Some will argue that self-published novels are the height of vanity. Some will argue that self-published novels are just plain sad. Some will even go so far as to say that the worst literature ever written by human hands (if we are to believe that Suzanne Somers is human) has been of the self-published variety.
Some will, but not me.
I for one love the idea of gays writing. Writing is a wonderful distraction from the quotidian queer rigors of shopping for spandex square-cut shorts. Writing gives gay men the opportunity to employ the full range of the Phoenician alphabet, instead of merely limiting themselves to the letters E, G, and K. And of course, in penning gay romance novels with gay characters and gay sex, gays create strong, positive, virile, gay literary role models who are gay.
All I’m wondering is:
- 1. Are gay men really interested in romance?
- 2. If they are, where in holy hell will these two faggots find queens willing to read that crap?
Side note: You know the homo race has become boring and middlebrow when we show up on the sale rack at your local airport Waldenbooks.
sturtle [dot] com 