Passing Stranger

By Mihangel

6. Elemental

Why don't people leave off being lovable
Or thinking they are lovable, or wanting to be lovable,
And be a bit elemental instead?

Man is made up of the elements
Fire, and rain, and air, and live loam
And none of these is lovable
But elemental.

I wish men would get back their balance among the elements
And be a bit more fiery, as incapable of telling lies
As fire is.
I wish they'd be true to their own variation, as water is,
Which goes through all the stages of steam and stream and ice
Without losing its head.

I am sick of lovable people,
Somehow they are a lie.

D. H. Lawrence, Elemental

A year after I retired, Hilary followed suit. During that intervening year I explored for the first time what the web had to offer. Porn reminded me of boyhood desires if little else. But my wanderings had two main outcomes. One -- of which more later -- led both to blessings and to bitter disappointment. The other proved wholly good.

I discovered gay stories and read (or skimmed) them by the hundred. The vast majority, I found, were crude in every sense, and not at all my cup of tea. Of those that did say something to me, most were too sugary for my taste and did not fully satisfy. Barely half a dozen truly grabbed my heart and soul. So should I try my own hand? Might writing help me in my quest? Nebulous thoughts are solidified and organised and expanded by the very process of putting them on paper. Yet, seasoned writer though I was, I had not dabbled in fiction since English classes at school. I was thoroughly out of practice, and recalled Dad's disastrous attempt. But I cast my doubts aside and my mind back, and wrote.

Within a month I finished The Scholar's Tale and found, at the first attempt, a congenial site to host it; so congenial that I am with it still, and deeply in its debt. The Scholar, set in the Yarborough of more or less my own day, was a love story, not a sex story, and it followed the standard fairy-tale-and-wish-fulfilment format. But its diffident protagonist Leon, as a student of classical Greek and Latin, a devotee of classical music, and an avid quoter from the English classics, differed greatly from the standard hero. Apart from his family background and (alas) his fulfilment, he was close to a self-portrait.

Other stories followed, including Xenophilia, the first set in Wales, which was composed in my head while lying flat on my back in hospital after a spinal operation. Over fifteen months a total of eight appeared, six of medium length and two short, adding up to the equivalent of two full-length novels. After a decent interval, some have also been posted on the Nifty Archive to serve a wider audience.

Each tale has a theme -- and a message -- unusual to the genre: Welsh nationalism, for example, the putative homosexual gene, religious extremism, age-difference in boyhood gay relations. I try to make them thought-provoking in content, yet reassuring to younger readers. Moving, but neither maudlin nor titillatingly explicit. Populated by realistic characters who reflect the intellectual level of myself and my peers as boys. Preaching, all of them, the gospel of love, not the gratification of quick sex.

All are intensely personal. They have progressed, I like to think, in sophistication. The later ones, though none (to measure by quantity of feedback) has quite matched the Scholar in popularity, appeal more to those whom I see as my most discerning critics. Their main characters tend to be loners who labour under a burden, and what rings the changes is how they find their peace. All, if not such close likenesses as Leon, reflect some facet of me. Because I write first and foremost for myself, it can hardly be otherwise. The tales take shape as voices from the past, heard in my head. They help me order my thoughts. They answer some, but far from all, of the questions which bother me. They give an outlet to my inner self. They are mine, they are me. If they interest others, or help, or touch, or even amuse them, then that is a bonus.

The mainstay of this genre, and of my work, is the love-happily-ever-after tale, idealised, remote from the end-in-disappointment norm of real life. Wishful thinking, yes; but it has its justification. Of the readers who unbosom themselves, those with unhappy pasts say "I wish it had been like that." Those with uncertain futures say "I wish it could be like that." In moderation, it does no harm to wish. It can comfort, strengthen, give hope. "Get a real life" is a demand we sometimes hear, the insensitive demand of the secure and arrogant extrovert who has never known, or has forgotten, what it is to be vulnerable and lonely. In the absence, or the cruelty, of the real it is understandable and legitimate to take refuge in the virtual. Hankering for what seems beyond reach is often the only antidote to despair. Are the stories which best indulge such hankering the stories written by the unfulfilled?

My writing differs from the norm in language. As an old fogey of narrow experience, I can only make my characters speak the language which I spoke and still speak, leavened for stories set in recent times by the language of my own children and their friends which (when they are in serious mode) is very much the same. Were I to attempt the language of most modern British youth, let alone modern American, it would be an abject failure. This lack of versatility saddens me, but it is a fact. And another fact is this. A criticism which sometimes comes my way is that no fifteen-year-old (say) would be sophisticated enough to utter the words or frame the concepts which I put into the mouths of my characters. Here I beg to differ. Nothing I make them say is beyond my ability at that age, nor the ability of some of my peers, nor the ability of some modern youth. In this respect I am wholly unrepentant.

