Today, I reread the children's book I wrote a long time ago as a birthday present for my first NYC boyfriend. I can't help but like it, and I find it moving still. Even after all these years. (Although there's no way I can be objective about that I realize.)
But I notice something interesting. My children's book and my Great (Gay) American (Werewolf) Novel(la) are the same story.
Way different genres I realize. But both are stories of two men (or two boys) who find in each other something no one else can offer.