WadeRouse.com - Blog

Writer's Digest Essay: Writing Women's Fiction As A Man

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 13 Apr 2017 17:04:00 +0000

I wrote the following essay for the May/June 2017 issue of Writer's Digest. The essay -- about writing women's fiction as a man -- is part of the magazine's "5-Minute Memoir" department. Truly hope you enjoy!

*****

"For those of you expecting a woman tonight, you’re only partially correct!"

That's how I began book events for my debut novel, The Charm Bracelet. Many readers didn't know I was using a pen name and expected to see the female author whose name was featured on the cover, Viola Shipman, rather than the man, Wade Rouse, who wrote it.

But, as I told readers, the two are inextricably combined.

The number one question I receive from readers is how I, as a man, can write female characters and storylines so well.

"Who do you channel?" readers ask, hands flying into the air at the end of events. "Why do writing female characters and points of view interest you?" “Are you wearing a wig?” (I threw that last one in, although I do have great hair.)

I grew up in my mom’s and grandmas’ kitchens and sewing rooms. Like many Southern women, they were wonderful oral storytellers. Their sentences contained no periods, their stories a patchwork of beautiful memories, like the quilts they made.

My grandmothers dreamed of being fashion designers, but instead sewed in factories and church basements. My mother, a nurse, dreamed of being a doctor, but didn't have the means to make that happen in the 1950s. They inspired me to become a writer, to fulfill dreams they hadn't been able to fulfill. As I grew older, I realized I was in the presence of extraordinary women, whose voices few had really given the time or respect to hear.

And they stayed with me forever.

I’ve always been compelled to give voice to those not always heard in society. My first four books were memoirs, and I used my voice as a gay man – silenced for the first three decades of my life – to share the pain of coming out as well as issues such as workplace discrimination and being demonized in society. I used humor as a means to teach rather than preach.

A seminal moment in my life and writing career came as a child in the rural Ozarks, not the best place to grow up for a boy who had a fondness for ascots and headbands. I was heckled offstage during a middle school talent show while singing "Delta Dawn" – while holding a faded rose, no less –by an Ozarks crowd that made the fellas from Deliverance look like the Jonas Brothers.

I ran off that rickety plywood stage, furious my mother and grandmothers could let me humiliate myself. But they were already waiting with two gifts: A writing journal and a copy of Erma Bombeck’s book, The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.

The title certainly seemed fitting at that moment: My life was crappy.

"You'll need both of these – laugher and writing – to make sense of your world," they said.

Inscribed inside was a quote from Bombeck: "Laughter rises out of tragedy, when you need it the most, and rewards you for your courage."

The women in might life taught me to laugh and be courageous, and their love and support helped me become a writer. As a result, I was called to give voice to them – to the women in all our lives – unsung heroes whose quiet sacrifices changed the course of our journeys. That’s why I chose my maternal grandmother’s name as pen name for my fiction: So readers would say her name forever.

I’ll admit it was daunting for a man to tackle three generations of women in The Charm Bracelet and the voices of a woman battling ALS and her female caregiver in The Hope Chest, but I imbued my work with the heirlooms and lessons the women in my life shared: That a charm bracelet isn’t just jewelry and a hope chest isn’t just furniture but holders of precious memories and dreams; that unconditional love sounds simple yet is so hard; that family can be redefined; that I must laugh – and write – when life gets hard.

Mostly, they taught me to be the person I am today. It was a privilege and honor to be their grandson and son. It is a privilege and honor to give them voice.

A Holiday Giveaway With Christmas Ornament King Christopher Radko!

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Fri, 16 Dec 2016 18:01:00 +0000

I am thrilled to share with you today a Q&A with the renowned and iconic name in American home decor, Christopher Radko. For over 30 years, Christopher’s handcrafted holiday ornaments and decor have graced the homes of royalty, Hollywood celebrities and families world over. Christopher has been on TODAY and OPRAH, and he’s been called the “Ralph Lauren of Holiday Home decor,” and “the Czar of Christmas Present” by the New York Times. Having sold his Christmas company, he has taken a break for a while from ornament making. In the meanwhile, Christopher spends his time gardening and organic farming, which gives him the chance to enjoy the great outdoors. Christopher has had a passion for gardening ever since he was a child growing up in the Bronx, where his parents introduced him to a more delightful playground — the Victorian Bronx Botanical Gardens. It was in these lush gardens he first discovered the beauty and heady scent of wild lavender flowers, and this lead to his creating a spa lavender company under his name. He is also working the event organizer for the 50th Anniversary in 2018 of the filming of Hello, Dolly! (starring Barbra Streisand) in the Hudson Highlands.

I’m so excited to announce that FIVE lucky people will win copies of the The Charm Bracelet in paperback as well as the eBook of Christmas Angels. How’s that for an amazing early holiday present? All you have to do is visit my Facebook page starting Friday December 16, 2016 and post a comment below the post to enter for a chance to win by sharing with us your favorite holiday ornament/decoration and the reason why it’s so meaningful. The giveaway will remain open until Saturday, December 17, 2016 at 7 p.m. ET, and I will choose winners by randomly picking numbers from the total number of entrants and from the order in which you responded. This giveaway is open to U.S. residents only. Facebook is not responsible for this giveaway.

Wade, tell us about what inspires your writing. And tell us about your holiday story Christmas Angels and what you hope readers will take away from it.

My fiction is inspired by my grandmothers’ and family’s heirlooms, lives and lessons. The stories I write are a tribute to family — about bad things that happen to good people, to all of us — and how we soldier through the hardships in our lives with love, faith, hope and each other. My fiction is also a tribute to all of our elders, whose stories and sacrifices helped shape us and make us the people we are today. My debut novel, The Charm Bracelet, was inspired by my grandmothers’ charm bracelets. It was through the charms on their bracelets that I got to know my grandmothers not just as my grandmas but as incredible women who lived extraordinary lives filled beauty, hope and tragedy. They taught me that the simplest things in life — family, friends, faith, fun, love and a passion for life and what you do — are truly the grandest gifts. The Hope Chest was inspired by my family hope chests — and the special keepsakes that were held inside — and is about finding hope when you think all is lost. It is also a tribute to my uncle, who waged a long, courageous battle with ALS and taught me the meaning of grace, as well as to the caregivers who loved and cared for my father in his final years, angels who walk this earth and redefined the meaning of family to me. And angels play a special role in Christmas Angels: Not only angels in the form of heirloom holiday ornaments, tree toppers, cookie cutters and pins, but also angels in the form of Christmas and guardian angels that surround us, if only we choose to see them. I wrote the novella because I love the holidays. In our home, we typically decorate at least six trees, all with special themes and decorations: Heirloom/vintage, garden, cabin, modern, kitchen, and I always have a Charlie Brown tree in my office. The holidays have taken on even more meaning since the loss of my parents. I wrote Christmas Angels to remind readers of the meaning and magic of Christmas as well as to show them that life (and love) must go on somehow in even the hardest of times. Rich with the spirit of Christmas and all its traditions, Christmas Angels is a delightful love story about Kate, a single woman in her 30s, who works as a holiday designer/decorator bedecking and bedazzling the city for the holidays (sound familiar, Christopher?). Her work keeps her from spending the holidays with her family and masks the loneliness and pain after a nasty breakup just before Christmas. Known as “The Christmas Angel” for providing holiday beauty to the city’s offices, homes, and malls, Kate’s world changes when she decorates the home of a widowed single dad and his lonely young son.

Christopher, tell us about what inspired your ornament company.

It all started with my loving, as a wee kid, to sneak under the lowest branches of the tree and look up through the branches at the shiny ornaments and colorful lights. Everything was so sparkly and full of fantasy: Santas on spaceships, shooting stars, skating snowmen…. The walls were awash in rainbow colors, and the scent of the tree transported me to another, more magical world. Andy Williams’s “The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year,” played on the record player, and I wanted those moments to last forever.

As I grew older, the tree had to get larger, too. Finally, we had a 12-foot tree in my parents’ living room. It was my job to clean out the tree stand each year, a task I never enjoyed to do. So, finally, I bought a shiny aluminum stand that was supposed to hold large trees. Alas, it didn’t! One of the legs cracked, sending the entire decorated tree, with all the ornaments on it, smashing to the ground. My grandmother came into the room and saw what happened. Our tree was like a family diary. All her favorite ornaments, including some she had received as a child back in 1905, were shattered. “Oh, Christopher,” she moaned, “you’ve ruined Christmas forever!!”

I felt terrible! I hadn’t personally stomped on our family’s ornaments, but I sure felt as though I had. And the thing was, you couldn’t find ornaments like those in the stores anymore. No one was making them. What a depressing Christmas that was. Well, a little bit of guilt goes a long way. I was inspired to find European glassblowers to make recreations of some of our family favorites. So I had some made for me, and what I found is that friends wanted to buy them too! They’d tell me they had ornaments like these from their grandparent’s time just like I did. So I contacted my glassblowers and ordered new samples, this time in different sizes, and colors, too. And thus, a Christmas business was born.

Christopher, that’s so ironic because your back story is a huge back story in my upcoming novel, The Hope Chest: The lead characters’ tree crashes just after the death of her parents, and their beloved heirloom ornaments smash. They end up starting anew and piece together a tree topper from the broken bits, something that also happened with me and my family. What impact did that have on you? And do you have a particular ornament that meant a great deal to you growing up or that has stayed with you through the years?

I am a huge fan of Christmas artistry, and have a lot of respect for the glassblowing artisans I have worked with and taught. In some cases, I was training the grandchildren of artisans from the 1920’s, young adults who otherwise would be having office jobs behind computers each day. At one point, my ornament orders kept over 3,000 craftsmen and women busy in Poland, Germany, Italy, and the Czech Republic. I encouraged them to expand their repertoire, use better glass and scientific techniques and create more intricate ornaments than their forbears had ever made. They, in turn, were pleased to know that their family’s traditions could find life again today.

My own family tree falling over was not an ending, but a beginning. It was a doorway of opportunity into an entirely new world, one in which I could share my love of Christmas and human heart connection with others. Sometimes people will ask if I have a favorite ornament, and I always say, the one that brings a smile to your face, that’s a favorite one. It could even be that little cotton ball snowman your kid made in 3rd grade art class. It’s about the memories and heart connection they contain. That’s what make them priceless.

