“I think you should write a book about that trip you took to Europe when you were right out of high school, playing your saxophone with that band, you know?” It started out with that phone call from my mother on her death bed, or so she thought. It turned into a longer story about college, being different, trying to fit in, and slowly coming out, in more ways than one. Then it turned into a story about love and longing and finally leaving Minnesota for San Francisco. This didn’t exactly turn out to be the book my mother wanted me to write. If she were here to read it, she would say she was embarrassed because it was so dirty. I would tell her she was not the target audience and we would both have a laugh. I think she would still be proud of me and tell me, “Keep on writing, especially after I’m gone.” And I would promise her that I will.