Archive for the 'fancy nancy writers' Category


flowers (and rhetorical questions)

what  becomes of the broken-hearted?


how can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?


where is the love?


how do i live without you?


what’s love got to do with it?


how can you mend a broken heart?


wouldn’t it be nice?


who do you think you are?


who’s zoomin’ who?



Just Published! A Photo for Your Wallet

Exciting news! A chapter, “A Photo for Your Wallet”, from my memoir-in-progress, “The Photo Box” has been published online by Bull Men’s Fiction and is currently headlining their home page. Click here to read it!



coming soon

Happy to announce that a chapter—“Sic Gloria Transit [Jason]”—from my memoir-in-progress—“Evelyn & Son, Ltd.”—will be published in Chelsea Station Magazine this fall. Publication date to follow.



a laundry list of complaints about an author i admire

1. please stop writing historical fiction unless it’s from a period of time in which you have lived and even then, stay close to what you know.

laundry moorhead 732. ask someone other than your lover to be your reader. or include your lover, but ask someone with a more critical eye (and ear) and heed their advice. when your lover says he “loves it”  what he means is “let’s fuck.” (at least that’s what i’ve surmised from reading the “postface” and “acknowledgments” in this latest novel of yours.)

3. what has happened to your lyrical understanding of the way gay men talk to each other?

4. for that matter, what has happened to your lyricism in general? those $5.00 words that you were able to weave into much of your earlier fiction so seamlessly, now are thumbs that have been hit by a hammer throbbing in cartoon fashion. it makes me wince with embarrassment for you.

5. if i were to offer an explanation for this decline, i would humbly suggest that teaching hasn’t been a friend to your writing. personally, i would love to sit at your feet and listen to you talk about writing, but at the same time, i thought that’s what i was doing before you became a ‘professor’ and were writing without the burden of academia.

6. listen, it’s not that there haven’t been a few good times these last few years, there have been and they’ve been lovely and touching and true. i want to remember you as that man.  so that’s why i’m going to have to break it off with you, i’m sorry. oh, i’m sure you’ll be fine, you won’t even notice that i’m gone, but this way i’ll be able to hold onto your vitality and strength and that’s best for me.

P.S. (3 hours later): i’ve been called out on “historical fiction” for suggesting that writing about one’s own times would not be considered “historical.” i say it’s a blurry distinction at best, but will bow to the “school book” definition and call it a day. –rp


a set of questions, part #1

because of time constraints, i have divided  this proustian endeavor into a week’s worth of posts. you have matthew to blame.

rp 1974 margate PW 2WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR?  physical fear: snakes. psychic fear: violence.

WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND? benign befuddlement accompanied by a mild sense of happiness.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION?(WAY OF SPENDING TIME) reading a good book (at least what i consider a good book, that may not be your ‘good’ book.)

WHAT HISTORICAL FIGURE DO YOU MOST IDENTIFY WITH? one’s inclination is to go with some well-known figure, but aggrandizement muddies that response. i would have to say i’d prefer to be unknown to history, but known to my friends.

WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST ADMIRE? on a world scale: hillary clinton; personally: my lover.


a week of first paragraphs: saturday


“olive will come down in about ten minutes; she told me to tell you that. about ten; that is exactly like olive. neither five nor fifteen, and yet not ten exactly, but either nine or eleven. she didn’t tell me to say she was glad to see you, because she doesn’t know whether she is or not, and she wouldn’t for the world expose herself to telling a fib. she is very honest, is olive chancellor; she is full of rectitude. nobody tells fibs in boston; i don’t know what to make of them all. well, i am very glad to see you at any rate.”

–henry james, the bostonians


a week of first paragraphs returns: friday


when they came south out of grant county boyd was not much more than a baby and the newly formed county they’d named hidalgo was itself little older than the child. in the country they’d quit lay the bones of a sister and the bones of his maternal grandmother. the new country was rich and wild. you could ride clear to mexico and not strike a crossfence. he carried boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both spanish and english. in the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother’s breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have.

–cormac mccarthy, the crossing



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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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