Drew Payne

David Leavitt’s strength has always been the drama he finds in ordinary people’s lives. Not for him the lives of the extraordinary, but his characters can so often feel like the most ordinary of people, yet the lives he finds behind their ordinariness are fascinating. This, his first novel, revolves around a cast of characters who are in flux in their lives, small changes that led to far greater ones. It is 1980s New York and Philip, a gay man in his early twenties, has fallen in love for the first time. In that flush of first love, he decides to come out to his middle-class parents. His parents are facing eviction from their home as their building goes co-op, but Philip’s coming out releases far more than the expected results in his parents. His mother is dissatisfied with her life and marriage, his father has been hiding his homosexuality for decades, with grabbed encounters in gay porn theatres. Many novelists would have concentrated on the three central characters here, but what lifts this novel up from just a domestic drama about homosexuality in ’80s New York is the depth Leavitt puts into his supporting cast of characters. Philip’s boyfriend Elliot, Philip’s friend Brad and Jerene, Elliot’s lesbian flat mate, all get the character development that some authors would only reserve for their main characters. Married to this character development is an interesting plot that carries its characters along with it, coming out of their needs and actions, but it does not run smoothly and comfortably; characters behave well or poorly in the space of their own story arcs, there are no heroes or villains here, just flawed people. This is a remarkable first novel. It is written in an assured and yet open style, but it also made me want to read more and more. I first read it when it was originally published and was swept away by its plot and insight; so much of it spoke about my life at the time, the state of my own relationships then. Rereading it recently, I found it just as insightful in its view of human relationships. I also found it fascinating in its portrayal of life in the 1980s, a life before the internet and smartphones and apps. But most remarkable of all is still that this is a first novel. Find it here on Amazon Drew

Alan Bennett has become inextricably linked with the life of Miss Shepherd, the tramp (by her behaviour and attitudes she could never be called anything else) who lived in a derelict van on his driveway for nearly twenty years, but this book is where it all began. Though this is a slim volume it still carries so much pathos. It is constructed from entries from Bennett’s diary that chronicle his relationship with Miss Shepherd. It began when he allowed her to park her van, in which she lived, in his driveway, to avoid the new residents’ parking restrictions in his area of North London. He intends it as a short time arrangement, but it runs into a nearly twenty-year residency. Bennett’s book chronicles Miss Shepherd’s eccentric behaviour and beliefs, which are uncomfortably far right. At the beginning of the book her actions are portrayed as comic, and she certainly gets some of the best lines in the book. But as the book progresses the tone slowly becomes darker, Miss Shepherd’s behaviour more poignant than comic. Her own preparation for her death is so sadly poignant. It is only after her death that Bennett is able to piece together the real events of her life, which her eccentric behaviour hid when alive. This book is unsentimental in its portrayal of Miss Shepherd, her life and the effects she had on those around her. So many times Bennett recounts how angry and frustrated he was by her, Miss Shepherd was never grateful for any help given her. But it also illustrates a life that fell through the huge cracks in Thatcher’s Britain. Miss Shepherd was at the bottom of the economic ladder, so poor her home was a broken-down old van, with mental health problems, surviving on the charity of local people. Though a short volume this book is a fascinating read, a chronicle of life that could have been so easily forgotten about once she had died. Find it here on Amazon Drew

Though this is a classic dystopian novel, the world it portrays is still strikingly original, even though it was first published in 1932. There is an oppressive, totalitarian regime ruling the world, here they are ruling it by creating a hedonistic society where everyone’s sexual and pleasurable desires are fulfilled. This is also the ultimate classist society, here people are genetically engineered for the class they will live out their lives in. Even now this is still a very original dystopia. Huxley created a world that is shockingly class riddled, people are born via huge vitro factories where foetuses are manipulated to be one of five rigid classes. The alphas are at the top, the most intelligent and the tallest, and the epsilons are at the bottom being the basic manual labourers with the lowest IQ and shortest stature. No one questions this society because everyone is kept “happy” with legally available mind-altering drugs and the requirement to be sexually promiscuous, even the simplest signs of monogamy are frowned on. This novel isn’t about the downfall of this society, as many lesser dystopian novels are, but how a few characters fall foul of it and what happens to them. Huxley vividly creates his world, leading the reader through many of the different institutions that are the pillars of this society; the novel opens with a vivid description of a vitro factory. Unfortunately his characters are not as striking or as well drawn as these institutions. This is a very male-dominated world and some of them feel interchangeable. There are only two real female characters, one is the object of everyone’s desire, all the male characters want to sleep with her, and the other is a sad and old woman, her body allowed to age naturally and therefore she is now “ugly”. The style of this novel is very detached and unemotional, so often scenes are described in a cold and dispassionate tone. The most intimate the novel gets is when Lenina is confronted by a woman who has aged normally and she is repulsed by her and when John, the savage, sits by his mother’s bed as she dies in a drug-induced coma. These are also the most memorable scenes of the novel, where Huxley gets under the skin of his characters. Unfortunately, the rest of the novel does not reach this same level of intimacy. I have found this is the style of other novels from the same time, but I still found it distracting, so unemotional, so detached from its characters. There are some language and scenes here that could make a modern reader uncomfortable but this is still a very interesting and original dystopian novel, especially remembering it was first published in 1932. Find it here on Amazon Drew