The tales are also put together in an unusual way. Tastes differ, and what follows is a purely personal view. Short stories apart, most gay literature on the net consists of soaps, written and posted in instalments. To me, many are far too long and most lack overall structure. All too often, all too obviously, instalments are dreamed up one by one. Authors do not know at the beginning how the story is going to develop, let alone end. As invention dries up they become turgid or repetitious. All too often I find myself sighing, when yet another episode is posted, "For God's sake kill it off. Either you've made your point by now or you never will." To repeat, this is a personal view. And the method has one obvious merit for writers and readers alike: it is much easier to feed, and be fed, by the spoonful than by the plateful.

I could never work that way. I have to construct a story as a unit, and prefer it to be read as a unit. I usually start by roughly forging the beginning and the end. Then I fill them in until they meet in the middle. Next I hammer the whole into shape. And finally I smooth and polish it many times over.

Aware that my style and content lacked the mass-market appeal of the "popular" stories, I anticipated little feedback. How wrong I was. From the word go, to my amazement, emails flooded in. Had I posted in instalments there would doubtless have been many more. Running into thousands, and still arriving today even for the earliest stories, they come from everywhere and everyone. From every continent bar (I think) Antarctica. From males mostly, but a surprising number from women. From every age group -- though here I often have to guess -- except pre-teens. A fair number from teenagers: more than I expected, because the stories are not the easiest of reads. A substantial number from self-confessed antiques like myself, the rest from all ages in between. From many faiths or none. Religion is touched on in several of the stories and lies at the core of Clouds of Glory, and fans often reveal their persuasion: atheist, agnostic, Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, and all the major brands of Christianity including a number of priests and (I liked this) an ex-Trappist monk.

Although some fans say no more than "Good story, thanks, let's have more," many talk at greater length -- one mail out of the blue ran to five pages of 10-point Times New Roman -- about why they like the stories, about their own experiences, about love or music or literature or Wales or anything under the sun. Some, without necessarily saying so, reassure me that readers do recognise my characters and do identify messages which are planted but not flagged up. Some pour out their problems in an appeal, direct or indirect, for help, which I supply as best I can. A few have become good friends and long-term correspondents. Out of all the emails, perhaps five have complained gently of shortage of sex scenes, compared with hundreds which approve. Precisely two have verged on the impolite. All have been an education. And all have to be answered. While the stories involve long and laborious gestation and childbirth, they entail even longer and more laborious post-natal care, which I count as a privilege.

I find it easier to enter the confessional than to blow my own trumpet. Modesty limits me to mentioning only a few of the messages which gave me particular pleasure. One came from France, "Your stories about love, affection, commitment and laughter have provided me with something I can identify with, enabling me to acknowledge a part of myself. I now know that I am not straight, and I have accepted it as a gift for the good." An academic wrote, apropos Clouds of Glory, "This was a superb piece. I say this without for a moment agreeing with any of the theologies included in it, which, I hope, shows even more the quality of the writing and the story itself." Another university lecturer told me he had chosen Xenophilia as a study text for his students. But the email which moved me most came from an Episcopal priest in America who, on the recommendation of the parents of a member of his youth group, had read the Scholar. "I laughed, I cried. The tears were those of joy. Your story defines love. You have touched upon the transcendent . . . What you have written is noble and righteous." He added that, although he could hardly quote it directly, he used bits of Leon and Andrew's story in his sermons.

Thus my story-writing, I blushingly admit, proved a howling success. This praise from a gamut of readers, this assurance that I had moved and helped others, warmed my heart. I felt a humble pride, of a kind never generated by the most fulsome reviews of my academic work.

The public Michael, after all, had long been recognised. Hilary had recognised the private Michael. But hitherto not a soul had recognised the gay Michael who lurked deep inside, if only because not a soul knew of his existence. Now he had come out to the world, and the world seemed to approve. "The world" is of course a figure of speech. I have never myself told another author that I do not like his work, and I never will: it seems both unkind and unnecessary, because no doubt others do like it. By the same token, no doubt many readers do not like mine, but have stayed silent. Yet plenty do send positive feedback: plenty enough and positive enough to make me happy.

