Behind the Lie

I was born in Melbourne in December in the early 1960s. Raised in the southern suburbs, I was the only child of a single working-class mother. I was also rebellious, hated school, and gave my long-suffering parent untold mental and emotional grief. At the time, I loved two things—music and the beach—and I indulged my love for both as frequently as possible. My days were spent lazing on the sand at Sandringham Beach, and my nights were spent in the city's live music venues and clubs. I was fanatical about music. So much so that in my late teens and early twenties, I performed as a vocalist in local (and mostly forgettable) pub bands. It was one of the greatest periods of my life, and for a few incredible years, I partied like a rock star. I partied so hard, in fact, that I woke up one morning and realised that if I didn't stop partying like a rock star, I'd end up dead like a rock star, but that's another story.

In 1977, when I was fourteen years old, I dropped out of high school and went to work in a local factory making lampshades. It was there that I met the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was seventeen, had big brown eyes, a wicked smile, and a mass of curly black hair. It was love at first sight. We dated on and off until the early 1980s. In the 1980s, Melbourne was awash with illegal drugs. Heroin, speed, Mandrax, marijuana—whatever your poison, it was cheap, abundant, and easy to obtain. As he struggled with cultural identity and the expectations of his immigrant parents, it wasn't long before this beautiful man put his fear and anxiety in the hands of a new mistress—heroin.

It was during one of our 'off' times that I met and fell in love with another beautiful man. He was blond, had green eyes and beautiful, pouty lips. He was also a closet gay. We had a deep emotional connection as well as an intimate relationship. For years, he was forced to hide his sexual identity from family and friends. When he finally did reveal his true self, he was spurned by his family and raped, bashed, and hospitalised by unrepentant bigots.

The years flew by, and before I knew it, we had entered a new decade. In 1984, the year in which this story is set, we ceased to be British subjects, 'Advance Australia Fair' became our national anthem, and Medicare changed the face of healthcare.

I, too, changed in the thirty years that followed. I married (a drummer, of course), divorced, raised two children, and devoted myself to another passion—writing. I went back to school, got a degree, and began work on the manuscript that would become This is Not a Lie.

When I originally considered developing this concept as a novel, I became infatuated with it. For better or for worse, it was a story I felt compelled to tell. I knew the audience would be narrow. The tale of a gifted musician who is a closet homosexual and a hardcore heroin addict is not exactly mainstream fare. To my surprise, I was accused of writing a story that glorified drug addiction. To say I wasn't rattled by those comments would be a lie. I was rattled. I considered abandoning the idea. Then I realised this is not a story that glorifies addiction. Neither is it a cautionary tale. Rather, this story is about overcoming personal challenges, finding meaning in existence and, above all, finding yourself in the face of adversity.

Set in the early 1980s, This is Not a Lie is a trip back in time to when drugs, sex, and excess coloured Melbourne's music scene, and AIDS was still something that only happened to 'other people'. All of the characters in this story are flawed and/or damaged. They are young, brash, and make 'heat-of-the-moment' decisions. Some characters are unlikable, and one or two of them may be irredeemable, but I believe that is what makes them authentic. The main character, Joel Reed, is not only a gifted guitarist and an addict; he is also gay and a human being masking deep emotional pain. He chooses to stay in the closet for the sake of his career. He sleeps with women while denying his true self. Drugs help dull the pain of his denial, and like all junkies, he spends a considerable part of his day thinking about how and where he's going to score his next fix. This is an addict's reality, whether it's narcotics, alcohol, sex, food, gambling, shopping, video games, or adrenaline.

If nothing else, this story is a tribute to the two men whom I loved and lost. My dark-haired man was shot and killed during an event that never should have occurred, a direct result of his addiction. He was twenty-five years old. My blond-haired man, friendless, alienated, and unwell, took to his bed and died alone in his house. He was forty-four. I learned of his passing when his mother called me shortly after his landlord discovered his decomposing body.

Despite the negativity I faced in this story's early days, I pressed on with it, all the more determined to see it finished. I could not have written this work if it weren't for the two men to whom I gave my heart. When I think of them, my thoughts and emotions are mixed with love, sorrow, pride, and regret. Their impact on my life has been deep, and I hope that wherever they are now, they are at peace.

I could never have reached 'the end' without the love and support of my children. Whenever I considered throwing in the towel, they were the ones who encouraged me to keep going. They always encourage me to keep going. They always support my ideas and objectives, no matter how crazy or challenging. I know I can always count on them, and they, of course, know they can always count on me. I love them more than life itself.

Despite the elements of truth in this narrative, it is a fictional narrative. Arguably, it falls into the category or genre of 'dirty realism', a term coined by Bill Buford, an American author and journalist, who used it to describe the "unadorned, unfurnished, low-rent tragedies about people who watch daytime television, read cheap romances, or listen to country and western music…" that were written by authors such as Raymond Carver, Tobias Wolff, Elizabeth Tallent, and others. I certainly do not place myself in the same literary stratosphere as Carver, Wolff, or Tallent. I wrote This is Not a Lie because it was a concept that intrigued me. And, at its core, it is a love story in which the main character just happens to be gay and a drug addict. As such, the world presented will be foreign to many, evil to some, and worthless to others. In it, you will see what you want to see, love what you want to love, hate what you want to hate. If it makes you uncomfortable, good. Life isn't always a picnic, and we must never forget that it is less of a picnic for some than it is for others.