Sixes are wild. I have written and published six books–most of them in my sixties. Meanwhile, last Friday, I welcomed another group of writers to my sixth memoir-writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library.
Each writer arrives in the room with their own suitcase of metaphorical stories to tell. In my role as leader and facilitator, I encourage them to unpack the most meaningful, vivid ones.
There are eleven participants in the current class. We’ll have two more three-hour sessions together. One is tomorrow. The last one is October 30. Though we meet just three times in person, I try to cram as much writing into our time as possible.
My goal is for them to find and develop creative momentum in this temporary writing community, then move ahead independently to write a personal story. I focus on helping them tell ONE story from their lives, rather than THE story of their lives. I think that makes the process less intimidating.
This week’s writing? To describe a setting that is memorable from their lives. It might be a city, town, or something more specific. Perhaps a room in a house where something important occurred. In a worksheet I gave them, I say, “What does this place look, sound, smell, feel, taste like?” Then, I ask them to include these sensory observations in the narrative of their story.
I work with the group to build trust right from the start of the workshop. So, I will keep their story submissions confidential. But suffice it to say, their “settings” stories they submitted run the gamut. The organic and raw nature of memoir writing is what I find my fascinating about the genre.
Last year when I first introduced this “settings” exercise in another of my workshops, I completed my own version of this exercise to see how it felt.
What I’ve written below is a description of one of my favorite cities in my home state … Flagstaff, Arizona. I’d love to know what you think. Send me a comment.
***
Like much of America, downtown Flagstaff lives in transition.
Wooden porches of once-proud homes sag and creak. They speak of generations of heavy snow, extreme temperatures, and familiar faces gone but not forgotten.
Scattered wildflowers bloom through deep cracks in sidewalks and curbs. Occasional murals–born and etched by Arizona artists–adorn avenues. They tell hardscrabble stories of past lives.
North and south of historic Route 66–on both sides of parallel train tracks that dissect and rumble through the town–entrepreneurs have stripped and transformed buildings. Trendy pizza joints, aspiring restaurants, cozy coffee houses, touristy bars, ski shops, reimagined inns, dental offices, healthcare clinics, law practices, and investment firms anchor street corners.
Some have since closed, casualties of the pandemic. The lucky ones endure, connecting bohemian neighborhoods within view of the breathtaking San Francisco Peaks.
The overall effect produces a block-by-block checkerboard of western resiliency, community pride, mountainside retreat, and twenty-first-century regrets.
Waves of random showers soak once-parched plants on this wet October day. Some soothe forgotten succulents, while others cue autumnal chapters of bubbling baked apples, laced with sugar and cinnamon, brimming with melted butter, delivered simply and securely, without a dog-eared recipe, directly from her heart and Midwestern oven.
The sweet, fruity aroma stirs my creative spirit, fires my tired fingers, fuels my ever-willing voice, and ignites tomorrow’s best intentions to nurture seedlings of songs and stories that otherwise might never grow, never emerge, never be written.
And nights of our lives angling for the next fish.
We rush from place to place, moment to moment,
Often derailed and distracted by constant noise,
Often unfulfilled as the day’s last light descends.
Maybe, to catch the one we dream of catching,
It’s best to pause in silence at the water’s edge,
To give thanks for what passes before us,
To be still beside the simple silhouette cast.
At dusk, on Sunday, October 4, 2026, I captured this silhouette of a boy waiting patiently for his next fish along the Crosscut Canal in Scottsdale, Arizona.
If you enjoyed reading my poem, check out my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed. It (and all six of my books) are available on Amazon.
In the late 1970s, I interviewed my father’s older sister, Aunt Thelma, for a college folklore project. Sitting across the table from me in her suburban north St. Louis kitchen, she waxed on about her philosophy of life.
“Honey, we’re all just ships passing in the night,” Thelma offered with a faraway look in her eyes. “We have to make the most of the time we have together.”
My beloved, charismatic, animal-loving aunt has been gone for twenty-six years. I miss her, but I don’t think about her often. However, she is on my mind this week.
Not because she died in October 1999. Instead, it is the wisdom of her words that apply to a recent development in my life.
Poly–the gray-and-white stray cat I’ve written about frequently–has disappeared. She’s been gone for about a month. None of our neighbors have seen her recently either.
It’s possible that she has become someone’s indoor cat, but I doubt she would stand for that. She is/was a free spirit.
Instead, I fear she may be a casualty of a series of monsoon storms that swept through the Phoenix area in late September and early October. Or, perhaps, a random coyote nabbed her.
I miss our morning moments together … seeing her curled on the blue cushion of one of our wicker chairs beneath our kitchen window.