“2,556,596 faggots in the New York City area.” So begins Larry Kramer’s infamous novel. It is a strange opening for a novel but, in some way, is indicative of this one. It is the late 1970s and this novel is an odyssey through gay New York life. The main protagonist is Fred Lemish, almost a gay everyman, who is just short of forty. He is searching for love, especially the love of the gay hunk Dinky Adams, but all he can find is promiscuous sex, recreational drug use and almost constant disappointment. This novel has so many things in it that just don’t work. Firstly, the large cast of characters makes it difficult to follow, some of them not having enough time to develop and other characters who do not add much, if anything, to the plot and left me wondering why they were there. Then there are the sex scenes, the many, many sex scenes. Some of them do add to character development but many of them felt repetitive, by the end of the book I was feeling, “Not another sex scene.” I wanted to read the novel; I didn’t want the distraction of all this sex. But what wore me down, as a reader, was its unrelenting negativity. Nothing here works out well; no characters get close to a happy ending, all of them end up unhappy in their own different ways. In one scene, a romantic relationship is sabotaged before it can even begin, which felt almost nasty on the part of the author. The characterisation here was so poor that I was left feeling frustrated. Characters are portrayed in a negative light for their actions, promiscuous sex and drug use, but there is little to no examination of why they are behaving like this. What is reinforcing such negative behaviour? This novel is set in 1978 New York and yet there is little discussion of the homophobia of that time, both external and internal. Homophobia then was more than systemic, it would have had a huge impact on these characters, it would have driven so much of their lack of self-worth, yet it is barely mentioned. This novel felt less a satire on gay life and much more an expression of Larry Kramer’s distaste for a world that didn’t accept him and that is such a shame. With his plays The Normal Heart and The Destiny of Me, Kramer showed he is a writer who understands characterisation. Those plays got under the skin of their characters and examined their situations. The Normal Heart examined the homophobia that was preventing fighting AIDS; The Destiny of Me examined the events that shaped the central character, a gay man facing his own morality and the fact that there was so little treatment, then, for HIV. None of that ability is on display in Faggots, if it had been maybe this novel would have been so much better. Here Kramer tries to hold up a mirror to the world around him, unfortunately it is a distorting mirror that sneers back. Such a missed opportunity from a man who could be a great writer. Find it here on Amazon

Self-help books have become a modern publishing phenomenon, bookshops have whole sections dedicated to them and a large number of them are of questionable value, often being written by people who have little or no experience of the subject. Fortunately, this book doesn’t fall into that category. The authors are four clinical psychologists, all with extensive experience working with people who are HIV positive. The book has been designed as a guide for people newly diagnosed with HIV and covers what to expect and what to do following this sea-change in their life. It is divided into three sections. The first part looks at the lifestyle implications of being HIV positive; healthcare, disclosure of HIV statutes, stress, relationships and children. The second part looks at emotional strategies for coping with HIV, and the last section looks at a problem-solving approach to living with HIV. Because of the authors’ backgrounds and approach, this book may come across as “warm and fuzzy”, it certainly has a lot of emphasis on the emotional/psychological side of the experience, but for a lot of people this is what they can be swamped with when they are first diagnosed. It is refreshing, though, to have a self-help book do this. This is not a book that is based on one person’s narrow experience of HIV. Unfortunately, there is little to offer nurses and other healthcare professionals here. Much of the advice will be common knowledge to many nurses and the tone can come across as a bit simplistic, but this isn’t a book aimed at healthcare professionals, it’s aimed at the general population. The value of this book is that it can be recommended to patients or others. It could be very useful to someone newly diagnosed with HIV or someone struggling to come to terms with it. Rating: four out of five stars. (This review was originally written as a commission by the Nursing Standard magazine) Find it here on Amazon Drew Payne

This is Carrie Fisher’s insider novel about the ups and many downs of surviving and living in Hollywood. Suzanne Vale, the central character here and Carrie Fisher’s obvious alter ego, is a Hollywood actress, but not an A list one, trying to survive through a year in her life. The novel begins with Suzanne admitted to rehab following a drug overdose, drugs that she liked too much. The novel then charts the events of the following year as Suzanne navigates a relationship with a film producer, returns to work as an actress, fills in her days, survives Hollywood parties and makes the required appearance on a TV chat show. Though none of this may sound interesting, and could sound self-indulgent, it is Fisher’s wit and insight that make this a fascinating read. The character of Suzanne Vale is the driver of this book. It is her character and internal conflicts, as she learns to live without drugs, that hold the attention and it is also Fisher’s sharp wit that makes the book sparkle. If you enjoyed the film adaption, don’t expect the book to be the same, Suzanne Vale’s mother is a very minor character here. From the beginning, Fisher is experimenting with the novel’s form. Only part of it is written in the traditional third-person narrative. One section is written in a first-person narrative, Suzanne Vale’s journal, one section is written in dialogue only and another in letter form. This style can be off-putting, a different style with almost each section, but this book is worth the effect. Fisher’s humour is sharp and always funny, but her insights into trying to survive as a B/C list actress in Hollywood are fascinating. This was Fisher’s first novel, which certainly explains her experimenting with different styles, and in places it does feel like she was learning different writing styles, but it is still a strong first novel and well worth the read. This novel is a writer beginning to make her mark on the world and not some actor’s vanity project. If you loved the film version then read this novel as a companion to it, more than the same plot in novel form. If you haven’t seen the film, then here is a fascinating first novel. Find it here on Amazon