There was not only this glow of success. My journeys back were unearthing more and more of my boyhood nature and answering some of the questions my quest had thrown up. But not all. I felt I had yet to put a finger on the real essence of myself when young. And I had yet to identify a male soul with whom I could truly commune. To have net-friends -- the few with whom I was already corresponding at length -- gave a tremendous boost. But they did not fill the whole of my need. Our talk was not yet profound. And, just when I thought I had found the person I was looking for, I learned the hard way that the internet is no real substitute for conversation face to face; that it cannot reproduce the look, the smile, the shrug; that it can all too easily deceive. I learned this not from fan-mail but by a more roundabout route.

To my readers I am effectively anonymous. All my tales appear under the pseudonym of Mihangel which, as explained in an early story, is merely the Welsh form of Michael. To this day only six of my net contacts know my full name or my real identity, and only three can put a current face to the name. A lifetime's secretiveness dies hard.

From the earliest days, if it was appropriate, I did tell correspondents that I was happily married, at which some were astonished and some, nodding sagely, said "Me too." But while I was indeed happily married, was there a measure of dishonesty here? Ought I to tell Hilary the whole truth? My conscience, all the years that my gay side had lain dormant, had not pricked. Now that I was launched into self-examination, and especially into stories and correspondence which involved much surreptitious computer time, it began to stir. My new activities seemed somehow contrary to the spirit if not the letter of our vows. Should I unfurl the final flag?

I ventured, a month or so after posting my first story, to dip an exploratory toe into another pool. I joined a gay message board. I was hoping for a safe haven where I could hang out with congenial gay people and be myself or, more accurately, be the gay part of myself. For a few months it seemed a godsend, a circle where I could hear and say what I had never had a chance to hear or say before.

Not only in general, but in particular. There were some good people there, responsible and caring. Of the several who were married, some had come out to their wives, some not. A thoughtful discussion developed of the pros and cons. On one side was the argument about sleeping dogs, about the possibility of the last state proving worse than the first, about the risk of the truth hurting. On the other, about the need, in marriage as in all friendships, for honesty and transparency and trust.

It convinced me, after much soul-searching, that I was living a lie. Not the positive lie of positive deceit, but the negative lie of being economical with the truth. It persuaded me to ignore the risk and take the plunge. I am eternally glad that I did, and eternally grateful to the friends who helped me make up my mind.

The plunge itself -- delayed for months until time and place were right -- was the hardest thing I have ever done. As it turned out, I need not have worried. Once I had assured her that my gayness was a chaste gayness and always had been, Hilary's first reaction was to ask, "Well, why did you need to tell me?" I explained, and explained why I had been spending so long on the net. She understood then, and has continued to understand. The last state was not worse than the first, but emphatically better. We moved closer than we had ever been, and I felt a new liberation.

She read my stories to date. She was at first thrown by Xenophilia, the only Welsh one written by that time, because Wales is her stamping ground as much as it is mine, and she was disconcerted to find these associations with places she knew and loved. But she was reassured, I think, by the non-explicit nature of my writing. Since then she has read every new story in draft and become my most valued critic. And because she recognises my need to talk to like-minded souls she approves of my net-friendships. She is a princess among women.

We have two most splendid children, both now out of the nest and both as straight -- in every sense -- and as tolerant as they come. I came out to them separately, when each was next at home. Both were surprised: a tribute, maybe, to my powers of concealment. Both brought me to the verge of tears. Megan heard me out open-mouthed before giving me an "Oh, Dad!" and a huge hug. Pryderi put his hand on mine and said, "Dad, I'm proud of you!" I am equally proud of them both -- of all three -- for their acceptance.

The fact that Mihangel was happily married with an accepting family emerged publicly in a note to a later story. But the fact that this part-gay man is Michael Davies (which, to repeat, is not my real surname) is known only to my wife and children, the six net contacts mentioned, and one "ordinary" friend. I am still a private person, and I see no reason why anyone else need know. No-one else, indeed, do I know well enough to tell.

Such was the positive outcome of the venture on to the message board. But it proved a two-edged sword. Already, by the time I unfurled my soul to Hilary, it had not only battered my sense of justice but led me into an ill-judged net-friendship. Looking back at this friend and at this sad period, I now understand exactly what D. H. Lawrence meant in that poem of his.

I thought I had found the male communion that I craved, the fire and water, the elementally honest and therefore the honestly lovable. I was wrong. What I had actually encountered was a self-righteousness which merely wanted to be lovable. The anguish when, too late, I discovered my mistake was in part of my own making, for I had been uncritical and over-trusting. I had failed to heed that ancient lesson from my prep school, that what people tell you, or what they imply, is not necessarily true. It will emerge in the following chapters exactly how these hurts arose, and how at last I met an honesty so elemental that it healed them for me.