Wade, same question to you: Do you have a particular ornament or holiday tradition that meant a great deal to you growing up or that has stayed with you through the years?

My favorite Christmas decoration is probably the antique tree skirt my grandmother made so long ago. It features hand-sewn, hand-decorated and hand-painted figures and appliques of an angel, the Virgin Mary, bells, Santa, Rudolph, the North Star as well as hundreds of shiny stars. It reminds me of my grandma and all of our Christmases together … it is so beautiful.

Now for a Lightning Round:

Christmas tree lights – White, All One-Color, or Multi-color?

Christopher: I am a vintage Christmas fan, so I love the GE c-7’s and c-9’s of the 1960’s and 70’s. They came in jewel-toned colors, rich cobalts, golds, rubies, and emerald green, and if you were lucky, sometime you’d find pink and purple ones too! Some even blinked, and that created a sense of life on the tree. I also love bubble lights. For the most part, I prefer the warm glow of incandescent lights to the new glaring cold LED’s.

Wade: White or Multi-Color … and I love bubble lights, too! (I grew up with one-color trees my dad loved.)

Tree topper – Angel vs. Star?

Christopher: How about an Angel surrounded by stars? That’s what I’d do.

Wade: Both (Have both of my mothers’ tree toppers, an angel as well a vintage aqua blue glass topper in the shape of a star with a beautiful cut starburst in the middle)

Christmas tree – Real vs. Fake?

Christopher: I alternate. There’s a lot of maintenance with real trees, but they connect you to the way families decorated for the past two centuries, and I do love the scent of fresh pine. I especially love Noble Firs, which I think are the finest shaped out there. There are some incredible life-like artificial trees as well, and I love the flocked ones that look like a winter wonderland forest. For kitchy fun, I get a kick out of a good aluminum tree from the 60’s. I remember saving my allowance when I was 11 to buy one for my bedroom from Woolworth’s.

Wade: Both (but nothing beats the smell of real).

Secret to a perfectly decorated home at the holidays?

Christopher: A bit of sparkle, a dash of music, a good holiday cocktail, and a whole lotta’ heart!!

Wade: Love

Thank you, Christopher, for sharing, and for being part of this fun holiday giveaway. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night (and Good Luck)!

THANK YOU!: An Essay In Honor of National Library Week

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 12 Apr 2016 16:39:00 +0000

The theme for this year's National Library Week, observed April 10-16, is – simply enough – "Libraries Transform."

As an author, there are endless op-eds I could write on the plight of our state and national libraries. They continue to endure – much like the world of publishing – a stunning sea change in terms of technology and its impact on readers as well as massive budget cuts. Instead, I wanted to focus on the theme of "Libraries Transform" and why – in its simplicity – it's so profound.

One of my earliest and fondest memories from childhood is going to the library – hand in hand with my Ozarks grandmother – who used to volunteer there. The library was one of our neighboring town's oldest buildings, and it sat under ancient, arched trees. The steps were always a bit mossy in spring and leaf-strewn in the fall, but walking inside was akin to entering heaven. It smelled like another world, a magical world, a world filled with secrets I needed to know.

My grandmother was a voracious reader, and she and my mother helped make me one as well. My grandmother's two favorite books were The Bible and Walden, and she jokingly said that in the Ozarks, where I grew up, it was heresy to read anything but the Bible or to put any book on a similar level. But she felt reading was a key to understanding the world and those who were different than she was.

"We live in a small town," my grandma would say, "but the world is big. That's how your mind must be, too."

I spent hours in that library, reading, talking to the librarians about their favorite books. It was there I read Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, Where the Red Fern Grows and Call of the Wild. I read newspapers. I read magazines. I read Erma Bombeck, a Midwestern humorist who would become my inspiration.

Every summer was spent with my grandparents at their log cabin on a crystal clear, ice-cold creek in the middle of nowhere. We had nothing but each other and books: No microwave, no TV, no phone. When my grandma would head up for groceries, she would also return with a trunk load of library books. She would read to me as we rocked on a barn red glider that sat on a bluff overlooking the water; I would read in tree swings as well as on innertubes as I floated in circles.

I read, and I read, and that's when I started to write.

I often didn't fit in at school, and the local library served as my refuge. I was encouraged not only to read, but to be smart, think critically, think beyond the small world in which I lived. More than anything, I was encouraged to dream, and let me tell you this: Once that seed is planted, it immediately takes root in a child's soul.

There is nothing bigger, or more special, than a child's dream.

Erma Bombeck once wrote: "As a child, my number one best friend was the librarian in my grade school. I actually believed all those books belonged to her."

And despite the stunning sea change in our library system today – as well as publishing – that core has remain unchanged. Reading changes lives. Books change lives. Libraries change lives. And they remain the centers of our communities and our lives. I'm here to restate the obvious: What libraries do changes lives. I know because they changed mine.

And they continue to do so: I've traveled the U.S. speaking at libraries – including all over the state I love and now call home – and have been stunned at their enduring power. I've spoken to grade school children and nonagenarians. Libraries have made me feel – more than anywhere, else save our nation's independent booksellers – that what I do is vitally important and what they do transforms lives and fuels dreams.

So, I simply want to say this week what I'm sure too few people say to our libraries and those who support them: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

BE FEARLESS! A Writing (& Life) Lesson on Fear & Voice

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Wed, 30 Mar 2016 16:51:00 +0000

An inspirational quote from my debut novel, THE CHARM BRACELET

Of the endless things I could teach and preach to writers, learning to overcome fear to channel your true voice tops the list.

Fear is devastating to all of us in life, but especially an author. Too often in our world today, we let fear consume us: It drives our daily lives typically more so than passion. We worry about money. Time. Health. Aging. Our Parents. Our Children. The future.

The same typically holds true in writing. In the beginning stages, we worry about all the things over which we have no control: Whether our writing is good enough, whether we'll make money at it, whether those we love and know – and even those we don't – will like our work.

Awful things happen from head to hands, from brain to fingers to laptop, when we let fear consume us as writers. When emerging authors begin a book, they are drive by that unique voice that runs in their heads – the one only they can hear, the one which drives all of us to tell our story. But before we fully channel that voice, it begins to be drowned out by the call of fear. Too often, we bow down to fear, and that voice becomes diluted, a faint echo of the one that originally sang to us.

I know because it's happened to me. I began my first book, America's Boy – a memoir about growing up different in the Missouri Ozarks but buoyed by the love of family – as a novel. I actually started it as a memoir but grew fearful of pretty much everything, including what my family and hometown would think. I spent a year writing it as fiction, until someone I loved accidentally read it (a nightmare for writers).

When I asked what they thought, the reply was, "If you had dropped this on the street, and I had picked it up, I would never have known you had written it. It sounds nothing like you."

I was stunned. But, in my heart, I knew they were right.

So I started anew. Fearless. I channeled my voice, the funny-sad-poignant-sentimental one that could make my ugly laugh and ugly cry in the course of one paragraph. I finished the book, I queried agents, I received three offers of representation, and that was five books ago.

"Your voice is one-of-a-kind," my literary agent said to me when I signed with her.

Voice is all we have as writers. If you ask any agent, editor, or publisher what he or she is looking for today in a writer or book, they typically will not say the next Harry Potter, Fault in Our Stars, Gone Girl, Jen Weiner or Stephen King: They will say the next great voice.

Voice is the only thing that sets a writer apart from another. I joke there is only so much that separates Sedaris from Shakespeare: We all utilize the same tool belt: Same words, same themes. We all tend to write about the same things, too: Love, faith, family, sex, work, pets, war, death, but it's how we tell those stories that makes us unique.

Anne Lamott is one of my favorite writers and teachers of writing. She explains voice this way to writers, and I do as well: If you were all a choir, and I gave you the lyrics to the same song, and stood up here and listened to you sing, from a distance, it would largely sound the same. You'd be singing the same words, hopefully together and in tune. But if I dropped a microphone over each of your heads, the song would sound totally different: The sound of your voice, the way you interpret those exact same words would be uniquely you. A writer must do just that, except silently, on paper.

But the drumbeat of fear silences too many emerging voices. I teach a number of writing workshops, where I help emerging and established authors on their craft and their manuscripts. I am proud to have helped numerous writers have their manuscripts published by major publishers. But I am more proud of the fact that I help souls overcome the fear that keeps them from not only pursuing their passion but also from channeling that unique voice that calls to them.

Write because you have to write, no matter what anyone else thinks. Tell that story in your head that yearns to be told, that begs to get out, no matter what anyone says or thinks.

Let your voice be heard, and I guarantee you'll be amazed at how many people will respond not only to your talent but also your fearlessness.

THE CHARM BRACELET LAUNCHES MARCH 22!

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 17 Mar 2016 01:26:00 +0000

Dear Friends:

I don't know how I got here. Literally. My debut novel, The Charm Bracelet, launches one week from today, March 22. ONE WEEK!

Many of you have asked what you can do to help since the first week of a book’s publication is as important as opening week for a Broadway show, movie or having the lead at halftime. This is why I'm reaching out to you now.

I choose to write under my grandmother Viola Shipman’s name as a way to celebrate her and the bracelet that inspired The Charm Bracelet. Writing my first novel wasn’t easy, but Viola would be thrilled to know her stories have meant so much. This is why I am particularly hopeful that we can make The Charm Bracelet a big success in honor of her.

You’ve already done SO much to encourage me and I am humbled by all of your support, but here are some ideas that will make a difference:

1) Buy The Charm Bracelet. Today!

I know many of you are waiting to attend one of my events, but early sales are the most effective way to get buzz going about The Charm Bracelet. Here are links to places where you can find The Charm Bracelet in all formats:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Books-a-Million

IndieBound

2) Social media the heck out of it!

Word-of-mouth is still the main way people discover books. Talk about it on Facebook. Tweet it. Put a photo on Instagram of you reading the book while wearing your charm bracelet. Be sure to link to my web site (www.violashipman.com) so I can share in the fun. You can also include a link to buy the book as an extra boost.

3) Attend my events and invite friends!

This not only supports me and the book but also your local bookseller. Here is a link to all my events:

http://violashipman.com/appearances

4) Review the book!