Winter 1984 It was a cold and grey winter’s day. The grey sky seemed to hang heavy over everything, stripping away what little colour was left in that winter landscape. I had travelled across Merseyside, on my own, that morning to make this appointment. I’d needed to change trains in the centre of Liverpool, changing from one metro train onto another one in one of the few underground stations in the city. That second train took me under the River Mersey and out into the suburban area of the Wirral. Once I had arrived at the station, I left the train and waited outside. I’d been nervous throughout that journey. I had arranged this appointment, I couldn’t not keep it, not to turn up was not acceptable, but I was so nervous about keeping it. Now, waiting out on the pavement, my nerves had ramped up to another level. Was this going to help me? And what if I was attracted to him? How could I manage that? I was eighteen and that summer I had left college but without the qualifications for my then planned career (which, with hindsight, I wouldn’t have been happy in). I was unemployed with so much time on my hands (it was the 1980s and with the high unemployment rates in Liverpool I didn’t stand much of a chance of finding a job). I was facing up to so many different things about myself but facing that slow realisation on my own. I’d learnt that people didn’t want to hear my problems, the ones I wasn’t too ashamed to share. I had seen the advert, months ago, tucked away in the back of a Christian youth magazine in which all the articles were written by adults. I had kept that magazine, securely hidden amongst a pile of other old magazines. The text of that advert was simple: “HOMOSEXUALITY. There is a positive alternative to the homosexual lifestyle through Christ.” The wording leapt out at me, there was a Christian answer to my problem, to the thing I would never dare to ask anyone about. Since puberty, I’d had the growing realisation that I was homosexual (back then I couldn’t bring myself to say I was gay, that was going too far). I was in so much denial about my sexuality and at every chance I tried to push it down and deny that it was even there, it was all so tiring. Since an early teenager I had been a member of an Evangelical Christian church, our local Anglican church. I worked so hard at being a good Christian, and good Christians were certainly not homosexual, or so I believed. I knew being homosexual meant I was condemned to hell, it was there at church, that belief, that certainty, and I had breathed it into my very soul and believed it all. I was a virgin then, I hadn’t even kissed another boy, I had certainly not held another boy’s hand, but I knew that just my desire to do so condemned me to hell. I wanted saving from that, I couldn’t just be sent to hell for something I had no control over, could I? Then I saw that advert, from an organisation called True Freedom Trust (TFT), who called themselves a “Teaching/Counselling Ministry” and gave a post office box address in The Wirral, not far from where I lived. It had taken me weeks, and screwing up all the courage I had, to write to TFT, sending them a stamped-and-addressed envelope. When it returned, I read the handful of leaflets it contained cover to cover and all over again before carefully hiding them away, I didn’t want my mother finding them. They came with a letter offering me the chance to meet someone from TFT for counselling. Again it took me weeks to screw-up my courage, but eventually I wrote back to them and asked to meet for counselling. That was how I ended up standing there on the pavement, outside that Wirral train station, waiting. I was waiting for HM, from TFT. I was meeting him for counselling. A car pulled up at the curbside there, it was HM. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a five-o’clock shadow so thick on his chin that he looked like he already needed to shave. But the thing that struck me so hard about him was how careworn and miserable he was, no joy came from him. Even when he shook my hand, he seemed so unhappy, the handshake so slight and quick. I had feared that I could be attracted to him, but his joyless personality was so unattractive. We drove to the TFT’s office, housed in a local Anglican church. There HM told me the TFT theology. They did not believe that being homosexual, on its own, was a sin, but any sexual expression of it was. The sin was in the act. All I had to do to avoid hell was to remain celibate, never have sex with another man. Hearing this was such a relief, this was my fire escape out of hell and I could so easily do it. I was young, a virgin, and had never had a relationship, would I ever miss something I’d never had? I was so grateful to HM; I was saved from hell and it came at a low price. We then talked about the leaflets HM had sent me. Three of them were testimonies, short biographies, from men who had “turned away” from the homosexual lifestyle and become heterosexual, all three men finished their stories by saying they were getting married to a woman. When I mentioned these, HM’s face lit up and we talked about them. He saw me as perfect candidate for this change; I was young, innocent and had never wanted to be homosexual. I listened to what he said and drank it all in. The fire escape could lead to paradise, or so it seemed. I left the TFT’s office believing everything I had been told. It was such a physical relief; I wasn’t going to hell, I just had to follow a few rules and I could change and be free. I had been so terrified of my sexuality, seeing it as something I had no power over but which was destroying me from within. Now there was a way of escaping that damnation. At first it was all so easy, I’d not had a relationship so being celibate did not seem a great sacrifice, especially as it would save my soul. I was still deeply closeted but I was living in an environment that was not safe to come out into. The Evangelical church I was a member of was homophobic; that homophobia was covert rather than overt, but I could still read it plainly. I saw HM on a sort of regular basis. At first, we met in the TFT office and we would talk about TFT theology; in reality, I would say something and he would tell me what I needed to do. Like so much of Evangelical Christianity, he always had an answer for me; he always knew what I had to do. It was never him asking me questions and helping me to find out what I wanted to do, he just told me what I had to do. Then HM offered me “healing of the memories” as a way to “heal” me and turn me heterosexual. I readily agreed. I was now desperate for “change” and “healing” in my life. I still hated my sexuality; I still wanted it out of my life, so this offer seemed like another fire escape, a way out of my own personal hell. “Healing of the memories” consisted of me lying on a sofa and HM, after he’d prayed over me for God to open my mind and my memories, would sit at the head of sofa, on a wooden chair, and “guide” me through reliving painful/traumatic memories. The first memory he had me relive was my birth. I lay back on the sofa, HM prayed over me for God to open up my memories, I closed my eyes and nothing came into my mind. I remembered nothing about my birth and I panicked. I wasn’t being faithful to God, there was something wrong with me, God wasn’t opening up my memories, I had angered God, and HM would be upset and angry at me. So my wonderful imagination kicked in and I made up a narrative of my own birth there and then. I imagined that I was a forceps delivery and that I didn’t want to be born, I didn’t want to pulled out of the warm and safe place I had been living in; I was scared and afraid of this bright and cold world I was being pulled into. All very dramatic and all very indicative of my mental health back then. (Years later, I would find out that I was a caesarean birth. What I said back then was just fiction, no miracle of me suddenly finding a lost memory) I met HM regularly for “Healing of the memories”, about once a month, for the next six months. Always he would have me “relive” a memory where my father had let me down or my mother had taken control of something, telling me what I had to do. Always HM told me that this would “repair” my relationship with my parents and “heal” me. (With the benefit of time and hindsight, I am now deeply suspicious of HM’s motives with which memories he guided me to relive. Always they would be ones where my father let me down, where my father was weak, and where my mother was taking control and telling me what to do, my mother being dominant. There is an old and discredited theory called Learned Behaviour. It states that a man is gay because his father is weak and/or absent and his mother is strong and dominant [Back in 1984, Learned Behaviour