Stag Dance is on sale today! Run, don’t walk, to your nearest bookstore, because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this book for months—it’s that good. I honestly love everything about it.
I love how the four stories really and truly feel like they belong together, each story casting new light on the stories before and after, even though they’re all so different. I love how fucked up and real and ridiculous these stories are—all four of them—how lovely, romantic, perverse, generous, absurd. I love how it starts in the future and ends in a swiftly-receding present, but spends most of its time snowbound at an illegal logging camp, in an ambiguous, near mythic past. It made me want to read lumberjack novels all winter. It made me want to write a lumberjack novel of my own. It made me want to pin a brown triangle to my pants and show up to work drunk and wander out the back door into the woods with a blinking lantern and chop wood in a pioneer dress and dance.
I’ve been listening—like the rest of the world, I take it—to “Good Luck, Babe!” You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling. I’m the kind of queer person who is either blindingly visible or comfortably invisible. My choice. How simple, for me, to navigate the world as who I’m not. But navigate the world as who you’re not—is that not then a considerable part of who you are? Selves multiply indiscriminately. Logic demands that we cannot be what we aren’t. Is the illusion of falseness just another bitter artifact of capitalist self-fashioning? Or am I asking the wrong questions? Generally, temperamentally, I have little desire to draw attention to myself. But you’d have to stop the world… Spend too much time vanishing and your whole life starts to go gray around the edges. Or put it plainly, why not? Spend too much time as a man... something I am and am not, like Schrödinger's cat (look in the box—it’s a gender reveal party!)
Our bodies, our desires. These soft fleshy vessels—I’m tempted to say that we inhabit them, but that is just Christianity speaking through me, no? A soul—divine spark in flawed earthly vessel. Even as we muster our forces for a full frontal attack on binary gender, this other binary is in our sights: soul and body, mind and flesh, spirit and dust. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. I call bullshit.
None of it makes sense, because we don’t choose anything and somehow we choose everything. Because our bodies and our desires aren’t ours, not really—they’re something we do with other people, something we make and something we’re given and a series of stupid frustrating questions without answers that only make sense on Tuesday mornings and Friday nights and crack up into our own homegrown youtube oblivion the moment we try—fools that we are—to consider them dispassionately.
And so what choice do we have? We turn to stories. These four are some of the best.