Readers who are not familiar with me, or my work, look to reviews from other readers to gauge whether they will buy a book or not. You can review The Charm Bracelet on Goodreads, Amazon and B&N.

5) Pick me for your book club!

I would love to visit or call and chat with your group. It’s one of my favorite things to do! Here is a link to a book club discussion guide and reading group questions, as well as how to contact me:

http://violashipman.com/book-clubs

I would not be here without your ongoing support and friendship – in every way – and cannot thank you enough. Writers exist in isolation until their book is born, and then we celebrate with those we love.

I truly hope you're charmed (sorry, I couldn't resist) by The Charm Bracelet and look forward to hearing from you!

xo,

Wade Rouse

Holiday Heartache & Gifts: A Farewell to My Father

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Sat, 05 Dec 2015 18:21:00 +0000

My father passed away the end of October. As I navigate this first holiday season without him -- my first as an "orphan" now that all of my immediate family, brother, mother, father, are gone -- I often feel lost, empty and overwhelmed by emotion. I try to remind myself every day how loved I was, how blessed I am, and that I am who I am because of the influence of my father and my family.

The relationship between my dad and I was not always easy -- we were often polar opposites in our views of the world, politics, life -- but we found common ground in the most important place: Each other's hearts and souls. My dad drove me crazy, and I drove him nuts as well, but we respected and loved one another deeply.

The older I get, the more I realize what a beautiful gift it is to live without regret. I may have disagreed with my dad, but I told him every day I loved him, and he said, "I love you, too, son." That transparency was hard-fought and hard-earned, but it's allowed me to live without regret and in a place of peace. That is the gift I will receive from him this holiday season, even though he is no longer beside me. And that is the gift from both of us that I share with you and those you love this holiday season: Peace, happiness and relationships without regret. Tell those you love this year just that: I love you. You mean the world to me. I am blessed to have you in my life. You will never regret it.

I wrote the following about my father, which was read by the minister at my father's funeral. I share his gifts with you this holiday season.

This is a photo of my father as a child that sums him up perfectly. xoxo

I am heartbroken but remembering how blessed I have been and that he is now out of pain. I have been blessed to have many larger-than-life characters in my life. Perhaps that is why I’m a writer. My father was one of the largest. This photo of my dad as a child truly sums him up: Dimples, curls, a perpetual, "Life is sweet, let's get this party started" attitude. My dad loved life. He loved God. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved golf. He loved the St. Louis Cardinals. He loved the community in which he was born and raised. He was a chemical engineer, a logical man, and seemed the polar opposite of me. But he wasn't.

My father was a teacher. That’s what fathers do. And what my dad taught me influenced me greatly: He taught me to respect my elders. He taught me to relish the natural beauty of the area in which I was raised. He taught the value and importance of education. He taught me how to invest and save, and the value of a dollar.

But more than anything my father taught me never to quit. “You will never know what you’re capable of accomplishing if you stop,” he always told me. In my career, that has been of the utmost importance. My father was the stubbornest man I’ve ever known. People say the same thing of me. And I take it as a complement, for it is strength, toughness, resilience and a grand love of life that sets us apart, makes us strive to achieve something of importance in this short journey we’re given.

I loved my father. He and my mom were great characters in life and in my life. Now, they are together again. Fred and Ethel forever united. Prepare to be dipped, mom. And have the ice cream ready.

Where Writers Write

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Mon, 03 Aug 2015 22:29:00 +0000

Most readers seem to have a fascination (if not semi-obsession) with where writers write.

I think it's more of an interest in seeing and understanding the intimate space in which writers create, that world where writers go to leave this one behind.

I have long held that fascination, too. As many of you know, Erma Bombeck remains an idol of mine, and I loved to read about how she locked herself away from her family to write undisturbed (save for the notes under the door).

I have a plaque on the wall next to my desk of Margaret Mitchell which reads, "In a weak moment, I wrote a book." I love the saying, but I also love the photo on the plaque of her in her office sitting at her desk -- hands fluttering over her typewriter.

I often love to sneak a peek into authors' writing spaces, both personally and electronically.

One of the first things I wanted to see when Rita Mae Brown -- the legendary author of RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE and The Sneaky Pie Brown Series -- invited me to stay at her beautiful Virginia farm was her office. It was a bright room, with big windows, and a beautiful, old desk. On top? A typewriter. Rita Mae had nothing else in there: No lap top, no phone, no cell, no internet. She said she rose at dawn with the sun, and got her writing done, so she had most of the morning and all day to tend to her many animals. I think my agent and editor would murder me if I sent in a typewritten manuscript, but it is RMB after all. But, I did learn something: I rise early, too, like she does, and write. And I have learned to turn off social media when writing (and leave my cell behind, too).

Though I have not visited their homes, I know many author-friends, like New York Times bestsellers Adriana Trigiani and Caroline Leavitt write from urban spaces while Nancy Thayer writes from her cottage in Nantucket (in an office with views of the water). I know authors that prefer to make their offices in a local coffeehouse or library.

My space is very important to as both a writer and a person: Our home is a knotty-pine cottage we call "Turkey Run," for all the wild turkeys who treat our paths and yard as their personal woodland interstate. I love my cottage, its history and its feel. It grounds me, as does Gary's gorgeous gardens, from which I pick fresh flowers for my office two or three times a week.

My writing studio is a carriage house attached to our house. It is private, quiet, and -- the nice thing is -- I can leave it when I'm done for the day: I can return to this world.

A peek at our carriage house in the winter

One wall leading up the stairs to the office is filled with the framed covers of my five books. This is -- and isn't -- done from pure ego. A friend sent me the first two, and when I hung them, I realized they were an important and visceral reminder of all that I had accomplished and -- now -- all that I have to accomplish. (I mean, an entire wall is still EMPTY!)

My desk sits facing two giant windows overlooking our woods and -- in the distance -- our neighbor's blueberry fields. The view is constantly inspiring and ever-changing: Summer screams green, and the windows are constantly wide open. Fall is a wonder of color, the sugar maples and sassafras visual overload. Winter is quiet and white (before we leave for the desert). And spring is nothing to everything all at once, an unfurling of Mother Nature.

A huge sugar maple sits outside the windows, and a squirrel I call Dorothy Parker visits me nearly every day, eating acorns, staring at me, squawking at me to keep going.

On my desk, I have my Mac, fresh flowers, all of my published books on one side of a lamp and a collection of beloved Bombeck on the other. There are meaningful photos of family, friends and pets, an assortment of bobble head dolls and raccoons (from fans of AT LEAST IN THE CITY SOMEONE WOULD HEAR ME SCREAM), a calendar filled with deadlines, glass vases filled with rocks and shells collected from nearby Lake Michigan and our coastal vacations (as well as a turkey feather or two). Usually, there are a stack of galleys on a pullout drawer that authors and publishers have asked me to read and blurb. A plaque that my artist aunt gave my parents after they built our family home titled "The House that Rouse Built" sits nearby, too. I rotate two favorite coasters for my coffee and water (and, OK, wine on occasion): One that says, "Mama loves her some boxed wine" from a dear friend (and in reference to IT'S ALL RELATIVE)

LOVE coffee! (literally!)

and one from Oscar Wilde that reads, "Be yourself, everyone else is already taken."

Summer!

I have bookshelves filled with books, family heirlooms and photos, and my expansive Pez collection. A lamp with that looks like burnished wood sits by my desk. I have a couch behind my desk that serves as a comfy place for writers who take my writing workshops to sit (and sweat ... just joking) when they come to my retreats. (btw, I NEVER nap, so it's of no use to me).

The walls around my desk are filled with framed accomplishments (my bachelor's and master's degrees, my first marathon medal with official time and photo at the finish line), some of my first published magazine articles, as well as a number of framed quotes.

The first quote is from Dr. Seuss and states: "The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go."

The next is: "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail," from Emerson. It was a quote given to me by Gary that helped to inspire, both humorously and poignantly, my Michigan memoir, At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream.

The next up is from Dorothy Parker, which reads: “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can give them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”

And, finally, from Erma Bombeck: "Great dreams... never even get out of the box. It takes an uncommon amount of guts to put your dreams on the line, to hold them up and say to the world, 'How good or how bad am I?' That's where courage comes in."

Always flowers!

At the top of the stairway are two leather chairs I call my Hemingway chairs and a leather ottoman that flank a fireplace (which gets a lot of use in the fall and winter). There is a pouf for our smaller mutt, Doris, that sits under my desk, and larger pouf for her sister, Mabel, right next to my chair.

I have a stereo that I occasionally turn on to classical, jazz or Pink Martini (but I am noise-obsessed when I write, and must have complete quiet ... which is why Gary leaves every morning to go to yoga and coffee).

I love my office. I love going to work. My commute is short -- a stop for coffee, a stroll in our walkway past our woods and then up 14 stairs -- but I love every step.

Fab Fall!

A writer's space -- any artist's creative lair -- is a special place. I encourage aspiring and emerging writers to give themselves not only permission to call themselves writers but also to carve out a space that belongs to them -- be it at the dining room table, a desk in the laundry room, or in the sunroom (the place I first started in St. Louis). Claim it! Call it yours! Even over the shouts of your husbands, wives, children. Over time, it will call to you. Over time, you will return, and you will create.

And, over time, your dream space and dream book will become reality.

KEEP WRITING & DREAMING! xo

EQUALITY!

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 30 Jun 2015 16:40:00 +0000

I was a weeping, snotty, emotional mess on Friday when the Supreme Court's ruling was announced. It was a day -- like so many of those I know and love -- never dreamed would happen in our lifetimes. The ruling was an exclamation point to all that I've written about for so many years in my books and essays, and to my life -- our lives -- in general.

There is so much to say. And I am writing about it in longer form. But, in brief:

On Friday, when a friend texted us the news, I ran down from my writing studio, weeping, uncontrollably, yelling for Gary. I grabbed him and held him, and we moved as one heap toward the TV to turn on the breaking news. I couldn't comprehend it at first. Had I hoped this would happen? Yes. Did I feel it would happen? Yes? But did it seem real? After all these years? No.

We fell as a ball onto the couch, and I grabbed Gary's face.