just plainly ignored lesbians, bisexual people and trans people, but it is a very pathetic and untrue theory.] I am now almost certain HM was pushing me towards that theory. The irony is that I had two very strong-willed and dominant parents, neither one was weak) At the time, I didn’t have any of this insight and HM’s “counselling” only reinforced to me that my parents were to “blame” for my sexuality, to blame for the misery I was living in. It drove a wedge between me and my parents, damaging an already difficult relationship. Now I am ashamed of the way I behaved towards them, but back then I was deeply closeted and being told to blame my parents for it, and I did so because I knew nothing else. But none of this “counselling” was working. There was no change in my sexuality, if anything it was becoming more dominant in my mind. I would see handsome men everywhere and be attracted to them. I had started having crushes on some men I knew. This all left me feeling deeply ashamed and guilty. Wasn’t my sexuality supposed to be changing? Wasn’t I supposed to be leaving behind the temptation of my homosexuality? But I wasn’t. I would lie awake at night and beg God to turn me straight, but there was no change. What was I doing wrong? Why wasn’t God listening to me? Was I to be condemned to this cold and lonely living for the rest of my life? Why had God stopped loving me? Or had God never loved me in the first place? I now know I was suffering from depression, but at the time it seemed that I was living in my own personal hell. That fire escape had not worked, but I was still struggling to walk up it, it was the only option I thought I had and it was destroying me. My mother sent me to my GP because of the insomnia and extremely low energy levels I had. My GP said I was depressed, something I couldn’t/wouldn’t hear. Bible-believing Christians didn’t get depressed because that was against God’s will, or so I believed. He prescribed me tranquillisers. I only took them because my mother expected me to. One morning, I woke up and got dressed and then sat down on the edge of my bed. I was alone in the house, both my parents were at work, and suddenly it was all too much for me. I took my morning tranquilliser and then I took another one. Coldly, I carried on taking them; I would overdose on them and finally stop all this pain. My rather tight gag-reflex stepped in, though, and I choked on the third pill. It caught in my throat and I coughed and coughed and then retched and then I spat the pill back up again. I wept because I had been so stupid and weak, or so I felt. I had been feeling suicidal for months before that but it had never gone beyond just thoughts. Each time I would dwell on the idea of suicide, the idea of ending all of this pain and misery, and then another thought would jump into my mind. If I killed myself that was a sin and I’d go straight to hell for it, and I was terrified of hell. That fear kept the act of suicide to a mere thought and desire, and not too well of a constructed plan, but that morning I acted on that desire. It terrified me what I could actually do, how much I could physically harm myself, and I told no one. They would think I was crazy, I was mad, I was worse, and how could they understand? They would say it was because I was homosexual. I certainly couldn’t tell HM, he talked so much about change and leaving the “homosexual lifestyle”. But I was also finding it harder and harder to hide my symptoms of depression. Being celibate was such a lonely existence. I was keeping everyone at arm’s length because I feared that intimacy would lead to sin, and I feared they would find out the truth, but I hated being so lonely too. I saw HM for a little over eighteen months, but it was during the last six months that everything seemed to spiral out of control. Firstly, the organist of my church was expelled for being gay. It was discovered that his close friend was actually his male lover and they were told not to attend our church anymore. When this happened, I told HM about it, I was so shocked and afraid. These people, the people who called themselves my “Christian family”, had Nicholas and his partner thrown out of our church without an apparent second thought. HM told me that Nicholas wasn’t a Christian, he was just someone who enjoyed the social life of being a member of a church, he liked the friends he made at church, so it was an act of Christian discipline to expel him and therefore it was right. (A couple of years later, I learnt that this simply wasn’t true, HM hadn’t been honest with me) Next the curate, at my church, preached a sermon supporting James Anderton’s homophobia and told me that anyone who was homosexual was condemned to hell for their “choice” to be homosexual. He made no distinction between the orientation and sexual activity, he condemned it all. I didn’t tell HM about this because I felt so betrayed; here was a minister of the church I attended, a man I looked up to, condemning me from the pulpit, and he didn’t even known it was me he was condemning. Then I was outed at church and quickly after that I had daemons cast out of me, for being gay, at the church’s youth fellowship. The betrayal of those actions cut deep within me. It didn’t stop there though. So many people in the youth fellowship told me they knew why I was gay; they all seemed to have a theory about my sexuality. I was told I was gay because I had a strong-willed mother, because I had a strong-willed father, because I was “confused” about my masculinity, because I was a woman “trapped” in a man’s body, because I was possessed by daemons, because the devil was sitting on my shoulder and whispering “lies” in my ear saying that I was gay, because I hadn’t met the “right” woman … and so many more theories, and none of them based on anything I had said. None of them reflected any element of me, but all of them showed how little those people knew me. At first all these different theories were almost comical, but soon they started to hurt. No one was offering me acceptance, instead I was seen as a “problem” that needed solving. But quickly people began to pull away from me, drop me and end our friendships because they knew I was gay. Almost overnight, it felt like I lost almost all my friends and was pushed to the very fringes of church life. That hurt so deeply. Now I was physically lonely as well as emotionally lonely. I turned to the only person I thought would help me. I went to see HM and told him about everything that was happening to me—the daemons being cast out of me, the list of theories as to why I was gay, and about losing almost all my friends. I expected HM to support me, to offer help and advice about what I should do next, to show he cared. I was wrong. HM started by saying that homosexuality can be caused by demonic possession. He then went on to tell me there was a lot of “truth” in all those theories people had about why I was gay. As I listened to him, it was as if scales fell away from my eyes and I saw HM for what he was. He wasn’t there to support me; he was justifying my church’s homophobia. He was doing that for the wider Evangelical Church too. He wasn’t there to challenge the Church’s homophobia; he was there to support the status quo by presenting the “acceptable” face of homosexuality to the Evangelical Church. He was a sad, sexless, gay man who was punishing himself with celibacy as the price to be allowed within the Evangelical Church, but never to be allowed to be a full member. He was so pathetic, it was horrible and repulsive to realise. And I had followed him. I made positive noises and said positive things in reply to what he said, but I didn’t believe a word of it. I just wanted to get out of that office as quickly as I could. I never went back to HM and TFT after that day; I knew they didn’t care about me. They cared about being the “acceptable” homosexuals for the Evangelical Church and they wanted to force me into that mould. They hadn’t cared about helping and supporting me, and I had desperately needed that. I wish I could say the hurt and damage stopped the day I walked away from them, but it didn’t because so often the damage doesn’t stop when the abuse does. POSTSCRIPT: At present, the British government has a proposal to ban conversion therapy, though there is still no date for when the bill will come before parliament. There are two exceptions in the proposal. It will not cover anyone over eighteen who consents to have conversion therapy and will not cover gender identify, so trans people at any age can be subjected to it. If this bill had been law in 1984 it wouldn’t have protected me because I was eighteen when I first went to TFT, and I went to them; therefore, I consented to it. Drew Find the next story in this series here

