Nothing would ever be the same for Michael Anderson, a renowned San Diego surgeon, after losing a little girl on the operating table. He blamed himself, rightfully, having stayed out the night before, indulging in his exotic nightlife.
A half continent away, Justin Brooks left his bride to be standing at the altar when he ran from the church as if it were full of vampires. Leaving his hometown and his past behind, he found solace in the vast desert wilderness of far west Texas, as a park ranger in the Big Bend National Park.
Their paths crossed in the Big Bend, where the river, desert and mountains meet the sky, and a friendship was born. Together, as one day ran into another, they found peace in the whispering hues and textures of the arid land. And they began to heal, learning more and more of themselves and each other. They loved the mountains and sunsets, and the poetry of the land, and they loved each other. Not until the day came, when they faced losing everything they had found, did both realize yet another destiny in the Big Bend. Neither could have foreseen the peril they would have to live through first.
In writing about men who love men, Martin Brant creates tales that celebrate the joys of human emotion and diversity. Written in a mainstream style, his novels can be enjoyed by either gender or any sexual persuasion.
About the Author
Martin Brant believes the vast majority of gay men lead quiet, every-day lives. They're normal, average men, brothers, sons and neighbors, who lead lives just like their straight brothers. It's for these men he writes, and for anyone who values the beautiful diversity of mankind, and who enjoys flowing prose and sensuous, heartfelt tales of masculine romance.
Martin resides in Dallas and is working on a future novel.
I was born on the banks of the Amazon River and raised by a Kaiapo wet-nurse while my mother conducted medical research and taught the Kaiapo children how to play the violin. After growing up with my fellow rain forest natives and a long bout of malaria, I went on to get my degree in rocket science at the University of Uganda (U of U). To this day, I have not gotten a rocket off the ground. Presently, I'm trying to raise money to return to the Amazon to show gratitude to my surrogate mother, whom I've not seen in all these years. She had always wanted a car hood to use as an awning over the door to her hut. I finally found one, on a 1973 Cadillac, in a wrecking yard on a two-lane highway just south of Knoxville, Tennessee. Today, I take great satisfaction in spending time with my wife, in writing novels, and in telling lies.
My earliest memories, at least those that are still fairly clear, are of those initial stages of puberty, when a boy begins to notice things about himself that are changing, when all of a sudden he realizes there's more to his body than a place to put Band-Aids. I noticed these same things about the other boys in the village, as we ran and played and wrestled together and threw sticks at the monkeys. Hmm, I thought . . . what had been a nondescript and easy-to-ignore anomaly had become the center of attention. The other boys my age had these odd shaped, rather impractical danglings between their legs, too, whereas the girls did not! Somewhere in the back of my youthful mind, I knew this curious centerpiece must be used for more than taking aim in a peeing contest. Seems young boys have a way of figuring these things out, especially when one of the girls sits him down and gives him a lecture on the birds and bees. (Why they always seem so far ahead of us, I haven't determined). Still, there were questions.
Why, for instance, when another boy approaches, now that hair has mysteriously appeared under his arms and down his legs, is one's attention so magnetically drawn to that part of his body? (Except for the occasional loincloth, most of us were usually naked.) Why, concerning the workings of my own mind, all this curiosity? Why this urge to look, to ponder, to compare? And most importantly, why, beyond my curiosity about the other boys, this sudden preoccupation with my own body, especially at night when no one was looking?
As I proceeded into my teenage years, I began to notice the subtle things about the other boys, things I liked, things I wanted to be part of, the camaraderie and mischief. It felt good to be one of the boys. I wanted to throw a spear as far as they could, laugh at the same things, tell lies about deflowering virgins (by then I knew what that meant, sort of). But along with this endeavor to be like the others, I wrestled with secrets I wasn't about to confess, let alone try to act on or initiate. So like the other boys, when we all slept out under the stars, I satisfied my adolescent fantasies by participating in . . . well, if you're a man you probably remember what those games were called. Sad commentary when you'd rather be involved in some serious exploring.
Then there was Kalo: bronze hairless body, fleshy round butt, strong legs and a smile that emptied my head of all other thought. What about him, and why did I spend so much time looking at him? I watched him fish, sharpen poison darts, flirt with girls, and I especially enjoyed watching him climb a tree. Something was telling me there were more possibilities and I sensed it had everything to do with our bodies; along with the fact that it seemed there could be something really special about having a close friendship with another boy, which included certain understandings and sharing secrets no one else would ever know. So during all those years of puberty and adolescence I developed a private perception of what must be a natural and quite wonderful kind of male bonding.
