On Desire: Advertisements for Myself (or My New Novel is Published)

I had nine or 12 more clever titles for this article, but in the end, taking the direct approach just seemed more, well, direct. And so, after 16 years, a little bit of angst, a lot of rewrites, and a couple wading pools worth of scotch, my second novel, Desire, hit the streets a few weeks ago, like a cinderblock dropped by a weary stork. True, it doesn’t exhibit the same avoirdupois as Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I fear that it will sit just as uncomfortably propped on one’s stomach in the bedtime reading pose. Sit up straight. Lay it open on your lap. Take it in small bits (there are many, many chapters but most of them are mercifully short, like a meal of tapas).

Speaking of that other writer’s novel just mentioned, I could not help but be wildly amused by the timing of my own endeavor. After waiting patiently—16 years of patience, as I said—for Desire’s inevitable publication (inevitable, because I was going to get it published or several people were going to die in my trying), events, delays, extensions, and numerous little last-minute rewrites all aligned to fix Desire’s publication on the very same weekend as the Major Publishing Event to End All Publishing Events.

Oh well. What can one do? I feel no rancor over that, of course, or anything remotely resembling professional jealousy. Whatever the quality of the Harry Potter novels, one (especially one who writes novels) cannot quarrel too convincingly against an author whose work compels 12-year-olds to pounce greedily on a gigantic book like a Democrat on an undecided voter. On the contrary, I applaud it. There is nothing quite like the dizzy joy of losing oneself in a long, fat, sprawling novel, he said, with a wink and a link.

I’m compelled to say this, for those feeling some trepidation about taking this novel on: ignore the official book description and jacket copy. I take responsibility for that inexpert bit of salesmanship. So concerned with what was going on inside, I failed to address the rather turgid summary until the die had been cast.

The simple plot description of an old man with a terminal illness sounds pretty grim and not too inviting. With all due modesty, Desire is anything but grim. The novel is a comedy about sex, love, art, and literature, filled with humor, jokes, youthful excess, adventures, exotic settings, and a cast of hundreds both real and invented. There’s slapstick. There’s wordplay. There’s foreplay. Heck, there’s even a whole lot of the stuff that comes after foreplay.

If I was forced to describe what the act of fiction writing is or what I thought fiction writing should be like in one word, I would say fun. Why would one otherwise spend so much time quite alone, doing it? Well, I like to have fun, and I had great, great fun writing Desire. So much fun that I had no reluctance to open up the manuscript, day after day, every day for four years, and work on it. I hope that playfulness and sense of fun comes across in the novel; I like to think it does.

But don’t take it from me. I was quite pleasantly surprised at the start of this week to receive my first review, from Kirkus Reviews, the book industry publication; they very generously called Desire “A tour de force of erotic intellectualism… A novel of brilliant turns.”

Okay, now I’m blushing.