I actually know the author, he's a member of my writers' group. I think he may have set the settings, on Amazon, for British sales only. He's new to publishing. I'll email him and ask him.

Jeff Jones has certainly lived enough to fill six ordinary lives. Since growing up in Wapping, East London, he’s been in trouble with the police, been sent to prison, been homeless and been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. But he has also been to university, been a manager in mental health and youth work, met Prince Charles and even passed The Knowledge, the exam for London black cab drivers. This book charts his life in a clear and very readable style, sometimes also at break-neck speed, but always it is engaging. Jones does not shy away from the racism that marked so much of his life, growing up as a black man in twentieth-century London, but neither does he preach at the reader or hit the reader over the head. He simply presents racism for what it is and in this clear manner makes it far more chilling and uncomfortable. This is a book about contemporary life in Britain but from a voice that is not often heard, a black working-class man, which can be enjoyed by all. At his heart, Jones is a storyteller and he uses that to great advantage in this book. Find it here on Amazon

You got there before me! My husband put me onto the Mandela Effect awhile ago and it has fascinated me. It is simmering away at the back of my imagination (I've been busy working out how a character could commit a locked room murder in a very simple way), and I will use it in one of my stories, sometime. I the meantime I look forward to reading yours.

Thank for this feedback. These "ex-gay" organisations (I don't like the term "conversion therapy" because it makes it sounds almost therapeutic) do so much harm and damage, it is disgusting, and they claim to be "caring". I know first-hand what damage they do, but there is also a lot of literature about the harm done by them, a lot of evidence. Yet they are still legal in this country. I am very angry about how these organisations are allowed to carry on abusing and harming people with no restrictions. Our government is still dragging its feet on doing anything about them. I "tested the waters" back in February by publishing a blog about the shock I felt, as a teenager, when I was confronted by the deep homophobia of the church I attended, back then. I received such positive feedback that I felt it was time to tell my story, this blog is part of it. I only posted this a few days ago and already people have shared it with others they felt it would help. That's so humbling. I have written fiction based on my experiences, but I am finding that actually telling my story is having more impact. I used to feel that writing about myself was boasting or self-indulgent, so I stayed away from it. I am now seeing that my story has power because people relate to it, and that is so strange and humbling.

Yes, the detached narrator or distant/God point-of-view can work but it’s a style we are very much moving away from. Modern readers (me included) like to get under the skin of the characters we are reading about. I'm currently (finally) reading The Martian Chronicles. There are fascinating ideas on the book but Bradbury takes a distance view of his characters and often this can be frustrating. These characters are going through the most amazing experiences and Bradbury barely tells me what they are thinking and feeling. Saying that, recently I read EM Fosters’ The Machine Stops, which was written in a very Edwardian novel style, a distant point-of-view, and yet the story it was telling was so fascinating that I really didn't notice it. There are a lot of detective novels that use intimate point-of-view to very effectively tell their stories, PJ James and Ruth Rendell do this very effectively. Ruth Rendell often used it to allow the reader to know more of the plot than the characters in it. And of course, Agatha Christie invented the unreliable narrator. I write very much in the form of the intimate point-of-view, I like getting under my characters skin and working out their motivations and emotions. For me, it has become the most natural and satisfying way to write. Reviewing books has also shown me how effective it is. But it is a writing style and previously the distant narrator/point-of-view was the favoured way to write.

