Pandemonium

And yesterday morning I awoke to the delightful news that I sold another one of the three stories I sent out on submission on Monday; how splendid! So, “Night Follows Night” will be out in an anthology next year; I will of course keep you all posted on further developments.

So, that was a great twenty-four hours for my always desperately needy authorial ego, was it not? That, along with the excellent reception my reading for Timothy got last Friday night, was a lovely balm for me and my ever-tortured soul. This is what I mean when I talk about the bipolarity of writing; so much of the time it’s just you and the computer screen, the accusatory blank Word document open before you (or one with some words, not good, grouped together on it already) as you grimly search your mind for something intelligent, or at least semi-coherent, to start typing. And even when you manage to get something typed up and saved and rewrite and revise and polish…there’s still no guarantee you’ll eventually sell the story, and even when you do–no guarantee anyone reading it will like it, it will be included in reviews in a positive way, or there will ever be any feedback (and sometimes, awful as it is, I appreciate the negative because it means someone noticed, which is really, when you examine it more deeply, kind of sad.

“Night Follows Night” was actually inspired by my watching some documentary–I’m not sure what it was called–about a young man who had escaped from a religious cult his parents still belonged to; I think he and his brother had gotten away from it. It was horrifically sad, more than anything else–I want to say the cult was called the Children of God, but that wasn’t it, I don’t think–and all I could think about was how difficult it must have been to find the courage to run away from that and out into a cold, cruel world with just the clothes on your back and whatever money you were able to scrounge up. Around this same time I was reading one of Margaret Millar’s brilliant novels, How Like an Angel, which was also built around a religious cult, and I started thinking about it some more….the cult in the documentary also sexually abused its members, regardless of age or gender, and that also struck a chord in my head. When I started writing it I called it “This Thing of Darkness”–because, really, this backstory is incredibly dark, and carrying that around in your head would also be remarkably dark. But after the first draft or so, I chose to use that title for another story and changed this one’s title to “And The Walls Came Down.” While that kind of fit better, I still didn’t much care for it, and eventually came up with “Night Follows Night”–which I think truly fits; because for my poor main character, he never really gets to enjoy the daylight; it’s always night in his head.

Wouldn’t that be a horrible way to live?

And maybe–just maybe–I’m better at this writing thing than I ever give myself credit for?

Yes, I know–I need to stop that crazy talk right now!

This week for some reason seems to have lasted forever already; Paul and I both commented on this very strange occurrence after watching some episodes of season two of Titans, which is much better than Season One–and I really liked Season One. The boy candy is certainly there, and the women characters are enjoyable; and the fight scenes have yet to start seeming “I’ve seen this before”, which eventually killed Arrow for us; much as we loved the earlier seasons. I’m so delighted to see one of my favorite comic book super-hero teams done so well; there are too many members to do the Legion of Super-Heroes justice, so I’ll settle for Titans. I was also sorry to read that Krypton was cancelled after its second season; I have yet to watch it (I may get Paul to rewatch Season One with me), and am hoping it’s going to show up on DCUniverse or HBO MAX one of these days.

And there’s a delightful three day weekend looming. I am itching to get back to some of the short stories I have in progress, and I want to get the Secret Project completed. I actually have an extra day (HUZZAH!) so I can laze around for an entire day, gradually cleaning and so forth as I read Cottonmouths and perhaps do the floors (which are frankly disgusting) and I probably should clean the vacuum cleaner, and as always, so much to be done. But if I take that kind of a day on Friday, that means I have Saturday and Sunday to write (oh, and Hamilton is airing Friday night on something streaming–Disney Plus, perhaps?) and there’s absolutely no reason why I can’t get some great writing done.

Unless, of course, I undermine and defeat myself again as I am so prone to do.

Sometime during my first cup of coffee Entergy shut off our power–they were doing some work out there on the street for about thirty minutes–and this is, of course, one of the major flaws of the Keurig: what happens when the power goes off during your first cup? But it wasn’t as big a catastrophe as one might have thought; remember, I was cutting back on caffeine during the Great Dehydration Debacle of 2020, and I realized that I could survive a low caffeine morning–hell, there were mornings last week where I had zero caffeine, and there was no body count.