"I don't know what to do when you cry like this?" Gary said.

See, I'm supposed to be the strong one, the logical one. But he's really the rock.

I stared at him, seeing our 20 years together flash before my eyes, our lives now defined as Before 6/26 and Post 6/26. How manny battles had we waged to get to this point?

"Stop crying," Gary begged. "Please."

I couldn't.

Gary and I on our wedding day, 2014

I wept for the many friends who didn't make it to see this day, too many of whom took their own lives because they had been rejected.

I thought of my mom, the strongest person of faith I've ever known, who told me how proud she was of me and Gary every day, and how -- before she died -- said my faith shined through in every way and every day since I had "come into love and the light."

Yes, this is about love, but it's also about equality. Next year, Gary and I will celebrate our 20th anniversary. We were married one year ago in California. And we will renew our vows in Michigan. For years, we paid separate taxes. For years, we paid tremendous legal bills to ensure that we were each other's "family" and "guardian." What would happen, an attorney asked us years back when I was traveling on book tours, should you be injured and hospitalized? Gary likely would not be allowed to visit.

Equal? How is this right?

We fought. For years. No, our whole lives. We were bullied. We were taunted. We were rejected. Sometimes in terms of ignorance, often in terms of faith.

I no longer care what people think, because they do not speak for me, or know me. I knew from the earliest of ages I was born gay. I hurt and lied to more people than I can ever apologize to in my attempt to be "normal". Gary and I both attempted suicide.

The importance of Friday's ruling cannot be overstated. Now, no child will be born without knowing that he or she has equal rights, can grow to marry who they love and choose, without being isolated, hated, scared. Will discrimination still occur? Of course. Will hatred still rear its head? Yes.

But now everything has changed.

I have heard rumblings of all the hate chatter after the ruling, but it's on my periphery, buzzing as softly as a mosquito in my ear.

I no longer pay attention to what people say or think if they are not willing to talk, change, learn, grow, evolve.

I have been ostracized too many years from life, from faith. How would you feel if you had to hide who you are, or who you loved? How would you feel if you couldn't hold hands, or sit too close to someone at a restaurant, or invite them to a work function, or put his or her picture on your desk? Much less live through the dark years of state laws being passed "defining" what a "real" marriage is? Would you have survived?

My LGBT brothers and sisters are among the strongest people I know. When you are beaten down, and are still able to succeed, find happiness, thrive in careers, believe in God, find love, then you are heroic. You know true faith. You know true happiness.

So, talk all you want. I've heard it before. I am not to be tolerated, like a rainy day, or a cold sore. I am to be celebrated. We all are, gay or straight, black or white, married or single. We are all survivors. We are all one. We are all more alike than different.

And together we can change the world. And we have. And we will. One day, one word, at a time.

A Blink of An Eye

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Fri, 06 Mar 2015 17:38:00 +0000

A Blink of An Eye

My husband, Gary, wants to live to be 114. That's the age, for some reason, that he has chosen and is working hard to reach.

"I want to live well past 100," Gary always says, very seriously. "I want to be a centaurian."
"So you want to be live until you become half-man, half-horse?" I ask.
"What?"
"It's centenarian. Not centaurian."
"Whatever."

To read the full blog visit :
http://www.chicklitcentral.com/2015/03/go-to-gay-with-blink-and-smile.html

Our Favorite Things

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 00:39:00 +0000

Every New Year brings a fresh start: A time to reflect, put bad habits behind us and focus on our goals for 2015. It is also a time when we all want to refresh, recharge and refocus on taking care of ourselves.

In keeping with this "re" theme, Gary and I wanted to share a few of our "really" favorite things regarding health and beauty. May this year bring all of our readers health, happiness and success.

Click below to read more in our Chick Lit Central blog:

Refresh, Recharge, Refocus

Red Carpet Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 08 Jan 2015 22:53:00 +0000

I have dreamed of appearing on a red carpet much of my life.

Every awards season – from the Golden Globes to the Oscars to the Emmys – I have curled up on the couch with Rotel dip, chips and chili to watch the stars walk the red carpet.

"Who are you wearing?" Joan Rivers would ask, as cheese dripped from my mouth.

Even in college, I watched the red carpet, much to the horror of my fraternity brothers.

"Why would Cher wear that?" I would wonder aloud, although I secretly admired her screw-you attitude. "Dear God, please let Shirley Maclaine win!" I would scream.

In those youthful days, I dreamed of being a writer. It seemed so far-fetched. Who makes a living as an author? Who writes books for a job?

But I never stopped believing. Or working toward that goal.

And then it happened.

An author always dreams that one of his or her books will be turned into a TV show or movie. We dream that we will get to write the pilot or screenplay, and that work will be nominated for an Emmy or Oscar.

We shouldn't, I know – my focus is always squarely on my current manuscript – but we do. It's human nature to dream.

When I started writing for PEOPLE, I never dreamed I would work a red carpet, as most of my work for them – like nearly all of my writing, book or magazine – is done in coffee-stained sweats or a pilled robe that is from the Carter years that I refuse to part ways with.

Gary and I escape the harsh Michigan winters to Palm Springs for a couple months each year. While one would think I would be more prolific in the winter – what else is there to do when it's a nonstop blizzard? – I do better in the sun. I need the light as inspiration. I need to be outside, running, hiking, getting some vitamin D.

Each year, Palm Springs hosts its international film festival: It's quite a huge event now, along the lines of Sundance, and it draws thousands and thousands of film lovers along with A-list celebrities.

"You should cover it for PEOPLE," Gary said last year. "You're already out here."

He made the dream sound so simple, and yet I never even considered the possibility.

So, I asked my editors, who supported the idea. And then I applied for media credentials, not only for the festival, but for the red carpet and gala event.

I was approved.

"Black tie," the checklist stated. "HIGHLY suggested."

I had never owned a tux. I had rented quite a few in my day – for weddings, mostly – but had never owned one.

When Gary – who had signed up to volunteer for the event once I'd been approved – inquired about tuxes, a stylish friend ( Bella da Ball, hostess with the mostest, social ambassador & fashionista), told him where to find the best buy.

So who did we wear?

Jacques Penney.

Wade Rouse

Believe it or not, the tip was great: JC Penney not only had the best deals and nice styles, but also it turns out that the J Ferrar slim fit brand fit like a dream and was a steal (I got a gorgeous tux jacket with a very subtle glen plaid for added pop, and Gary looked very handsome in his black tux and purple-and-black bow tie).

I was very nervous as the red carpet approached, stomach-clenching nervous, in fact: What would it be like? Would I get to ask questions I had spent hours preparing? Would the stars be nice? Would I be eaten alive by the other reporters?

That's when reality settled into the dream: Media had to arrive for check-in hours before the red carpet arrivals. Hours.

I found my few inches of space on the red carpet – between PopSugar and US Weekly, and only one down from the wonderful PEOPLE magazine reporter who I met for the first time – and waited. And waited. And waited.

All at once, I heard the crowd scream in the distance, and I knew the stars were on their way. Suddenly, publicists came rushing down the line: Who would like to talk to J. K. Simmons? Does anyone want the cast from Gone Girl? How about Robert Duvall?

Umm, yes, please.

I was able to talk, largely working alongside and with a larger group of reporters, to Julianne Moore, Benedict Cumberbatch, Eddie Redmayne, Laura Dern. Reese Witherspoon and Rosamund Pike rushed by late on the red carpet, after spending most of their time talking to fans. And, sadly, Brad Pitt didn't walk the red carpet.

Laura Dern

Impressions? Because I know that's what everyone wants to know:

Julianne Moore: Whip smart, sensitive, beautiful, lovely, kind, funny.

Julianne Moore

Laura Dern: Stunning and radiates an inner peace and beauty. (Photo Far Right)

Benedict Cumberbatch & Eddie Redmayne: Intelligent, soft-spoken, sweet, youthful but grounded, piercing eyes and thin.

Benedict Cumberbatch

Shirley Maclaine: Everything and more I could have imagined.

Mary Hart: Looks good. Real good in person.

Mary Hart

I was able to chat with the cast of Gone Girl (Go and Detective Boney) about their spot-on Missouri accents, and Eddie Redmayne shared what it was like to be a newlywed.

And the one question we got to shout at Reese? "Who are you wearing?"

"Michael Kors," she smiled, waving.

The gala was long (speeches by Duvall, Pitt, Maclaine went on to their hearts' content), but entertaining. I learned a lot from the other PEOPLE reporter about nuancing questions and then going in for the one thing everyone wanted to know.

I had one glass of wine only over four hours, because at the end I had to file my notes to the editors.

And then? Gary and I got to go the after-party at the Parker. Where I had many glasses of wine.

It was fabulous, over-the-top and star-studded: Though we couldn't get close to Reese and Rosamund, who stayed only briefly, we did get our pictures taken with JK Simmons and the Gone Girl cast (who were a hoot).

Selfie with "Gone Girl" cast members Carrie Coon (Go) & Kim Dickens (Detective Boney)

Selfie with J.K. Simmons from, Juno, OZ and Oscar favorite for his newest movie "Whiplash"

And we met lots of new people.

What did I learn the most? People are people, be it celebrities, publicists, media or fans. We all have a job to do, and do our very best every day.

I also learned that it's good to be nervous. It keeps you excited, on your toes, learning, ready for more exciting adventures.

And we all dream: Dream our movies will be blockbusters, our clients will get get a feature in PEOPLE, our writing will touch people and that we will meet our favorite celebrities.

And now? Now, I dream of something even bigger. Not covering the red carpet, but actually walking the red carpet. As a nominee.

Because who knows?

Isn't that why we dream? Because we must?

And because, every now and then, dreams do come true.

Putting the "Thanks" in Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 25 Nov 2014 23:38:00 +0000

The following is an essay I wrote for Metrosource Magazine, and it got such an amazing reaction, I wanted to share it with you. No matter where you are for Thanksgiving, or who you are with (or without), I wish you much love, happiness and -- of course -- marshmallow-covered sweet potatoes!

The cutout of my hand was waving back at me, and I couldn't contain my tears.

It was the first Thanksgiving after my mother's death, and I had reluctantly gone to the basement to look through the orange storage containers that held our family's fall holiday dishes, mementos and decorations.