Spring 1986 The carpet was patterned, a swirling blue-and-purple paisley pattern of looped tear-drop shapes curled around each other, and I stared down intensely at it. I thought if I focused on it then I could ignore what was happening around me, but that didn’t work. It was impossible to block it all out. I could feel the weight of all their hands pressing down on me, the weight of them on my head, the back of my neck and my shoulders. Those hands made me hold my head forwards, to stare down at the carpet under my feet, but that was also expected of me, to keep my head bowed. In a loud voice, Richard called out to God to cast the daemons out of me, the daemons of homosexuality, and therefore I would be healed, and be made normal, and be made straight. It was a Sunday evening and the Young People’s Fellowship had met inside my local Anglican church, shortly after the Evening Song service. It was run by two married couples, the clean-cut Richard and Elizabeth, and their growing number of children, and the round and comical Iain and Sadie, who always had the latest electronic gadget. The format each week would be a discussion on one topic or another, all of them relating to being a Christian. But there wasn’t that much discussion, often we would be told what we needed to believe by the group’s leaders. It was an Evangelical Anglican church so, no matter your questions or worries, someone would always have the right answer for you; someone would tell you what you had to do. That Sunday night I was suddenly the centre of attention, a place I didn’t like being in. I had told a few people there, a few people I thought I could trust, that I was struggling with my sexuality. I knew I was gay, but I didn’t want to be. I had grown up in that environment and knew how homophobic it was. I had breathed in that homophobia deep inside of me and I had believed its lies were true. My sexuality would only lead me to damnation, or so I believed back then. I believed it so much that I had secretly gone to an organisation called the True Freedom Trust, who told me, through prayer and therapy and God’s power, that I would turn straight (now it would be called conversion therapy). I believed what they said, I’d begged God each night to turn me straight and nothing had happened. This secret had all been too much for me to bear; I had to tell someone else, I had to find support. But I didn’t choose well. Those people I told went on to tell other people and suddenly the whole of the Young People’s Fellowship knew. That Sunday evening, they decided to cure me by exorcising the daemons from me, the daemons they said were causing me to be gay. The exorcism seemed to take forever. One person after another prayed out loud over me and I just stared down at the carpet under my feet. I tried to block it all out. I tried to concentrate on something else, anything else, but again and again that sense of betrayal washed over me. This was how these people saw me, as evil, as corrupt, as possessed by the devil, or by one of his daemons, all because I was gay, and not very gay at that. I was still a very naïve virgin then. I had not even kissed another man, not held another man’s hand. I had certainly never had sex with anyone. I’d had a few secret, painful and unrequited crushes on other men, but they had been my deep and shameful secret, I had told no one about them. I had turned to these people for help and this was the way they were treating me. They, the Young People’s Fellowship members, said we were all like family, and this was fostered by the group’s leaders. So many times, so many people had talked of us being like a family and how we could always rely upon one another. We were Christians; we could trust one another, we only wanted the best for one another. But when I needed them the most they turned around and tried to cast daemons out of me. I had wanted them, no, I had needed them to tell me that I was alright, that I was still wanted by them, that it didn’t make any difference, that I could still be one of them even if I was gay. Instead they turned around and said I was evil, possessed by daemons, and in need of exorcism. The betrayal was so great that it physically hurt. When they removed their hands from me, I knew it was all over, that I could finally pull back to the fringes of the group and hide myself away. Except I couldn’t. People kept coming up to me and telling me that I was “cured” now. People told me they knew why I was gay (so many different theories) and they knew how I could be “healed”. Elizabeth told me that God had told her I needed to keep going back to the True Freedom Trust because that would be the only way I was to be “healed”. I just nodded my head in agreement with her. I didn’t tell her that I was a total failure at turning straight; that the harder I begged God to turn me straight it only seemed to make my gay feeling feel stronger and more real. I knew she didn’t want to hear that. I left the Young People’s Fellowship meeting as soon as it ended. I didn’t stay for the coffee and chat; I couldn’t look anyone in the face. I felt so wretched inside. It was easy to slip away unnoticed. It was a cold and dark winter night outside, but that suited my mood, I deserved the cold and dark. When I reached home, I found that my mother was out, visiting a friend, and my father had been watching television. He was bubbling over with excitement about some program he had been watching. He chatted on about it, his words washing over me, but also not requiring me to speak. I didn’t have to tell him what had happened, nor was I able to. I’d been told, so often, that it was my parents’ fault that I was gay, and stupidly I had believed that lie. As I sat there, my father’s words filling the room, I knew I couldn’t go back to the Young People’s Fellowship; it wasn’t a safe place for me anymore. But they had said they were like my family and that church should be my whole life. Without them I didn’t know what I could do. I knew I couldn’t go back there, self-protection had finally kicked in, but I didn’t know where I was to go next or even what I should do. But I had to do something, I just didn’t know what. Drew Find the next story in this series here

I learnt to write book reviews writing them for a professional journal (the review I've just posted was one of them). My editor there told me the important thing was to tell readers whether the book was worth buying, just borrowing from their employer's library or to ignore. It was really good advice, so I always write a review to say is this book worth reading or not. It's only my opinion but it is my opinion. I don't think it was cultural my dislike of Chronicle of a Death Foretold, it was much more structural. I enjoy prose written from an interment, personal point of view, the narrative seen through a character's eyes (it can be from multiple characters' point of view). I really don't like the distant and cold point of view, I like to get under the characters' skin. I've read enough stories written from the point of view of a distant narrator, the worst being a narrator who was not involved in any action of the story (as here), and always I find them emotionally cold. I know what you mean about Super Lovers. There were elements of Brave New World that I felt really uncomfortable with, many the sexualisation of children, pre-pubescent children physically encouraged to indulge in sex play. I decided that it was very much of the time it was written in, but it still made me feeling uncomfortable. I can only encourage you to write your reviews, they are a great way to help people find new things to read. Also, so many online publishing avenues are driven by the reviews a publication receives.