I also tried a new recipe Monday night–creamy pasta with shrimp and mushrooms (basically, it’s an Alfredo sauce, and who knew it was that fucking easy to make homemade Alfredo sauce?)–and it was actually quite delicious, despite the fact I forgot one of the ingredients. I added more cheese to the sauce then the recipe called for (because OF COURSE), and I will certainly make this again; and will eventually begin fiddling with the recipe to see if I can make it even better.

And on that note, tis time to return to the mines of spice. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader.

Sail Away

So I went ahead and sent out three stories on submission yesterday; “This Thing of Darkness,” “Night Follows Night”, and the Sherlock story. Will any of them actually be accepted? Who knows, but that’s all part and parcel of the joy of being a writer who likes to write short stories despite being rarely asked to write them. I have like 86 short stories in some form of progress now, but it felt really good to write finis on these and sent them out. If they are rejected, oh well; I’ll just save them for my next short story collection.

See how that works? Staying positive is always a plus, you know?

And last night before I went to bed I checked the Pandora’s Box known more commonly as my email inbox to discover a delightful email from the editor of the Sherlock anthology that she loves the new edition of the story and is sending me a contract! How absolutely delightful. I am glad “The Affair of the Purloined Rentboy” will see print, and as always, it’s lovely to get that kind of affirmation. It’s also a period piece, which was just as daunting as writing a Holmes story set in New Orleans–the only rule for the anthology was that it couldn’t be set in London, and Holmes and Watson couldn’t be English. So I made Holmes a Louisianan–and we never are quite sure where Watson is from. But it was great fun, challenging, and very, as I said, daunting. While I’ve read the Holmes stories–and the Nicholas Meyer novels, and other stories written by modern day Sherlockians (notably, Lyndsay Faye and Laurie King), I don’t think of myself as an avid Sherlockian. Even now, I cannot think of the plot of either A Scandal in Bohemia or The Red-headed League.

So, I wasn’t a hundred percent certain I could write such a story that would be worthy of publication, but it was a challenge–and I do enjoy challenges. I like pushing myself as a writer, trying something different, seeing if I can continue to grow as a writer. (But just between you and me, the only reason I even thought I could possibly do this was because it was specified not to be canon–no London, not the late nineteenth century, no need for continuity. No, this was a way I could write a Sherlock story and make it entirely my own as well. And of course, setting it in 1916 was also a bit of a challenge for me as well; I’ve never done much period/historical writing, and since I knew, once the title came to me, that Storyville had to be involved (how else could one write “The Affair of the Purloined Rentboy” and not involve Storyville?), which presented a host of other issues. Fortunately, I’ve been reading lots of New Orleans history lately, and one of the books was about Storyville: Gary Krist’s Empire of Sin (highly recommended, by the way), and in a short story I wouldn’t have to have the ongoing detail a novel would require, so I thought, fuck it, let’s give it a shot.

I was also able to use one of the locations I often use in Scotty books, the Hotel Aquitaine, which made it even more fun for me.

So, apparently, the thinking positive thing might actually work. How lovely!

Also, yesterday I (the ever-present resident Luddite) managed to figure out how to go back and read the chat from the Queer Noir at the Bar reading on Friday night–I kept accidentally closing it, and when I was reading I never looked at it–and wow. Everyone was so gracious and kind about my reading! I’m glad, though, that I wasn’t reading the chat while I was reading because it would have freaked me out. Thank you all for being so kind.

