“Is it the writing itself or what you write?”
“What I write. I would love to write something more … in line with my life. Actually, I have. But though it sells, it certainly won't make me rich. No chance.”
“What did you write?”
Graeme mentioned the names of a couple of gay novels.
“You wrote those?” Jason was astounded. “They're fantastic!”
“Thank you! A fan!” Graeme's eyes were sparkling with amusement.
“I loved them. When Jonathan dives off the cliff … Wow!” Jason thought for several seconds. “But hang on a minute! The novels were set in America. How did you manage that? They sound so authentic.”
“Pete was American. From the mid-west. A horrid town full of homophobes and Bible-bashers. He was much happier here, in Melbourne. We were happy, so happy together.” Graeme looked away. Then looked back, with a forced smile.
“Life has a way of taking away the people and the things you love. But I always tell myself, we had ten years of bliss, of a happiness some people only dream about. I mean, every day in Africa, or the slums of India or Mexico or Rio de Janeiro, some poor bugger wakes up hungry and dies. Every day. And I have all this. So much!”
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| Cape Town shanties |
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