I miss watching her twirling acrobatics on our sidewalk, hearing her frantic meows as Tom or I opened another can of Sheba sustainable tuna and spooned it into a chipped ramakin for her to devour on our kitchen floor.
If Poly is gone permanently, she certainly added a playful, natural dimension of love to our Polynesian Paradise community, since early May 2021 when I first spotted her peering down at me from a neighbor’s roof.
If you follow my blog, you know Poly inspired a litany of cat tales that appeared here. They are warm and silly Arizona chapters I never would have imagined writing a decade ago.
It is ironic that Poly vanished about the time I completed the manuscript for my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, which is now in the final stages of production. I will publish it sometime in November.
The good news is several stories of my feral friend appear prominently in the book. The time we spent together, like two ships passing in the night, will have a literary life, because she has added an unexpected dimension to my Arizona sunset years.
Now–on this bewitching Friday as my book follows Poly’s example and prepares to set sail–that unlikely bond between two men and a lovable, mysterious feline character will exist on the pages for anyone who cares to read about it.
Treats come in all sizes and shapes. Chocolate is always welcome, but typically not as intimate or lasting as positive human interaction.
***
Yesterday I completed another memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. It was the fourth such workshop I’ve led over the past twelve months.
I love facilitating these sessions, because it’s a personal way for me to encourage other writers to nurture their creative ideas and momentum.
This one at Mustang Library included twelve writers–nine women and three men–who wrote and shared their extraordinary, humorous, heartful slice-of-life adventures across the table from one another.
During week one of the three-week workshop, I learned a little about each participant. We spent time building trust. As we began to get comfortable as a group, I assured them that the room we occupy is a safe space for sharing their personal experiences through their writing.
By weeks two and three, we developed an esprit de corps. They sent their stories to me in advance. I offered my encouragement and constructive feedback in person in the following session.
Inevitably, there were contemplative moments and a few tears were shed by one writer on Friday.
As she read her story aloud (a touching, nostalgic reminiscence of watching the joy on her mother’s face as she skated across the ice in the 1960s free of her typical parental responsibilities) the flood gates opened suddenly.
I and everyone in the room verbalized their support for this writer. I also offered her a tissue and a pat on the shoulder.
That was just one of a dozen or more seminal moments shared over a three-week period on Friday afternoons.
In a world otherwise ruled by chaos, we were a community of writers banding together, gliding freely above the fray across the ice of our literary pursuits.
***
This morning, I opened my email to discover this early Halloween treat from a creative husband-and-wife team, who participated in the workshop.
“We enjoyed your memoir class so much; due in large part to your enthusiasm, experience and energy! The content was high quality, and the tone you set of trust was palpable… there is no substitute for that among budding creatives. Thank you so much for your time and care; we’ll hope to cross paths in the new year!”
I don’t expect a ringing endorsement for volunteering my time. But I always appreciate feedback whenever it involves helping other writers find their voices inside the secure walls of a library.
It encourages me to keep giving and confirms my suspicion that I have found a meaningful way to make a true difference in the lives of others.
The middle of October is upon us, and I am addicted to the pumpkin spice lattes at Grounds on 2nd, our favorite haunt in Old Town Scottsdale.
More important, I am delighted to report I have completed the manuscript for another book. It’s called Sixty-Something Days.
Book six is a memoir tapestry that first entered my consciousness around my sixty-fifth birthday in July 2022. I began to closely consider what it means to stay creative and relevant in our later years … especially in our divisive culture enamored with youth but often dismissive of wisdom.
This book explores that idea in episodic ways. It features sixty-five essays, poems, and flashes of fiction, which I first published here over the past three years. Now, I am stitching them together.
With time–and the encouragement of friends and readers–I began to see a thread of truth running through them: that as human beings (lovers of music and nature) we must remember the poignant arc-of-life moments (past and present) while striving to stay involved, influence others through our compassion, and share our hard-earned wisdom.
Those themes appear in my other books, but this one feels more urgent. More emphatic. I feel an obligation to share what I have learned, find beauty and hope wherever we can in our lives, and raise a banner that is a call to action to survive this period of tremendous upheaval in our country.
Currently, I am working closely with Sam, graphic designer extraordinaire, to create a cover and develop the interior format. Sam has partnered with me on all of my books.
Yesterday, he sent me the first galleys for review. I can see book six taking shape. I feel my enthusiasm swelling. If all goes well, I will publish Sixty-Something Days sometime in November.
October is bright and beautiful in central Arizona. The intense heat of summer is gone. Mornings and evenings are cooler.