I also started reading Kelly J. Ford’s Cottonmouths, and as I read, I began to remember why I hesitated to read it. Being from the South, and from a particularly poor part of the South, I sometimes have trouble reading about that world; because of the memories it brings back, and while Ford’s prose is magnificently beautiful, she also brought me right into a world I know so well–a world I’ve been trying to shake off my entire life. There’s probably something to be said, or perhaps written, about my struggle with where I am from; the deep pride instilled in me my entire childhood about being Southern and the defensiveness that automatically arises whenever someone else is critical of (what I still think of) as home; and how that pride also runs concurrent with a river of shame–two rivers, running parallel, a kind of Tigris and Euphrates within my soul, my psyche, my being. I’ve started and never finished any number of stories and novels set in Alabama; my files run over with them. Bury Me in Shadows is the first manuscript set in Alabama I’ve ever finished a full draft of (there are a couple of short stories I’ve finished; Dark Tide is also set in Alabama but down in a little town on Mobile Bay–which isn’t quite the same thing), and I have yet to complete it enough to turn it into my publisher. Reading Kelly’s book takes me to the same places Daniel Woodrell’s work takes me, or Ace Atkins’ The Ranger series…that inner conflict, that inability to decide, that pride of place and where I come from coupled with shame. I could see it all so clearly in my head as I read that first chapter…she may have been writing about rural Arkansas but it could have been rural Alabama. It’s real, it’s vivid, and it’s beautiful.

The rural south is savage in its beauty.

My whole life has really been about dualities; being Southern but not growing up there; closeted self v. authentic self; being a writer but also always having some other job for whatever reason. My identity has always been sort of splintered; it’s probably why I am so constantly down on myself because I never really feel whole, or like I fit in somewhere–because I’ve been outside my entire life.

And, I have found few things trigger me to dark emotion–anger or depression–than being reminded that I am an outsider.

We started watching Perry Mason, and we’re enjoying it–but it’s really not Perry Mason. It’s something entirely else, with the characters given the same names as the ones Erle Stanley Gardner used. The cast is fantastic, and it’s a terrific noir series (if a bit reminiscent of Penny Dreadful: City of Angels–which we stopped watching, for reasons that are not pertinent here), so we will keep watching–but, it’s not really the same show or characters.

And it makes me want to reread one of the originals again.

And on that note, tis back to the spice mines with me.

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

Several years ago–more than I really care to recall, really–another writer told me he was “getting older and becoming more concerned with <his> legacy.” This took me aback. I’d never given a thought to such a thing, and to this day, it’s not something I give much thought or consideration to; I still don’t, really. I mean, it’s not really up to us as writers to worry about what legacy we leave behind, is it? I have always assumed once I am dead and gone both me and my work will eventually be forgotten; and even if by some weird, bizarre chance I should have some sort of revival or discovery by some future gay mystery scholar–who cares? I mean, won’t I be dead and beyond caring about such things?

Why should I be concerned about whether I’m just as unknown after death as I was when I was alive?

I became interested in Cornell Woolrich a few years ago; I don’t remember why exactly, or how he came to my attention; I just remember ordering this book and several others over the years. Woolrich has been dead for quite some time, and isn’t really remembered very much today outside of some enthusiasts of crime fiction history. I was very surprised to find out that some of his stories and novels had been filmed; “It Had to Be Murder,” for example, became Hitchcock’s Rear Window, which is something, right? Woolrich was gay and an alcoholic–so many writers of the period were (and frankly, I think using a typewriter for writing had a lot to do with it)–and he eventually died from complications from alcoholism. I thought it would be nice to read some of his work, particularly during Pride Month.

Every night he walked along the river, going home. Every night, about one. You do that when you’re young; walk along beside the river, looking at the water, looking at the stars. Sometimes you do that even when you’re a detective, and strictly speaking, have nothing to do with stars.

He could have taken the bus, ridden home as all the others did, when he came off duty. It wasn’t even the shortest route to where he lived, this walk beside the river. It took him out of his way a little. He didn’t mind that. It sounded better when you whistled, with the water there beside you. It made the stars seem brighter, and it made you want to look at them more, when the water was there below them to catch them upside down. It made you dream better; those dreams you have in your head in your twenties. You can’t dream in a bus, with all your fellows around you.

And so–every night he walked along the river, going home. Every night, about one, a little after.

It really took me awhile to get through this one, to be honest. I started it a few years ago, and it didn’t really grab me; this time I was determined to see my way through to the end. Sickness, and other things–it’s not like the world isn’t ablaze, after all–kept me from completing it, and in all honesty, even finishing it yesterday morning forced me to start skimming. It’s a great concept, but it’s got too much filler.