I had come as a test: Yes, or no to celebrating Thanksgiving this year.

There, on top, sat the childish art project my mother had helped me make decades earlier. I remembered her tracing my little hand onto a sheet of construction paper, before we cut it out and colored it to create a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Wade," my mother's looping handwriting stated on the turkey's belly.

The beautiful thing about my childish art project was that my mother had let me fashion pearls around the turkey's neck. I had also given the gobbler heels. It was more Carol Channing than Tom Turkey.

And it perfectly summed up my relationship with my mother. We celebrated each other's quirks and uniqueness without judgment.

I couldn't stop crying in the basement. I had failed my test.

"No Thanksgiving," I said to Gary, when he greeted me at the top of the stairs. "I can't do it."

He held me.

I just couldn't bear celebrating Thanksgiving without my mother. It was the first major holiday since her death, which still felt so raw.

My mother adored Thanksgiving.

She happily rose at dawn to start cooking. She loved to drink coffee and watch the Macy's Day Parade after fixing a big country breakfast.

She relished her Riesling.

And yet – like the turkey she helped me make as a kid – my mother was a juxtaposition of the traditional and non-traditional.

Yes, we did a green bean casserole with Durkee's French onions. Yes, we had stuffing. Yes, the sweet potatoes were topped with marshmallows.

But, my mom loved experimenting with one new dish each year: Fresh cranberries with dates, walnuts and orange. Or, a caramel-apple tart instead of a pumpkin pie.

Celebrating Thanksgiving without my mom would be like celebrating without the turkey. The thing I looked most forward to, the person for whom I was most thankful, was gone. I couldn't imagine simply enduring this holiday. It would never be the same.

As the weeks passed and Thanksgiving neared, Gary said to me one morning, before I'd had the chance to fully caffeinate, "We're hosting Thanksgiving, and all of your family is coming."

I spat my latte.

"No!" I insisted.

"Yes!" he persisted. "Your mother would want you to celebrate."

"I hate platitudes!" I yelled.

"It's the truth."

I Zombie-walked through the early morning prep for Thanksgiving and greeted my family in similar fashion.

When it came time to set the table mid-morning, I headed to the basement to retrieve the décor and my turkey cutout was still waving at me.

I lost it yet again.

"Think of how much your mother loved this holiday," Gary whispered to me, out of earshot of the family. "Why are you trying so hard to forget about her? Why don't you treat her like she's still here? Because she is. And she always will be."

His words resonated, changed me, almost instantly.

So, I went upstairs and sat a place at the table for my mom.

I put out my hand turkey as a centerpiece.

I ran to the store, where I picked up the ingredients to make fresh cranberries with dates, walnuts and orange, as well as a parsnips recipe she'd wanted to make for years but that the family had pooh-pooh'ed.

I watched the Macy's Parade.

I drank too much coffee and then too much wine.

I cried like a baby, and I laughed like a mad man.

Mostly, my family and I celebrated my mother, and when I gave thanks, I thanked my mom for being such a wonderful, loving, beautiful, quirky presence in my life.

And then I cleaned the dishes and put up the decorations, the little turkey cutout of my hand waving goodbye as I placed it on the top of the storage bin.

"Never goodbye," I said, returning its wave. "Until next year."

Libraries Change Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 23 Oct 2014 16:04:00 +0000

"As a child, my number one best friend was the librarian in my grade school. I actually believed all those books belonged to her."-Erma Bomeck

I was honored to be the kickoff keynote speaker for the Michigan Library Association's 2014 annual conference in October. The event was held in Grand Rapids at the Amway Grand, and the entire experience matched the hotel's name and beauty: It was a grand day.

I received such an overwhelmingly positive response to my keynote, on which I talked about my enduring love for libraries and my gratitude for their influence on my life, that I was asked to share some of my thoughts. A few excerpts follow.

My suggestion? Visit your local library. Our libraries are not only worlds of information and enchantment for children and adults, they remain the centers of our communities.

***************

This morning is particularly special to me because one of my earliest and fondest memories is going to the library, hand in hand with my grandmother, who used to volunteer there. Walking inside our local library, to me, was akin to entering heaven. It smelled like another world, a magical world, a world filled with secrets that I needed to know.

My grandmother was a voracious reader, and she and my mother helped make me one as well. My grandmother's two favorite books were The Bible and Walden, and she jokingly said that in the Ozarks, where I grew up, it was heresy to read much else than the Bible or to put any book on a similar level. But she felt reading wasn't just great entertainment but a key to understanding the world and those who were different than she was.

I spent hours in that library, reading, talking to the librarians about their favorite books. It was there that I read Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys (Nancy Drew, of course, came first for me!). I read Where the Red Fern Grows and Call of the Wild. I read newspapers. I read magazines. I even read Erma Bombeck.

My grandmother's refrain was always: " How many books do you think you can read this week?"

Every summer was spent with my grandma and grampa at their log cabin on Sugar Creek. We had nothing but each other and books: No microwave, no TV, no phone. When my grandma would head up for groceries, she would also return with a truckload of books. She would read to me as we rocked on a glider that sat on a bluff overlooking the water, I would read in tree swings and on innertubes as I floated in circles. I would read on our rocky beach and by candlelight before I went to bed.

I read, and I read, and I read. And that's when I started to write.

I often felt as if I didn't fit in, and the local library served as my refuge. I was encouraged not only to read, but to be smart, to think critically, to think beyond the small world in which I lived. More than anything, I was encouraged to dream, and let me tell you this, once that seed is planted, it immediately takes root in a child's soul. There is nothing bigger, or more special, than a dream.

Even in college and graduate school, libraries remained the center of my – and my friends' – world. That is where we studied, we researched, we gathered, we read.

And despite the stunning sea change in our library system today – as well as in publishing, believe me, I understand – that core has remain unchanged. Reading changes lives. Books change lives. Libraries change lives. And they remain the centers of our communities and our lives. I'm here to restate the obvious: What you do changes lives.

It changed mine.

And it continues to do so: I have traveled the US speaking at libraries – from Michigan, to Chicago, to California and the Carolinas – and I have been stunned at their enduring power. I have spoken to children in grade school and to women in their 90s. You have made me feel – more than anywhere else save for our nation's independent booksellers – that what I do is vitally important. And if you don't think that fuels a writer's soul – you are very mistaken.

So, I simply want to say, upfront, what I'm sure too few people say to you on any given day: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Autumn Bookmarks: Falling in Love with My Past & Present

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 15:33:00 +0000

I found a leaf, by chance, pressed between the pages of an old encyclopedia I had sitting on the bookshelves in my writing studio.

I hadn’t picked up that encyclopedia in decades but happened to pluck it off my writing studio bookshelves, also by chance, as I felt suddenly compelled to reconnect to pages, to my past, rather than pull up an online “dictionary” via my MacBook software.

The leaf I happened upon – stuffed amongst the “M’s”, I assumed, because it was smack-dab in the middle of the dictionary where the weight was equally distributed – took me back to another place and time.

I immediately remembered the warm October afternoon my mom and I had found this gigantic oak leaf as we walked a trail in our sun-dappled Ozarks woods. I had picked up that leaf for an autumnal science project and then, after my assignment was over, had used it as a bookmark in my encyclopedia, a book I used to read obsessively, as I was fascinated as a kid by words, their origins, their definitions, their synonyms.

Book and leaf had remained united for decades.

The day I found that leaf, I reconnected to my past and was reminded that the fallen pieces of our history shouldn’t always be forgotten or tossed away and replaced by the newest and latest.
That leaf and that encyclopedia were important pieces of my past: My mother, my Ozarks childhood, my love of words made me who I am today. They were my seeds of growth, just like the acorns I used to stumble across in our woods turned into giant oaks.

There is a beautiful symmetry in life, I’ve come to realize, an ability to grow up, move on, change, become a new person, without forgetting who you were. The trick is not to run away from our past but to allow ourselves to remember.

That rediscovered leaf – brittle, flattened, crumbling – allowed me to reconnect with my history.
The Octobers since Gary and I have moved to the Beach Coast – this is now our eighth – have become stoked in new traditions based in the past.

We gather acorns from our woods, which Gary stacks in McCoy pots and places around our cottage, “Turkey Run.” We stand under our towering sugar maples (now my favorite tree), wait for a strong wind to come and let the dazzling rainbow of leaves rain down over our bodies and gather at our feet. We then pick through them and gather our favorites – Gary loves the brilliant red while I adore the yellow-orange – which we use to decorate tables and fireplace mantels.

And, yes, we now press a few of those breathtakingly colorful maple leaves into a random assortment of books that stack our cottage – those bookshelves in my office, the canoe-shaped corner cabinets, the pine shelves that line Turkey Run – knowing that one day, in the future, we – or someone else – will happen to pop open a novel or even one of my memoirs, and there will be a fallen piece of our past waiting to open a piece of our future.

My old encyclopedia remains on my writing desk and holds two bookmarks: A leaf from my past and one from my present.

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Fri, 12 Sep 2014 21:21:00 +0000

I'm hosting an "after hours" party! Wanna come? Seriously excited to be the keynote speaker at the Michigan Notable Book's "Homecoming for Celebrated Authors" event on Saturday, Sept. 20, at the Grand Rapids Public Library (main library) honoring nine of this year's Michigan Notable books and authors. Drinks, food, fun, book signing ALL FOR FREE. Registration is limited and required. VIP reception @ 6:30; ends at 8:30. Come have wine and words with Wade, but, most importantly, come celebrate and get your hands on some of the state's most noteworthy books for 2014!

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/homecoming-for-celebrated-authors-registration-12696368179

September 20th Writing Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 19:47:00 +0000

2 spaces left for the Saturday, Sept 20th writing workshop.

Click here for more information!

Sentimental September

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Mon, 08 Sep 2014 15:31:00 +0000

Even though it's been over three decades since I last lived at home and headed off to school, I swear I can still hear my father singing at the top of his lungs the moment September arrives:

Hey look me over, lend me an ear

Fresh out of clover, mortgaged up to here

Don't pass the plate folks, don't pass the cup

I figure whenever you're down and out, the only way is up

My dad was an early morning man, thanks mostly to the military. He never needed an alarm clock. As soon as the sky brightened, the first bird chirped, he was up to greet them.