Back in St. Louis, it was fortuitous that Tom and I decided to visit the Gateway Arch on September 22, because–with the U.S. government shutdown–the Arch and other park facilities across the country staffed by the National Park Service closed October 1. Who knows where this latest setback for the American people will lead?
Still, life goes on.
Beginning October 10, I will teach another memoir writing workshop at Mustang Library in Scottsdale. Tom is leading a film series, called Hollywood Laughs, at the same location on Thursday afternoons until mid-November.
Meanwhile, fall chorus rehearsals are underway for our next Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) concert, Let Your Spirit Sparkle, in December at the Orpheum Theatre. I will wear my blue sparkly vest on stage again. This 2025/2026 concert season is my sixteenth consecutive year singing with gay choruses in Chicago and Phoenix. It is a vital part of my life.
Under the dynamic leadership of Antonio and Darlene–our artistic director and assistant artistic director respectively–PHXGMC has grown to more than 150 diverse members. Our voices will be strong when we march in the Phoenix Pride Parade on October 19.
Next month, Kirk will visit us in Arizona for a few days. Even as the mayhem in our country spreads, Tom and I look forward to gathering with Nick and him. We will enjoy a few quiet hours with both of my sons in our newly remodeled, freshly painted desert home.
We will give thanks for our fortunate lives, good health, and meaningful artistic opportunities in our sixty-something years, which have enabled us to have a positive impact on the lives of others in our community.
I have a passion for learning, teaching, and uncovering the truth. So much so, that in another lifetime, I might have pursued a career as a full-time educator.
While that never happened, over the past thirty years, I’ve discovered episodic ways to teach … sharing my communication expertise as an adjunct PR instructor, opening minds as a diversity trainer and consultant, and–now–encouraging others to write and share their stories.
***
On Monday, October 21, fourteen people walked through the door of The Loft on the second floor of the Scottsdale Public Library. Each found a place at the table around a U-shaped configuration.
Lisanne, the library’s program supervisor, welcomed them, introduced me, and described each of my books(which she propped on easels at the far end of the room).
I sat–inside the U–smiling and ready to share my tips and guide them on their memoir-writing journey.
First, I asked each writer to introduce themselves. Some told me they have been writing in various forms for years.
Others have fought the impulse to do so or simply have never found the time or place but have always wanted to write.
“This is a safe space for you to begin,” I told them.
To mine vivid memories. To spin them into previously unwritten sentences. To shape them into stories that one day they may want to share with the world or simply pass along to immediate family and friends.
By the end of our first session together, we got to know each other better. I walked them through a “prompting” exercise.
Each person selected a random image–fanned out in my hands like a deck of playing cards–and then proceeded to write a paragraph or two relating to it.
One selected a photo of a tiger lily. She wrote (and shared) an especially sad, but poignant and revealing story about her flower-loving mother.
Another recalled a funny encounter with a monarch butterfly. All of the stories written and shared had merit.
During the last part of the class, they completed a three-page “Telling Your Story” Worksheet I prepared. It will be the baseline for each participant to begin to write their memoirs.
I asked each person to write one to two manuscript pages for next Monday’s session. I will offer constructive feedback at that time, and they will share insights with each other.
We will meet one final time to discuss another round of writing on Monday, November 4.
Already, this workshop is proving to be a meaningful experience for me.
I hope it is a catalyst for each of my fourteen fellow writers.
If I can make even a small difference as a library volunteer to help them on their storytelling journeys, my time–inside and outside the U–will be time well spent.
Writing is a solitary practice. But when our best ideas flow from our brains through our fingertips, it can feel like we are creating a galaxy of possibilities and fascinating characters to keep us company.
Still, we all need the support and encouragement of others to help us tell our personal-yet-universal stories, so that they touch the hearts and stimulate the minds of our readers.
To meet that need for external creative input, for the next three Mondays –October 21, October 28, and November 4 (from 4 to 6 p.m.) — I will lead a fun, interactive, and free memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library, Civic Center location.
If you live in the Phoenix area, I hope you will join me. No reservations are required, but space will be limited. Arrive 30 minutes before the first class to get a ticket at the door. It will entitle you to participate in all three sessions.
Honestly, I’m excited to share a little of my time and memoir writing tips. And–perhaps–give a literary boost to a few individuals who are where I was ten years ago: ready to cross the creative threshold, but in need of direction and inspiration to turn memories into memoirs.
I am a writer, gardener, and gay man. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, ever after.
Those three dimensions of my life–hardwired into my DNA–aren’t the only attributes that describe me.
But they are the ones I choose to write about today.
***
Eight or ten years ago, when Tom and I were snowbirds splitting time between Illinois and Arizona, we bought a Mexican fire barrel cactus at a Desert Botanical Garden plant sale not far from our condo.