The concept behind it–a man who can see the future tells a rich man he knows when he is going to die, and the effect this has on the rich man and his daughter–is quite excellent; it’s in the execution that it falters. The opening is strong enough: Shawn, a young policeman, tends to walk home along the river after his shift is over. On this particular night he comes across a trail of things–money, a compact, a lipstick, things that might have fallen out of a woman’s purse; he eventually finds the purse, and the woman it belongs to is on a bridge, ready to jump. He stops her, takes her to an all-night diner, and she tells him the sad story of how her father and she became involved with this man who can see the future and how desperate she and her father have become as the man’s other predictions come true and they become convinced her father is going to die.

But the telling of the story is over half the length of the book, and Woolrich doesn’t take it into prose; he uses the device of her desperately telling her sad tale of woe precisely the way I just described it–she’s telling him the story, and the story drags precisely for that reason: it’s passive storytelling, not active, and certainly not how I would have told it. It’s a personal preference, and Woolrich IS a very good writer; I just don’t think he should have told it so passively. The suspense and drama comes from the question of whether the man with the gift of prophecy is actually a fraud or for real; but if it’s fraud, to what end? The second half of the book moves much faster, but also has a lot of dead weight/filler as well, hence the skimming; it may just be a more dated style. I also find it kind of hard to believe that the New York police would take this story seriously enough to put up to eight men on it–and there’s a horrific scene where the cops, needing access to an apartment so they can eavesdrop on the prophet, essentially set up the woman who lives there (and has been arrested for solicitation before, but not for over six years) for solicitation so they can use her apartment–and dismiss this horrifying abuse of power and her civil rights as just and necessary; and even laugh about her being sent away for at least thirty days!

But overall, it’s a good story and well-told, if a bit slow in places. Woolrich had a way with words, for sure, and sure, I think it’s worth a read; if for no other reason than to see how writers in the past handled suspense.

So Hard

Monday has rolled around again, and for the most part, I’m okay with it, really. I had a lovely weekend away from the Internet, which was enormously relaxing, and was able to get two stories revised yesterday. Of course, later on last evening I realized there’s yet another deadline looming, but I think I can make it. It is Friday, and Friday is when the 4th of July holiday lands for me; yes, a three day weekend to look forward to, and a deadline for Friday. So, in the worst case scenario, the story I want to submit for Friday needs at most another read through and polish; should the week go to hell (as they’ve been known to do lately) I at least have Friday to do so.

I spent most of the afternoon and early evening trying to get my computer files organized so I could more easily find things I need to be working on, and that was certainly a time suck. But it was necessary and needed to be done, and I made significant progress, which is always a plus. I had intended to start reading Kelly Ford’s Cottonmouths–I opened to the first page and read the first few paragraphs, which are simply marvelous–but then got deep into the file organizing, so it will have to wait until this evening and the reading hour–I’ve decided to spend at least an hour every day devoted to reading, as it’s the only way I’ll ever get caught up on my reading (which is a Sisyphean task, as more books I want to read come out all the goddamned time).

I did manage to get the revisions on the two stories done yesterday, as I explained earlier, and today I am going to try to find the time to line edit them as well as read the other story that’s due on Friday. I have so much to do–my email situation is truly tragic–but hopefully I’ll have some time to get everything I need to do together into a comprehensive to-do list today. Obviously, the first thing on the to-do list is to make a comprehensive to-do list.

And maybe, just maybe, when I get these stories out of my hair I’ll be able to get back to work on the Secret Project this coming weekend and get it finished once and for all and out of my hair. And maybe then I can get back to Bury Me in Shadows, which I am going to change from a y/a into a book not for teens, which may not be as easy as I would like to think it is. For one thing I need to rewrite the entire beginning–which is predicated on our main character being a high school student; I’ve decided to age him to college graduate preparing for graduate school in New Orleans, but still be from Chicago–and it won’t be as easy to make changes later on, yet I think it’s for the best, to be honest. It’s very Gothic in subject matter, after all, and plus–the y/a publishing world, at least on-line, is a snake pit.