“Women have more illness but men die younger,” this simplistic old saying does have a grain of truth in it. Men still have a shorter life expectancy than women, but why? Will Courtenay has twenty years’ experience in men’s health and has seen it go from an “oxymoron” to a subject that is now taken seriously. He has the expertise to write this book and the evidence is here in the book’s pages. The book takes an in-depth look at its subject. It examines the different social and environmental factors in men’s lives and their effects on health. Areas such as: risk taking, environment, masculinity, and getting health information to men. Unfortunately, this is an American book, written for American society, and the majority of research is American. Britain is still not American, there are many things here that British readers can find useful, but there are also areas of little relevance to us (the American healthcare system being so different to ours). As a resource for anyone working regularly with men (not just those specialising in men’s health) this book is useful and there is a lot that can be taken from it; but we have to remember it is an American book and should be read as such. (This review was originally written as a commission by the Nursing Standard magazine) Find it here on Amazon

Thanks @W_L. I want to write honest reviews of the books I've read, and some of them just weren't very good. This was one of those books that so many people, at the time, told me I HAD to read and when I did, I was so disappointed in it. It had such a good premise too. My only advice is be honest (And don't give away the whole plot, but that's the write in me). You obviously didn't like Less and you can reason why you didn't like it, which is so important. They are our opinions but we need to be able to explain and reason why we came to a conclusion, not just "I didn't like it." You've done that already here. I've set myself the challenge of writing reviews of all the books I have read (Well the ones I can remember I've read), whether they were good, bad or dull. I probably won't achieve it but so what? I have learnt a lot from it. It's helped me in my own writing, to avoid traps other writers easily fall into and has reminded me the importance of plotting and moving the characters forward. Just because everyone else liked a book, does it mean I have to? When I re-read Larry Kramer's novel Faggots, I was shocked at how bad it was. It lacked all the insights that I had enjoyed in his plays.

Santiago Nasar is to die, to pay with his life for his crime, and the twin brothers of Angela Vicario will make him pay. The whole town knows this will happen and why, but no one steps forward to prevent it. Why? This book has a fascinating premise but just fails to follow through with it. The problem lies at the heart of this novel; its structure makes for a cold and distant storytelling. It is narrated by a nameless narrator who has returned to the area twenty-seven years after the murder of Santiago Nasar. It is through this narrator’s eyes that we see everything, but he wasn’t present when Santiago Nasar died and is relying on second-hand and third-hand accounts. The narrator is a cold and emotionless character and filtering this story through his eyes makes this an equally cold and emotionless story. We are told what the characters did, what physical actions they took, but we are not informed of their motivations or their feelings. We never get under the skin of any of the characters here. This could have been a fascinating read, exploring the emotions and motives of the people who did nothing as they watched a man walk to his death. This novel could have got under the skin of the characters waiting to murder Santiago Nasar. We could have even seen events from his point of view. Instead we had none of that, which left me so uninvolved with this story. I know this book is called a modern classic but I found it a very cold and unsatisfying read, and this book could have been so much more. Find it here on Amazon

It is the memorial service of Clive Dunlop, masseur to the great and good. His “magic touch” was in great demand, plus the extras he sometimes provided. But Clive has died, aged only 34, from a sudden illness, and many of the mourners there are worried about what exactly he died from. Using the memorial service as a framing device, Alan Bennett has created a story of regret and repressed emotions. At the heart of it is Father Geoffrey Jolliffe who is both leading the memorial service and also mourning the loss of Clive, who was more than a friend to him but not quite his lover. This is Bennett at his best, writing about a subject that he captures with precise and concise detail, lost and repressed emotions. The memorial service, which works as the perfect framing device, Bennett uses to explore his characters’ emotions, with many of them remembering their Clive, the Clive they knew, which isn’t the same Clive as everyone else there knew. He also doesn’t miss the moments of humour when he satirises the world of media, television personalities and reality TV celebrities. This is a world he seems to know well. This is classic Alan Bennett but still Alan Bennett on top-level form. This story ripples with his insight and wit. It’s just a shame it is so short, ending far too soon. Find it here on Amazon

In 1949, the New York based writer Helene Hanff replied to an advert in The Saturday Review of Literature by the London bookshop Marks & Co. Her letter had the list of books that she was looking to buy. Frank Doel, an employee of the bookshop, replied to her and from those first letters grew a nearly twenty-year friendship, though the two of them never met. 84 Charing Cross Road, the first book in this double book volume, is Hanff’s letters to and from Marks & Co. She mainly corresponded with Frank Doel, but other members of staff also sent her letters. Hanff’s and Doel’s letters share their love of literature, drawing the reader into that world, but these letters also paint a picture of post-war London life that turns into the 1950s and ’60s. There is a thread of sadness running through this book, Hanff never got to visit London and meet the people with whom she had formed such a lasting friendship. Fate and life’s expenses intervened every time she tried to plan her visit. The charm of this book is the letters themselves, they reveal so much about the people writing them, especially Hanff and Doel. In The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street, the second book here, it is 1971 and Hanff finally gets to make her first trip to London, following the success of 84 Charing Cross Road. This book details her trip, in which she gets to find the London of English literature. Her writing is clear and unsentimental, but she still takes the reader on her emotional journey with her. Unfortunately Frank Doel died three years before her trip and Marks & Co had since closed down. There is a poignant moment when Hanff visits the empty and closed bookshop and finds the gold letters that once spelled out the shop’s name in its window lying abandoned on the dusty floor. Hanff’s writing was always crisp, informative, very readable and shot through with her sharp wit. This double volume of her books, two of her shorter books, which so match each other, are the perfect gateway into the world of her wonderful writing. Regrettably, this world is not a large world, she only wrote a handful of books, but they are all perfectly formed and expertly written. Find it here on Amazon

This is the last blog in this series because this was the last comment piece I had published in Nursing Standard magazine. Early in 2020 they changed their format, going from a weekly publication to a monthly one, and where less in need of content. After then I started to return to blogging. Life is changing. Britain is far more welcoming than it was twenty years ago, and certainly more than it was thirty years ago, and I am sure that has a lot to do with more visibility over the years. The more people who are out than the more people know someone who is LGBT, and the more they realise the reality of our lives. There has always been a move to the city for anyone "different", our cities are more liberal and open places, certainly more multicultural places (I've been doing some reach on this for something else I am writing). Which has left life outside of them still very conservative. Things are changing but there are still a lot of push-backs against. Our right-wing media is certainly pushing back, with their "war on wokeness" (which equals a war on diversity) and their anti-trans views make me sick (especially as they are the arguments they used against gays thirty years ago). I have a hope for the future, based on my own experience. I started to come out in 1984 and the world today is totally different from then, the changes are breath-taking. Yes, there is a lot more that needs to be done and that's why we should never stop pushing for equality. I'm going to write a postscript to this blog series. Something happened at this year's London Pride that showed me how far we have come. But I haven't written it yet and I've got other blogs to post first.