We planted it in a yellow ceramic container. Tom’s grandfather, Sam, left it behind when he passed in the fall of 2001.
(Beginning in the early 1970s, Sam and Lucy–Tom’s grandmother–lived in the condo Tom and I now call home.)
From the start, I loved the way the fire barrel’s red spikes vibrated year-round in the desert sun. Every April, it produced spectacular orange blooms. Plus, it didn’t require much water.
When we became full-time residents in the Grand Canyon State in 2017, I paid closer attention to this cactus.
It was a grounding natural force, stationed outside our backdoor on blazing July afternoons and crisp December mornings.
In 2020, during the height of Covid-19, we passed it every morning on our way to walk the canal.
Those were walks to simply stay sane. To keep our bodies and minds moving. To get lost in the beauty of the buttes near our home.
At one point, I began to notice that our Mexican fire barrel cactus was leaning south toward neighbors who would pass by. It was almost as if our spiky friend was listening to their conversations.
That observation inspired me to write Eavesdropping, an essay that appears in I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree, my book (published in 2021) about Arizona life.
Unfortunately, as it is with all forms of life, there is an ending. A closing of one loop and the beginning of another.
Today was the end of the line for our trusty, prickly friend. The relentless summer and early fall heat of 2024 in the Valley of the Sun decimated it.
This morning, I grabbed my thick gardening gloves and trowel. I pried the decaying cactus out of our yellow pot and deposited it in the dumpster.
The good news? I salvaged (and cleaned up) our vintage container with roots to my husband’s past.
It waits outside our backdoor for a new occupant.
***
Far beyond the gardens of our backdoors, backyards, patios, and public parks, each of us–gay, straight, bi, or trans–has the right to pursue and realize a happy life … ever after.
Today, the day after National Coming Out Day, I have some additional thoughts on this topic beyond what I’ve written before in this space and in my lemon tree book.
As I’ve said in the past, coming out is not a singular process. Of course, the first time you disclose your sexual orientation to family and friends is monumental, because there is always the risk someone important in your life may not accept you for who you are … or who you love.
However–even after you pull off that bandage, feel a sense of relief, and deal with the potential consequences of having risked personal loss simply for being yourself openly–there is the realization that we live in a predominantly straight world where some may not view you in a favorable light.
Every day, we who are gay find ourselves in situations where we need to decide if we will share our authentic selves in the moment.
What I’ve discovered is that when I stifle that authenticity impulse in certain social situations, I feel like I’ve lost my voice. That’s problematic for a writer … and a singer!
Here’s an example. On Day 1 of our recent-and-fabulous tour through the United Kingdom with twenty-two other vacationers and our guide Phil, we met the entire group for a “welcome drink” in the dining room of our London hotel.
As a part of getting acquainted, Phil asked us each to quickly share a little about ourselves and who we are.
Right away, I heard a few other couples–straight, older couples about our age from places like Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Florida, etc.–say the trip was a wedding anniversary celebration for them.
About halfway around the room, it was my turn. I had two choices: to share that Tom and I were celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary; or to stifle that impulse, come up with some sort of alternative response, and withhold the joy I felt about exploring England and Scotland (two places we’d never been) with my husband.
At this stage of my life, it was an easy decision. Because, at age sixty-seven, I’m comfortable with my gay identity–and prepared for all sorts of responses–I chose the first option.
Doing so, freed me up to enjoy the trip on my terms. And you’ll be happy to know, that our fellow travelers–visibly, at least–accepted and embraced us for who we are … a married, gay couple.
Of course, I still remember the arduous times in my thirties and forties. Living in the straight Chicago suburbs. Trying to raise two boys as a single dad after a messy divorce. Coming out to my ex-wife, my mother, my sister, my sons, my coworkers, my neighbors.
The list was long. The process was painful. But I endured. Slowly, I began to love my true self … and so did most of the people around me. A few relationships fell by the wayside, but I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I took a spin through social media. One of my newer friends, who joined the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus recently, posted a video of him telling his story about coming out over the past year.
It was a story of pain, transformation, and personal fulfillment. Really, how he (with the help of a gifted counselor and close friends) loved his true self and was ready to share it with the world.
As I watched the video–and heard him say he and his wife divorced and that they and their five children have begun to move forward to find more solid footing–it nearly brought me to tears.
I am so proud of my new acquaintance, my new friend. I told him he is an inspiration for those who have yet to come out … and for those of us who already have.
Because, in this spiky world, I don’t think we can change hearts and minds, live happily ever after, or even simply be content, unless we are visible. Unless we share our whole selves.