I’m also thinking about what the next Scotty should be. I’m still wrapping my mind around a quarantine mystery; as I’ve said before, I have the title already, but I think I would like to write something in the period between the end of Royal Street Reveillon (Christmas) and the quarantine; which gives me an approximate three month period with which to work. I really do want to write about Mardi Gras again, with Scotty older and perhaps not quite as into it still as he was in Mardi Gras Mambo–I kind of want to capture that weird feeling and horrible energy the city had during this past Mardi Gras. I had an idea for a Mardi Gras short story, featuring Venus Casanova, “A Little More Jazz for the Axeman,” but I’m not so certain I have the right to–or should–write about a Black female lead. I’ve been writing about Venus for almost twenty years now, as a supporting character in both the Scotty and the Chanse series, and have always wanted to explore the character in greater depth–I have another story written with her as the main character, “Falling Bullets,” and an idea for a novel, Another Random Shooting–but I don’t think I should be writing such books and stories now, if ever; now is the time to amplify actual “own voices” rather than taking publishing slots away from actual Black writers, who already have enough issues in trying to be heard and paid for their work equitably.

And on that note, tis back to the spice mines with me. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader.

Somewhere

Sunday morning, and all is well in the Lost Apartment.

Yesterday was, well, yesterday, and I think I was still kind of off-balance from sleeping well and not feeling sick, you know? Naturally, my computer decided hey he slept well and doesn’t feel sick, so let’s start acting up!

Oh, poisoned Apple. How sharp is thy sting.

Another night of good night’s sleep, and I am choosing to accept that the computer frustrations of yesterday–irritating as they may have been–were really more of a sign from the heavens (the Fates, the Muses, the Gods, whatever) that i really needed to not work at all yesterday and just kind of have a lovely, do-nothing kind of day. We finished the first season of Titans, which was nice, and moved on to Season 2 (in which the first season’s entire storyline, and cliff-hanger, was resolved relatively quickly–so quickly that I kind of questioned it; very rushed…but then as the episode progressed to its finish, I understood why–they wanted to get to the meat/villain of Season 2 as quickly as possible: the reformation of the team and the return of Deathstroke as the big bad). I’m not sure if we aren’t going to see Kory or Hawk and Dove anymore; which is a shame, as I like them all. We shall see, I suppose; I guess we’ll be blazing through season 2 this week.

So, today’s plan, computer cooperation pending, is to revise the Sherlock story and revise another for a submission deadline on July 1. I know what I need to do with the Sherlock story, and I also know what I want to do with the other story–which is a long shot (aren’t they all?) and hopefully, if I can get both of these done today, I can spend the afternoon finishing reading the Woolrich preparatory to moving on to Kelly Ford’s Cottonmouths.

I also need to do some straightening up and filing work–the on-line files yesterday was what triggered the computer issues, which led to research on-line, which led to frustration, which led to watching LSU clips from last season–but while I was doing dishes and later folding laundry I figured out how to correct Bury Me in Shadows, my Civil War ghost story Gothic, so that was kind of a win for the day, don’t you think? And over the past few days I’ve also figured out how to rewrite and restructure the Kansas book. So, if I can focus on the Secret Project this week, get those stories revised and submitted today–I should be able to spend July revising Bury Me in Shadows and August revising the Kansas book, and then both will be out of my hair for awhile–so I can also focus on Chlorine.

Oh, I also figured out what “Never Kiss a Stranger” needs, and how to fix it as well, so that I can finish it.

Maybe yesterday wasn’t such a loss as I thought I was after all…

I also think I need to figure out and map out the rest of my year–June 30th will bring the first half of the year to a close, and might as well set some goals for the second half, since so many things beyond my control this first half of the year derailed me every step of the way; I am also (huge step here) not beating myself up for not managing to figure out a way to get my writing done during a pandemic, chronic illness, and the world essentially going insane outside my windows.

BUT–if the world going insane outside my windows means systemic societal change, more power to the insanity and might I add, such insanity is far overdue?

And on that particular note, tis time to return to the spice mines this morning. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader.

Was That What It Was?

And here we are, Saturday again; how lovely.

