him Chad. No big deal. It was a crowded space. But when Chad regained his equilibrium, he looked at me, and said to his group of friends, “Look! It’s Gary Coleman!” Then he and his group disappeared into the crowd. I forget what this drunk guy was wearing, and what he looked like, but he and his group were white, blandly handsome and of average (acceptable) height.

This stark reminder of how I was the Wrong Kind of Gay was hardly new. In my adulthood, the only grownups who commented on my diminutive stature were gay men. *Grown* gay men—of all colors. The notion that there is or was a utopian brotherhood of queerness is false.

If snap judgements, identity-policing and name-calling are Correct, I’m ecstatic to be Wrong. Not all of the activist t-shirts in the world can disguise moral vacuity or cruelty.

Rave reviews for A SPECTRAL HUE

Thanks to everyone who bought my book.

It’s been getting a bunch of good reviews. The website Bookmarks has conveniently compiled excerpts of them here.

But my current favorite review comes from Leeman Kessler, aka PH Lovecraft, HP’s woke brother. His video review is awesome!