However, before I boarded that boat to Uganda, I had noticed something else that was common in the village: that remarkable union between a man and a woman, that closeness, that mutual trust. At night, I would sit not far from the cook fire and watch the couples interact with each other as the evening wound down. The innuendos and knowing glances were obvious. I would watch fathers proudly pick up their children and bounce them on their knee. During the night, long after the couples had disappeared into their huts, I would listen to the intriguing noises that wafted in the dark. All of that, I decided, was for me.
After a stint flying transport planes for the Somalian Air Force, I ended up in the States, where it became a series of events with young women and romance; all of the wonderful and miserable experiences a young man finds himself involved in while trying to figure out his direction in life. I started my career and immersed myself in the senseless routines of one who thinks he will live forever. Somewhere in there, I started an auto parts manufacturing company. Here was a quagmire that lasted fourteen years, another lesson in life. It was during the Carter years--you may remember Jimmy Carter, and his Misery Index. In case you don't, the Misery Index was the sum total of inflation, unemployment and interest rates. Now this was a real witches' brew for someone trying to grow a business, or should I say trying to survive in the business world. Along with the countless government agencies that manufacturers have to contend with, which is akin to being up to your 'you know what' in alligators, I learned I wasn't cut out for it. Looking back, maybe I should have instead moved into a trailer down by the river and started writing my novels. Trust me, there are circumstances that make poverty awfully appealing.
One day a mutual friend arranged a blind dinner date. Skeptical as I was, I'm here today to testify on behalf of love at first sight. She was a tall blond. I wouldn't include what transpired over the next six months in a novel because no one would believe it. Here, all the familiar terms are appropriate: soul mate, best friend, confidant, lover. I knew almost from the first minute that I wanted to grow old with this woman. You've heard of thick and thin--this lady has stayed with me through it all. Probably our most notable adventure was the time we sold everything and went west to New Mexico to open a small restaurant. Neither one of us knew the first thing about it. Not to be discouraged, we rented a location in a small resort town and set about building the tables and scrounging up the equipment we thought we'd need; then opened what became a vastly popular eatery. After a few years, this delightful woman went along with my expansion idea, which led to relocating in a larger town. Big mistake, for a number of reasons. But that's neither here nor there. We had a beautiful stucco home that overlooked the Rio Grande Valley and Rocky Mountains, and we enjoyed the finest climate in the world in one of our most beautiful states, and it all came to a sudden end. She lovingly trekked back to Texas with me, where we started over again. Today, being the first to read my novels (usually those miserable first drafts), my wife is my biggest fan.
Where does all of this leave those early discoveries concerning special kinships between two men? Am I tempted by things that, during the general course of my day-to-day life, remain unsaid? Do I take notice of a pair of tight-fitting masculine jeans, or the pattern of hair on a forearm, or a sweat dampened t-shirt on a runner? Am I swayed by a pair of broad shoulders and narrow hips, or the day old stubble across a strong jaw, or all of the other nuances that comprise a male? I think on some level most men are. So you decide. As for myself . . . well, at some point we all have to choose the road we travel. We can't have it all, can we?
This review is from: Song In the Park (Mass Market Paperback)
The story starts off well, with interesting characters. But 1/3 of the way, it is just boring. Pages after pages with nothing really going on. I ended up skipping a lot just to get to the wrap-up and I always try to be patient with less renowned writers. Maybe it is the dull writing style but this could be better as a short gay romance e-book.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
This review is from: Song In the Park (Mass Market Paperback)
OK, I admit it...I did not finish this book...I couldn't finish this book. This is the worst written book I have read in years. Every trite expression, every pathetic analogy, every overused metaphor -- and I'm only talking about the first five pages.
Who publishes this stuff? Was there an editor involved? Did the editor actually read this book? Is the editor English speaking?
I love the gay novel genre. It doesn't often pay off in good writing...how many Edmund Whites are there? But the work in this category can be fun; it can be evocative; it can even ring of truth.
Song in the Park rings like a death knell -- for good literature.
Don't buy this book.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
This review is from: Song In the Park (Mass Market Paperback)
This poorly, poorly edited book (to the point of distraction)should have been about 150 pages shorter, if not more. I wonder if an editor actually READ this book. It moves painfully slowly, the characters speak in stilted, unrealistic, Hallmark-card eloquence (is everyone a closet poet??) and the subplot with the serial kidnapper/killer is just flat-out ridiculous! I'm not an expert on gay fiction, but I'm sure there has got to be material better than this. I almost didn't make it through this novel. I do not and will not recommend this book to anyone. I had high hopes when I bought it and it was very disappointing. Save the $16 and stay clear of this mess.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