I never needed an alarm clock either. My father's booming, off-key voice was enough to wake the dead. So was his banging of pots and pans, jangling of keys, and making of coffee.

For years, he was my wake-up call, and that call began with the start of school in September.

No matter how old any of us are, whether we have kids, whether they're still in school or long gone, September is filled with nostalgia.

Though still warm, it marks the official end of summer. I can see it in the trees, some of whose leaves have turned more yellow, some of whose branches are tinged in color.

There is a return to routine, a societal flow as constant as the ever-cooling waves along the beach.

September is a sad farewell to summer and excited hello to fall: We can all recall the start of school, the ringing of the bell, the smell of the lunchroom and new books, recess, friends, old and new.

Much of September's nostalgia still applies today, even as I near 50.

As August's days end, I find myself saying goodbye to good friends I have spent time with over the summer months in our resort town, as they head back to their city lives and urban routines. Labor Day feels like an adult version of the last week of school.

Though I am sad to say goodbye to my friends – just as I was in school – there is an excitement about what lies ahead, too. September means a return to routine for me as well: Days spent waking early and writing with the windows open, evenings spent relishing the last warm days.

September's nostalgia makes it one of my favorite months. It is a middle ground for me, not only on my annual calendar but also on my calendar of life.

It is not quite summer, not quite fall, but a beautiful transition.

I am smack-dab in the middle of my own middle ground in life – not young, not old – and while I have great sentimentality for my past, it is tempered by my excitement for the future. Perhaps that is why September resonates so deeply in my soul: It still feels so young, but you realize, you know that it is aging, its days now more numbered rather than unending.

Sadly, my Septembers have become even more nostalgic, as my father is now battling dementia. He is weak but still doing well, but his memory – especially of my current life and of current events – is sketchy at best, and my heart breaks for him when he cannot recall things I've just told him.

But every September, I still ask him to sing his wake-up song – like he used to so long ago – and, amazingly, he can typically recall many of the lyrics.

And so will I, no matter how many Septembers lie ahead.

Happy 4th! What You Need to Cherish (and Read) This Summer!

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Wed, 02 Jul 2014 13:59:00 +0000

As I near 50, I’ve come to appreciate that some of the most memorable moments from my childhood were not only the simplest but also quintessentially summer: Bobbing down ice-cold streams in innertubes with my mom; fishing a quiet, deep hole with my grampa; marching in 4th of July parades, my giant trombone blaring “You’re A Grand Old Flag”; Jack Buck calling a Cardinals game over the radio; roasting marshmallows over roaring bonfires; watching fireworks boom in a night sky; reading a great book (or cheesy paperback); and making homemade ice cream, drooling while staring at that slowly rotating churn, praying for time to fly.

Well, those final prayers were granted: Time did fly, and life changed. And, sadly, so does summertime as you become an adult. We work during most of those precious weeks of glimmering sunshine. We shuttle children to the activities in which we once participated. We slide summer in when we can, like a much needed nap.

I used to take two weeks of vacation every summer and cram in as much fun as I could. I would hit city waterparks and pools, pack picnics and fight traffic to watch mammoth urban 4th of July fireworks spectaculars. I would take weeklong beach vacations, saving the other week for travel during the holidays.

But there always seemed to be something missing: That Norman Rockwell nostalgia – that feeling summer would last forever – which existed in my youth I believed that could never be rediscovered.

And then I moved to the coast of Michigan. I knew the move meant I would rediscover a slower pace away from the constant buzz of city life, but I was surprised to rediscover that slice of Americana pie, that simple beauty and nostalgic wonder that makes summer special.
In my little resort towns of Saugatuck-Douglas, I rediscovered small-town parades, complete with marching bands and hard candy thrown by kids; art festivals; lazy beach days floating in the water that led to lazy nights roasting hot dogs and marshmallows; reading a great novel (or cheesy paperback) in a hammock strung between two pine trees; farmer’s markets and fruit stands; musicians playing from a white gazebo in a park by the water.

Through this rediscovery, I rediscovered me.

Yes, I still work most summer days. In fact, now that I work for myself as a fulltime author, I seem to work harder, longer days than I ever did before, without giving myself a break. And I often travel too much away from the place that I love.

But I now find myself on summer days not sitting in an office tower, or board meeting – praying for time to fly so I could reach those precious two weeks – but writing in my office overlooking a forest of ferns and pines, or hauling my laptop to the screen porch, the roar of the lake in the distance. I savor my summer, even while working. My lunch hour is a long run along the lakeshore with a short swim in the lake, a jaunt to the local farmer’s market, or an extended break to hit the beach. Though busy, I no longer have to cram in summer hungrily, like a melting twist cone.

In addition to rediscovering the nostalgia of summer, I have also rediscovered what I now consider to be the most precious summer gift of all: Perspective. I have the ability to understand that – although I’ve grown older, much older, much too quickly – that the most memorable moments of life – the ones that equal any book deal, TV appearance or large lecture – are the simplest. Yes, the grand moments provide a gilded frame to life, but it is the small details that make the portrait so beautiful.

Which is why, as I sit on my screen porch reading a book and listening to the sounds of summer – the moaning frogs, the whippoorwills, the crickets, the baseball game, and, of course, my old ice cream maker – I no longer pray for time to go faster, I no longer rush the magic of summer.

I sigh, I smile and I simply wait for the ice cream maker to slow.

*****

What Wade's Reading This Summer (while waiting for my ice cream)!

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
Yes, I know I'm late to the game here, but it is a stunning read – thrilling and so beautifully written at the same time. The novel is not only haunting me at the current moment but also making me jealous of Gillian's gifts.

Nantucket Sisters by Nancy Thayer
The perfect summer beach read from the "Queen of Beach Books." The novel is about two childhood friends who drift apart but find they are forever bound by the beach and to each other. Nancy writes lyrically of her home.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
I re-read a classic every summer, and this is my all-time favorite. Holden's voice and take on the world, adults, fitting in, wealth, love and death are brilliant. Moreover, Salinger's messages about pressure and expectations still feel so spot-on and important today.

WE'RE MARRIED!

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Fri, 04 Apr 2014 18:19:00 +0000

I received the best birthday gift of my life last week: Gary and I were married.

As with most things in our lives, it happened with the shocking suddenness of a thunder bolt. And, as with most huge moments in my life, it happened while I was on a treadmill.

"We're getting married on Friday," Gary said when I picked up the phone, my legs churning beneath me.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Screw Michigan!" he said. "I'm not waiting another second for anyone to decide when it's right for us to marry."

In the previous days, a judge had overturned Michigan's ban on gay marriage. Dear friends of ours had rushed out on a Saturday to marry. By Monday, the attorney general had challenged the ruling, and a stay had been put on marriage.

Our hearts were crushed. We had planned to marry on our anniversary date of July 27. We wanted to wed amidst Gary's beautiful gardens in front of our beautiful friends. Gary had already begun the planning.

But our dream had been taken away.

Momentarily.

"We're here now, in California," Gary said, knocking me back into the present. "I called the courthouse. They have a little chapel attached. They have an opening Friday ..."

He stopped. I could hear him softly crying.

I hit "stop" on the treadmill.

"Let's do it!" I said. "You're right. It's time."

Gary arranged for good friends (who married the week after us) to serve as witnesses, and another friend volunteered to photograph it. Gary made boutonnieres for us, color-coordinated them with our shirts and ties, and on the morning of March 28, we walked into a county clerk's office, signed a sheath of papers, attested we were who we were, paid our fees and waited to be married, along with a gaggle of other, very young, couples.

I couldn't help but think: This wasn't anything like the dream wedding we'd dreamed of.

But then, magic began to unfold.

A beautiful woman, whose cousin had just gotten married before us, ran over when she saw us waiting.

"Are you getting married?" she screamed.

We nodded.

She dissolved into tears. "I'm so happy for you," she said, bawling, pulling us into her arms and holding us tightly. "How long have you been together?"

"18 years," we replied at the same time.

Her face melted, and she heaved with sobs. "My brother and his partner have been together nine years," she said, nodding over at a handsome couple. "I want him to marry next."

She stopped.

"It's love and commitment like yours, and his, that are my shining examples. I strive to have a relationship as beautiful as yours."

And now it was us who began to tear up.

What she gets that most people don't seem to realize, I thought as she walked away waving, was that the gay couples "rushing" to marry have been together five years, 10 years, 25 years, 50 years. We have already committed our lives to one another.

We were ushered into the "chapel," a sort of holding room filled with the type of furniture you might have seen on "Three's Company." A wooden, lattice-y altar filled a wall, some plastic ivy strewn through it, fake flowers sprinkled around the room. An empty Kleenex box sat atop a vent.

Gary winced. "Why don't they paint this white?" he asked, touching the altar. "And get some real plants? And ..."

He stopped. "It's perfect," I said. "It doesn't matter."

The woman who was to marry us bolted into the room and introduced herself. "How long have you been together?" she asked.

"18 years," we replied again at the same time.

She began to cry.

"When California approved gay marriage," she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion, "I sprinted here to volunteer. I wanted to be part of moments like this. Each is so historic. Each is so beautiful. I wanted to be part of a love that will forever change our world, for the better."

And then she took our hands, and then placed them in each others', and she began the ceremony.

It was then I knew this was a dream wedding, because I never dreamed this would ever be possible for me. I never dreamed I could marry, hear these vows, repeat these vows, have my relationship acknowledged by the government as the same as every other.

As the ceremony unfolded, I couldn't help but think of my life and relationship with Gary, similar in so many ways. Gary and I grew up in small towns in Middle America. Haunted by our sexuality, we relinquished our youth, unable to date, unable to share our true selves with our families and friends. Gary drank and I ate, until we finally found one another.

At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, we not only fought like hell to find one another – the perfect love – we fought like hell to survive until we did. Our love likely saved each other's lives.

Suddenly, my emotions overtook me: This wasn't only a dream, it was historic.

"Do you have vows you would like to read?" the judge asked.

"Yes," I said, pulling a sheet of paper from my pocket, shocking Gary.

"What are you doing?" he mouthed.

"Marrying you," I whispered.

