Atlanta writer shared passions in life, stories

By Tina McElroy Ansa

Most writers will tell you that because their work can be such a solitary pursuit, most of their new friendships are formed and forged quickly on the road, at book conferences and festivals, signings and workshops.

It may sound to some like a frantic hit-or-miss way to widen one’s circle of friends. But it has worked out fine for me.

More than 15 years ago, I met E. Lynn Harris, who died Friday, at what was then the Atlanta Book Festival.

We were both fairly new in our fiction careers. My second novel, “Ugly Ways,” was scheduled for publication the next year.

The year before, E. Lynn had self-published his debut novel, “Invisible Life,” and, as literary lore has told it, had garnered attention for the story and for selling it out of the trunk of his car at beauty shops.

We appeared on the same book festival panel and immediately found a literary and heart connection.

We were both on tight emerging writers’ budgets, and each had just enough money to purchase one book. He bought mine. I bought his.

I returned home to finish “Ugly Ways.” E. Lynn continued selling and promoting “Invisible Life.”

When I turned in the final manuscript of my novel to my publisher, I picked up my new friend’s novel and went outside to my garden to relax and begin reading it.

It did not take long for me to see that his novel — though in need of tighter editing — was something special.

And by the time I reached the scene in which the main character frolicked in the snow with another gay African-American male character, I raced inside to search for E. Lynn’s Atlanta phone number among a stack of business cards.

I could not remember having read a scene in current American literature in which two black men showed their sexual attraction and affection for one another on the page in such an accessible way.

The scene was playful and romantic, charming and acted out in the open. And I wanted to tell E. Lynn how stunning that was.

In a time when it was not always easy, my friend and author-brother wrote with courage, honesty and commitment.

His characters rang true. And his stories came from the best source a writer could have: his heart.

He was soon hearing the same praise and encouragement from more and more readers and then from a major publisher.

Doubleday bought the rights to the first novel, then published his next 11 books, 10 of them New York Times best-sellers

With each novel, his self-assurance grew along with his skill, his fans, his book sales and his advances.

He took elements of his own tortured past — in part documented in his memoir “What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted” — of veiled homosexuality, of confusion and rejection, of self-scolding and self-destruction — and channeled them into his characters’ own stories of living the high life and living on the “down-low.”

Steamy sex scenes, bad-boy characters, contemporary references and witty dialogue got his readers’ attention, but what kept bringing them back for more was the very human struggle for an authentic identity that E. Lynn understood so well.

In fact, it was his fans, who also exhorted him on to more and more transparency. E. Lynn was proud to relate stories of grandmotherly types who encouraged him aloud from the front rows of his readings, “Go on, Baby. Tell your story.”

No matter how grueling the road, he loved being on book tour, meeting his fans, being recognized at the theater — one of his true loves.

No shrinking violet, he reveled in the media limelight and in the affection and appreciation his fervent fans — many of whom he knew by sight or name — showered on him.

Shoot, you could have gotten trampled at some of his book signings.

But they were not the first to show him such unconditional love. His mother, Miss Etta, held that place.

Once, when we met for dinner, I commented on the beautiful butter-soft leather jacket he wore.

He gave me his signature grin and replied sheepishly, “My mama bought it for me.”

“Your mama still buying you clothes?” I chided. But we both laughed. I knew the ritual: Whenever he returned home to Little Rock, his mother always had a gift of clothing waiting in his old bedroom.

And E. Lynn, ever the good son, responded in kind.

As a passionate sports fan, he fulfilled the legendary dream of nearly every African-American ballplayer. He bought his mother — among other things — a brand-new house and a brand-new Cadillac.

But then, E. Lynn was generous to a fault, with his time, contacts, resources, love toward his students, friends, writing foundations, his alma mater’s cheer-leading squad.

Not long after he received his first big book advance, he surprised me with a beautiful string of pearls delivered to the door of my island home as a friendly thank-you gift.

Nice thank you!

I can’t call him on the phone anymore for our long rambling talks, but that won’t deter our continued kinship. Some friendships are like that.

Tina McElroy Ansa, a writer and publisher, lives on St. Simons.