But the Government does manage so much of what the NHS does, but they do this with targets, requirements and policies. They also police so much of this by directly fining NHS Trusts for breaching them. These all dictate what different Trusts can and cannot do and many of they dictate the day-to-day running of a Trust. Most of these targets, requirements and policies come from the Department of Health and NHS England, who are directly under the influence of the Minister of Health. One example is an Accident and Emergency departments. If a hospital’s Accident and Emergency has dangerously high demand levels and/or is dangerous under-staffed and it is temporary closed to manage that demand, then that Trust is fined by the Department of Health for doing so. Therefore the pressure on a Trust’s management is not to close it. This is the Government directly managing a hospital. And there are a lot more targets and requirements that impact on the day-to-day running of a Trust, there are targets that impact were a patient can be placed on a hospital ward, and the Trust is fined for breaching. This is on top of the requirement for yearly “savings”. Hospitals do not even get to chose their own specialist services, this is decided upon centrally. My yearly mandatory training requirements aren’t set my employer, they were set by the Department of Health and they are not related to my job. They are divided up into clinical and non-clinical training streams and that is about it. I work in the community, actually working in people’s homes. I have to do regular training on how to deal with and prevent fires in hospitals. This training has zero relevance to my job but the Department of Health says I have to do it. The Department of Health sets targets for recruitment and all Trusts use the same disciplinary procedures, as laid down by the Department of Health. The government has never treated the NHS as an arms-length body, they (whichever party is in charge) have always been very involved in the management of the NHS. Since 2010, the NHS has seen major strategic reforms that have completely changed how the NHS is run and managed, and this was all directly from Government policy. The Department of Health was very silent about the recent Stonewall reports into the homophobia in the NHS, the government was also very silent and the media was very uninterested. It feels as if no one cares and I am very frustrated by this.

@Mancunian, thank you for this. I am so proud of being given the chance to originally write these comment pieces and have them published, at the time I felt I could, maybe, change some attitudes. I fear I didn't achieve that because so many of them repeat the same themes, how homophobia is still prevalent in the NHS, as it is in the rest of our society. I decided to re-post them as blogs because a friend of mine complained to me that she had never been able to read them because she doesn't subscribe to Nursing Standard magazine, where they were published. I have been so surprised by the response they have generated as blogs. I was so angry about NHS England going to court to get the right not to fund PrEP. It was breath-takingly prejudiced, even if they didn't think it was meant to be. In October 2016, I wrote an in-depth blog about why this was such a fundamentally wrong decision. You can read it here.

Thank you. When I originally wrote this article, I was trying to be positive about the future but events decided to stop me.

The move to all online training was long before Covid. I originally wrote this blog in 2015 and back then almost all my work training was online. I left being a Nurse Trainer in 2011 when my employer lost several face-to-face training contracts. Training budgets have been cut since 2010, when NHS funding was cut. I don't feel this is all a failure of NHS management, I feel it goes up much higher. This is a failure of the Department of Health and the Minister of Health. Neither of them are very concerned about staff training, or even staff retention. Their attitude, for years, has seemed to be "we can always train new staff." They haven't been very interested in retaining staff. Neither have they been very interested in training and developing staff, we've seen that by the severe cuts to staff training budgets across the NHS. When funding is short, staff training is always the first thing to be cut, but the DoH and the Health Minister have not condemned any of this, or even seem bothered by it. Nothing really came from this YouGov survey because, as a society, we don't really take homophobia seriously. So often its excused as someone's religious beliefs or personal views. We have seen a massive rise in homophobic hate crime since the Brexit referendum and yet there has barely any noise about this, outside of the gay media. I originally wrote this as a response to my anger, but also because no one was talking about this report. I'd hoped that it would open up debate but it didn't, it didn't seem people were interested in it. I still feel so frustrated by this.

I originally wrote this blog as a comment piece for Nursing Standard magazine (as with all the blogs in this short series). I was writing about a report that showed, for so many areas of the NHS, nothing had changed in decades and LGBT staff were still subjected to the most awful prejudice and treatment. I wrote it as an angry response because it felt like, for far too many people, nothing had changed. I wrote it to challenge the magazine's readers. At the time of its original publication, there was a lot of talk of "person-centred care", and a lot of it was just paying lip-service to a very challenging concept, that's why I wrote, “How can we say we focus on person-centred care when LGBT staff’s safety is so bluntly ignored by the NHS?” I wanted to bluntly challenge the magazine's readers. I work in team of twenty-two nurses, all from very different backgrounds, and have never experienced any homophobia from colleagues at work. My husband works for the same NHS Trust and everyone at work knows him as my husband, but they have also approached him for professional advice because they already know him. I was in this job when I originally wrote this article. I was out at work and having no problems because of it, then I read this report and was deeply shocked. It was detailing prejudice that I had thought,had hoped, had disappeared ten years ago. I first thought was, I have to write a piece for the Nursing Standard on this. So I did and they published it. It came from a place of anger because I had thought, from my own experience, we had moved away from this sort of disgusting homophobia. I was wrong.