And then I began to read:

"Gary, it's not that my life hadn't begun before I met you; it's as if it had never started. You brought my life to Wizard of Oz technicolor. You not only taught me how to love another unconditionally, you taught me how to love myself unconditionally.

You are my compass and my bridge, my shadow and mirror, gardener of flowers and my soul. I would not be here, literally and figuratively, without you.

I love you more than anything in this world, and I am so honored to take you as my husband.

Forever."

As she began to recite the vows, our voices went from quivery, to shaky, to unstable. Tears flowed.

And when we said, "I do," my life and my future flashed before my eyes.

I was married. To the man I loved.

As the judge pronounced us husband and husband, we kissed.

Gary slipped me the tongue, which was totally inappropriate.

And then he whispered, "You cannot go and get this annulled, either."

That evening, we gathered with friends for an unforgettable dinner. They even surprised us with a wedding cake ... topped with lots of buttercream frosting.

As we crawled into bed for the first night as a married couple, it felt like it always had.

But different, too.

Better.

Realer.

Happier.

Rawer.

Dreamier.

After 18 years, we were married. It was no longer a dream, no longer a fantasy, no longer illegal.

Our wedding, like our friends' weddings in Michigan and California, aren't just weddings, they are the fulfillment of lifelong dreams. They acknowledge the power of love.

They aren't just weddings, I realized, they are exclamation points to our lives and our love, to all of our lives and love.

Happy Birthday (to Me!): The Icing on the Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 25 Mar 2014 21:49:00 +0000

As an adult, I used to watch the MTV show, "My Super Sweet 16," with an equal mix of horror and envy.

Lavish birthdays were not a part of my childhood growing up in the 1970s Ozarks. My family wasn't poor by any stretch of the imagination, but we lived more than modestly and any desire for extravagance – be it a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, a pink Izod, a Linda Ronstadt album – was frowned upon.

From one of my Depression-era grandmothers, I always received a dollar for every year I turned on my March birthday. What was exciting at the age of 10, however, was totally lame at the age of 15.

My other grandmother tended to buy me necessary items, like socks or Husky jeans.

But both would bake for me: They would spend hours in the kitchen, creating themed birthday cakes or a tower of iced cupcakes.

As I grew older, I began to realize that what they were baking me was more meaningful than anything they could ever buy and richer than any amount of cash: They were giving me their hearts, their time, their love, themselves.

As I near 50, I don't really recall the games, or clothes they gave me, but I vividly remember the buttercream frosting, the red velvet, the Speed Racer themed birthday cake, the lemon custard-filled cupcakes.

After my grandmothers passed, my birthdays were well celebrated but always had a void. No purchased bakery birthday cake or restaurant cupcake, even topped with burning candles, could fill it.

My first birthday with Gary was filled with presents. Gary loves gifts. If Santa or Cupid ever fell ill, Gary could step in and the world wouldn't even notice.

Gary also loves a bit of extravagance: My favorite (expensive) cologne? Check. That Kenneth Cole jacket? Check.

"It's too much," I said.

"Birthdays are the one day we get to celebrate someone," Gary said, "simply for the miracle of being born and being in our lives."

"I don't know what to say," I replied.

"Wait here," Gary said, getting up from a candlelit table filled with a dinner he had prepared.

A few seconds later, I saw a glow in the kitchen. Gary emerged into the dining room holding a towering cake, its fluffy white icing dotted with candles.

"Where did you get this?" I asked. "It's beautiful."

"I made it," he said. "You know how much I love to bake."

I couldn't help myself: I slid my finger along the side of the cake, scooping a hunk of icing and shoving it into my mouth.

"Buttercream," I sighed.

"Make a wish!" Gary said.

I closed my eyes and then blew out the candles.

"Hope it comes true!" Gary said, slicing the cake and setting a huge slice on my plate.

I took a big bite and closed my eyes again.

It already had.

(Note: I turn 49 on March 30. This will be my last stay in the 40s. I am fine with that. Sort of. Let's just say I am fine with that, as long as I have a birthday cake with icing. LOTS and lots of icing! This was an essay I recently wrote for Chick Lit Central to celebrate my birthday month.)

On Hate, And Love: How I Stay Strong in the Face of Discrimination

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 25 Feb 2014 19:13:00 +0000

A decade ago in 2004, I was alive for the first time in my life.

It wasn't only that I had come out and fallen in love a few years earlier, it was that I had finally come into my own.

I was writing what would become my first memoir, America's Boy. I was running marathons. I was blissfully, beautifully happy, in a Rouse Renaissance if you will, a new age of enlightenment.

And then came the dark.

I was living in St. Louis, and Missouri became the first state to enact a constitutional prohibition on gay weddings after the Massachusetts high court permitted gay marriage there. The measure was approved by 70 percent of the state's voters.

It was during that time I began to not only feel ostracized from my country but also from my faith. I felt I didn't belong, be it church, or work, or restaurants.

I entered a dark place. Gary and I made rash decisions, including ones to quit our jobs and move to Michigan.

Fast forward a decade: In spite of all the progress in our country, I found myself revisiting that nasty place recently, in light of the anti-gay legislation in Arizona and Kansas. I felt like I had growing up gay in the Ozarks: Dirty. An outcast. Unwanted.

Yes, I could rant. I could rage. I could simply laugh off the fact that it's so ridiculous that people feel it's OK to discriminate based on their religious beliefs – to hate – but it gets harder and harder.

(And, by the way, can atheists choose not to serve customers with crosses around their necks? Or pregnant women with no rings on their fingers? Can Catholics refuse Jews?)

But instead I only hear the words of my mother and grandmothers:

"People will always need someone to hate. It's all they have."

They told me this because they, at one point in their lives, experienced discrimination.

My Grandma Shipman was a Native American who married a white man.

My mother was a driven academic overachiever who, as a nurse, often challenged a doctor's orders or thinking.

My Grandma Rouse fought to allow and welcome the less fortunate, the "unworthy" and "unwanted" into her church, despite what people thought and said. At various points in their lives, each of these women was either spit on, refused service, fired, asked to leave a public place, yelled at, hated.

And they forged ahead, survived, inspired, because they always needed someone to love. It's all they had. It's all they knew.

"You are 'different,'" they would tell me. "You need to hear our stories."

I am thankful I listened to these women – around pink Formica dining tables, red gliders overlooking a creek, in innertubes and lawn chairs and the backs of pickup trucks – because their voices now keep me sane, balanced, hopeful, inspired and enveloped in love.

Because of them, I know the hardest battles come before the biggest victories and that it is a miracle when you are blessed enough to come from a place of such love and acceptance that it not only changes you but that, one ripple, one person, one day at a time, it also changes the world.

"Love, Wade": A Valentine's Essay

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 30 Jan 2014 03:02:00 +0000

It was an art project tradition in my 1970s Ozarks grade school for children to make their own Valentine's Day mailboxes and then walk around the classroom personally delivering cards to each classmate like a kiddie postman.

I took this business seriously, as it was one of the few truly creative outlets I had in the Ozarks. That's why my Valentine's creations were always a childish blend of Charles Eames and Edith Head (not an envied mix, mind you, in my rural classroom).

My mailbox was MUCH more elaborate!

My great undoing came when I created a Barbie-themed mailbox, using shocking pink gauze and Barbie's body parts as my foundational décor. I had always wanted a Barbie but never received one, so I "borrowed" one from a girl in school – along with her root beer Lip Smackers – and ended up murdering her doll. I dressed Barbie's torso a la Cupid with little pink wings and a little pink quiver filled with little pink bows.

But the piece de resistance was the mailbox flag I crafted from Barbie's missing legs, positioning them sideways, like a gymnastic whore, so that one long, glam gam could be lifted into vertical position to show when I had received a card, or lowered to show when my box had been emptied.

My masterpiece was greeted with great fanfare by the girl from whom I had borrowed Barbie. When she saw her beloved doll dismembered and hanging from my mailbox, she screamed a scream that still reverberates in my head.

That prompted our class bully, a kid who simply and scarily used an empty cigarette carton to gather his Valentine's booty, to open my mailbox and announce, "What have we here?"

What he discovered was a series of cards that had been given to me by a male classmate, who had a love for Garanimals, books and, apparently, me. They were lovely, vintage cards – not childish Valentine's – of two cupids kissing, our names stenciled above each cupid's head.

The class bully tortured us all winter, calling us names, tripping us when we would go for milk, and interlocking the arms of our coats on the rack in the back of the classroom, a silhouette that, from a distance, made it look as if me and my sweetheart were about to embark on a long, romantic walk together through a snowy wood.

To spare myself in future years, I stuck to Speed Racer themes, and buried my burgeoning sexuality even deeper into the coat closets of my rural classrooms.

Eventually, I ran from my Ozarks hometown, to college, graduate school, bigger jobs and even bigger cities.

But the funny thing about trying to outrun your past? It always catches up to you.

And so it did one day not long ago when I checked my mailbox to discover an invitation to a high school reunion.

My first reaction: No way.

I wadded up the invite and tossed it in the trash, thinking of how far I'd run to escape those years, and of how genuinely happy I was in my life with Gary.

But, over the course of the next few months, I had a second reaction: I wonder what happened to those people from my past that I'd spent so many years alongside?

I started with some investigative Facebook research, and, when I went to visit my father who still lived in the small town in which I'd grown up, I morphed into Angela Lansbury, snooping around for clues on those I'd lost touch with, especially the childhood "sweetheart" and bully from Valentine's past. More than anything, I think I wanted to know if they had found love and were happy.

I was told the cigarette box bully who had taunted me even into high school had run into many troubles and endured a very hard life.

I learned that my childhood sweetheart, the smart, quiet kid with loads of talent, had moved, married, and was happy and successful.

That Valentine's Day, on a whim, I went out and bought two cute cards featuring kissing cupids and inscribed a personal message, intent on sending them to my long-ago bully and sweetheart.

I'm the one in the skirt and bow.

I considered our lives – all our lives – and finally realized how transformative Valentine's Day can be, if we are just brave enough to embrace its never-changing intent.

Which is why I ended my notes with the simple words, "Love, Wade."

Pillow Talk: Adopting Our New Rescue, Doris

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Tue, 17 Sep 2013 22:50:00 +0000

We have been a single-dog family for two years now, since the passing of our beloved mutt, Marge. That changed last week when we adopted Doris, a rescue from a local shelter.

