The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

Some stand-in for me in one of the early novels – I think it was Ben Mears in ’Salem’s Lot – says it’s a bad idea to talk about a story you’re planning to write. ‘It’s like pissing it out on the ground,’ is how he puts it. Sometimes, though, especially if I’m feeling enthusiastic, I find it hard to take my own advice. That was the case with ‘Mister Yummy.’

When I sketched out the rough idea of it to a friend, he listened carefully and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’ve got anything new to say about AIDS, Steve.’ He paused and added, ‘Especially as a straight man.’

No. And no. And especially: no.

I hate the assumption that you can’t write about something because you haven’t experienced it, and not just because it assumes a limit on the human imagination, which is basically limitless. It also suggests that some leaps of identification are impossible. I refuse to accept that, because it leads to the conclusion that real change is beyond us, and so is empathy. The idea is false on the evidence. Like shit, change happens. If the British and Irish can make peace, you gotta believe there’s a chance that someday the Jews and Palestinians will work things out. Change only occurs as a result of hard work, I think we’d all agree on that, but hard work isn’t enough. It also requires a strenuous leap of the imagination: what is it really like to be in the other guy or gal’s shoes?

And hey, I never wanted to write a story about AIDS or being gay, anyhow – those things were only the framing device. What I wanted to write about was the brute power of the human sex drive. That power, it seems to me, holds sway over those of every orientation, especially when young. At some point – on the right or wrong night, in a good place or a bad one – desire rises up and will not be denied. Caution is swept away. Cogent thought ceases. Risk no longer matters.

That’s what I wanted to write about.