We had been looking at adopting for a while ... and by "we", I mean Gary.

I cherish routine so much -- writing, running, reading, lattes, hair products -- that once I fall into one that works for me, it's hard to break out of it.

"Mabel is six now," Gary said this summer. "She needs a sister. And so do I."

Gary is a weeper. He gets teary-eyed over Folger's commercials and flannel sheets with happy moose on them. And yet I often forget that when I'm working so much, he's alone. And sometimes lonely.

Gary has a heart as big as a Buick LeSabre. And he cares deeply about animals, especially dogs and cats that have been abused, abandoned, or dumped at a shelter. He volunteers his time and works hard to find the right home for abandoned animals.

And then one evening a shelter sent a picture of Doris (fyi ... not her given name in the beginning).

Gary held his cell in front of my face: What could I say?

The dog had been abandoned as a puppy. It had been been adopted and then returned twice by two different families. It had been dumped more in its life than, well, me.

And the strangest thing: It looked a lot like Doris Day. She was blonde, big-eyed, and sunny. In every picture, her fuzzy, white hair made a sort of halo around her face, like the movie publicity photos of Doris back in the day.

I adored Doris Day. Not only for her movies but also for her animal activism.

We fostered Doris for a few days (naming her Doris, of course), and she was a perfect fit: Mabel adored her new sister, playing so hard and so happily with her that she would just collapse in a heap, panting, a smile on her own furry face.

So, we adopted Doris.

Doris was a bit unsure in the beginning, though: She would get off the bed at night and go sleep alone, a big no-no in our house. She would stand back and watch our interactions, gauge us from a far. She put up a bit of a wall, as if she was waiting to be abandoned yet again.

And then one day we took her to the beach. She chased waves, dug in the sand, played with Mabel, and slept under an umbrella. On the drive home home, she napped in Gary's arms.

That night, Doris didn't leave the bed. In fact, her snoring woke me up. She was asleep between me and Gary, her head on my pillow.

Pillow Talk.

Just like Doris Day.

I fell asleep. Hard. The next morning, after my routine breakfast of Kashi and blueberries, Gary left to do yoga, I grabbed my coffee and went upstairs to my office to write.

Mabel was already waiting for me at the top of the stairs, accustomed to our routine. I turned on the lights, Mabel curled up on a pillow beside me, and I sat down in my chair. Doris rushed up the stairs, a blur of white, and then, suddenly, stopped in her tracks.

She was not used to this routine. I called her to me, told her it was OK, and kissed her blonde head.

And then the strangest thing happened: Without prompting, Doris disappeared into the nook underneath my writing desk and curled all 20 pounds of her blonde body on top of my feet.

I stared straight ahead, stunned. In front of me, on my desk, was a photo of my beloved Marge, who had passed away in 2011. Marge -- all 80-plus pounds of her -- had done the same thing with me for endless days over countless years: Curled up in this nook and slept on my feet while I wrote.

I finished five books with Marge touching me.

Gary may be a weeper, but I'm an ugly crier. And so I started bawling, as Doris snored on my feet.

I may not believe in ghosts, or spirits, like Gary does, but I guess I do believe, like Gary does, in second and third chances. We believe that the greatest happiness comes with the greatest risk, be it love, or career, or dogs.

And so, my old routine has a new wrinkle. Her name is Doris.

And she has already touched my soul ... and she is already helping me finish my next book.

Yeah, I'm A PEOPLE Person

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Wed, 24 Jul 2013 14:43:00 +0000

I recently started a new writing chapter in my life: I am officially a writer for People.com.

People.com is the online component of PEOPLE magazine, and the #1 celebrity site on the web, with nearly one billion page views per month. PEOPLE magazine is, well, PEOPLE magazine.

Working for PEOPLE has long been one of those dream jobs to me, as I am celebrity-obsessed, trend-driven brand-boy and fashion-lover. My editor at Random House once joked (only partly) that my memoirs have a "gazillion" more cultural references (read: pages and pages) than all of her authors combined.

It has been a long journey to get to PEOPLE, and there are many to thank (As Gary says, we all need "mentors" at different points in our lives -- those who lead us to new things and deeper understandings -- and I have had many on my journey). The first few weeks of this new endeavor have been more stressful than I imagined: Writing for PEOPLE is a mix of creativity and coding, writing and editing, voice and reportage, deadlines and, well, more deadlines.

I have written about Hugh Jackman and the Royal Baby. I have covered country stars and pop icons. I have penned touching pieces on Talia Castellano, the teen YouTube makeup maven who died much too early of cancer but inspired many.

I consider my writing for PEOPLE to be sort of a 10K in the midst of my marathons. And, it is already making me a better writer. The editors at PEOPLE push for perfection: They want great writing, great editing and great search optimization. I see my longer work with a new eye: It is making my writing tighter and more refined. It is keeping me on top of trends and topics.

Ironically, I have received a great deal of criticism from some of my readers and book fans about this: Why? they ask (although some have screamed this). Are you selling out? Are you done writing books?

The answers to the last two are easy: NO! In fact, work on my first novel is going exceedingly well, and I hope to have a draft to my agent this fall.

Why?

Because it's been a dream of mine and because it continues to challenge me, keep me on my toes, connect me to great writers, editors and people. It also builds my platform, which is vital in today's publishing world. And, more than anything, it is writing I enjoy, writing that pushes my adrenaline button, writing that lends itself to my narrative work, writing that makes me a better writer.

Life is an ongoing journey ... One must set goals, I believe, but never put stakes in the ground, otherwise we will never alter our path, go off-road, take risks. I live for risks. Mostly, I live to write. And so my journey continues ... be it memoirs or Miley, novels or Neil Patrick Harris.

To follow my journey at PEOPLE, head to:

http://www.people.com/people/

Or, my PEOPLE page is:

http://search.people.com/results.html?search=wade+rouse&bu=&searchSubmit=Go

Now, back to writing ... right now, for PEOPLE, later, my novel.

My advice to you: Follow your dreams! And GO WRITE!

Humor, Honesty & Heartbreak: Why I Write What I Write

noreply@blogger.com (Wade Rouse) — Thu, 27 Jun 2013 18:54:00 +0000

I had the pleasure to speak at the Herrick District Library in Holland, Michigan, for the first time this week. There seemed to be quiet concern (I was later told) about my presence there, it seems, because, well, I'm gay.

Shocked? No, right?

I didn't buy into the consternation, either, because I always find such events to be an opportunity rather than a risk: I can change minds, I can change lives, I can open hearts, simply by being me. I never alter who I am, what I read, how I act based on where I travel: I am me. And that simple fact always has a profound effect.

The response at the library was overwhelming: A SRO crowd that laughed until it cried. And, after the event, hundreds of people waited to tell me that I touched their hearts and changed their lives with my humor, honesty and heartbreaking "human-ness." I call this the "3 H's", and it's what I bring to my writing.

Many people emailed and asked that I share my opening remarks: Here they are. Now, go be you.

*****

Our libraries, like our schools, depend on diversity of thought. To be surrounded by homogeneous ideas is to live in an isolation tank: The best books and authors are like the best teachers: They are literary, lyrical keys that unlock not only our minds but also our hearts.

I love to speak at libraries because they were a saving grace to me growing up in rural America. My grandma volunteered at our little, local library, and that is where I learned it was OK to read, to write, to explore new ideas. It was OK to be smart and creative while my peers were outside fishing, hunting or nailing squirrel pelts to oak trees.

It’s especially fitting I speak here tonight, as the overarching theme here this summer is Everyday Stories. Perfect, really, because that sums up exactly what I do: I write about everyday life. I celebrate the mundane and minute moments that make life so magical and memorable.

The grand moments are wonderful, but I believe those are just the frame to life’s picture. It’s the little details that make the portrait of us so memorable. I believe it’s our failures, foibles and fragilities – rather than that façade of perfection that we strive so hard to impress upon others – that make us so unique and beautiful.

My M.O. in telling my everyday stories differs from most authors: I utilize humor. It is that way I make sense of a world that has often been hard to understand. It is my way of connecting and of understanding.

I’ve told this story, and I will tell it again: I learned the beauty and importance from telling everyday stories with humor from my idol, Erma Bombeck, a much-overlooked writer in American literature. I know I would impress you more if I said Hemingway, Shakespeare, Faulkner, or Franzen, but I’d be lying.

What I learned from Erma Bombeck was to channel your own voice and to never give up. This is a woman, mind you, who in the 1960s was ignored because those in charge believed what she had to say wasn’t worth reading. And yet this was a woman who continued to lock herself away just so she could write because she believed that what she had to say was worth reading. I’ve faced similar obstacles in my writing career because many have believed the same thing about me.

But what’s happened is this: Readers have been drawn to me and the everyday stories in my memoirs because – no matter how different we may be from one another – it is our universalities that bond us all, that make us human. We’re a society that tends to focus on our differences, when we should be focusing on our similarities, because we’re not that different. Our experiences are largely the same, and that’s what I document: Most of us do not engage in heroic acts everyday, what we do is live and love, succeed and fail, pray and curse, laugh and cry, rejoice in minor triumphs and cling to one another in times of loss.

What I try to do is slip in a lesson while you’re laughing, teach you something while you’re smiling, show you – while you’re giggling – that the chasm between us is tiny. I believe the best books are like mirrors: We are forced to take a good, long hard look at ourselves when we hold one in front of our faces. Oftentimes, we don’t like what is reflected back, when we study that image: But, if we are willing, we change as a result, for the better.

All of my books are based on everyday stories from my life and those of my family’s life, because I believe that those stories – our stories – accumulated over a long period of time tell a profound tale of human existence.

My mom – who was a nurse and a Hospice nurse – passed away a few years ago, and she was not only a woman who heard more everyday stories than most people ever do but she also taught me more in her final months, more about how to live and die with grace, than most folks have taught me in decades. She told me that we all make everyday life so hard, but really it’s so simple. “Our everyday stories are pretty much the same … she told me a few weeks before she died. “The sun goes up, and the sun goes down. And we have just a few, precious hours in between to live without regret, to make a difference, and to love until our hearts ache. It’s up to us to write a new chapter every single day.”