The Queer Noir at the Bar went very well, I think; they wisely let me go first so those whose who followed could make up for any bad impression my reading from Timothy might have given anyone in the audience. What was surprising to me was how actually star-studded the audience was; I stopped watching the comments being posted before I started reading when I saw names like Catriona McPherson, James Ziskin, Alex Segura, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Hank Philippi Ryan, Lori Rader-Day, Kellye Garrett, and Jess Lourey there (amongst many others) and I began to freak out a little–not good before I read on camera–so I closed the chat window, took some deep breaths, and went for it. I actually enjoyed myself, which is rare for me whenever I am doing a reading; but I’ve never read from Timothy before and I’d forgotten how much I love the book.

I really need to get over my aversion to reading my own work and perhaps should revisit it all sometime.

Also, it was lovely to see so much support for queer crime writers from the mainstream mystery community. What a lovely change from when I was first starting.

I slept extremely well last night; we watched a few episodes of Titans (and I was reminded yet again how much I’ve always disliked the second Robin, Jason Todd, and remembered that DC did a fan poll to see whether they should kill him off–with the result being the shocking and classic Batman tale “A Death in the Family”–and I also then remembered that the next episode we will watch will introduce us to Donna Troy, originally Wonder Girl and eventually simply known as Troia in the comics, and got a bit excited. Titans is really well done, and I am looking forward to getting into the second season. There’s also an episode that serves as a backdoor pilot for The Doom Patrol, which I’ve heard good things about, and so perhaps we can get back to that once we’ve finished Titans.

I slept extremely well last night–perhaps the best night’s sleep I’ve had in quite some time, with the end result that this morning I don’t feel tired at all. It was a rather exhausting week, truth be told, and doing readings/public appearances–even virtual ones–are quite draining for me. I actually was asleep within moments of getting under the covers, which is also rather unusual for me, and while I did wake up a couple of times, I was able to fall back into the deep, nourishing sleep rather easily. I had to clean up the kitchen last night for the reading–I didn’t dare let anyone see how slovenly a housekeeper I’ve been lately–so this morning I don’t really have to do a whole lot of straightening in here. The dishes are done, the counters are cleaned; I can do some filing (I hid the stacks of paper from the camera) and the floors before making a relatively quick grocery run. I have a shrimp linguini recipe I’ve been wanting to try, and I need to get some mozzarella cheese for it, and a few other things are on my list–not much, but it must be done.

I need to get the Sherlock story finished this weekend, and I also need to work on the Secret Project. I want to finish reading the Woolrich this weekend–I’ve got those lovely new books to chose from, and after hearing Kelly J. Ford read from Cottonmouths last night, I want to dig it out of the TBR pile where it’s languished for far too long and tear into it. I also have Edwin Hill’s books to read, and–there are just too many good books and not nearly the time necessary to get to them all. Heavy heaving sigh. Ah, well, nothing to do but get to it, right?

It’s also lovely to feel like myself again this morning. It’s entirely possible that I might relapse later–I am allowing myself three cups of coffee this morning, to be followed by an electrolyte drink–but I am hoping against hope that won’t happen.

It looks weird outside this morning–perhaps the Saharan dust cloud is still affecting the visibility here, but as opposed to the last two mornings, this is more of a muted yellow out there; not as bright as it usually is here, just a little toned down on the yellow, like someone adjusted it on the RGB scale.

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader.

Radiophonic

And somehow, another week is finished and here it is, Friday morning again.

This was a good book week–Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng; Lot by Bryan Washington (Lammy winner); The Chill by Scott Carson; The Zimmerman Telegram By Barbara Tuchman; The Coyotes of Carthage by Steven Wright; and If It Bleeds by Stephen King all are now in my hot little hands, and while I really didn’t need more books (as I will never finish all the ones I have on hand) I had points that were expiring and the only place they were valid where I had any use for them was the Evil Empire, much as I hate to give them anything–but they also didn’t cost me anything, so there’s that–thank you, credit card points. I’ve been wanting to read the Ng for awhile, and having greatly enjoyed the television adaptation, I am really looking forward to the book. It’s been awhile since I’ve read a Lammy winner for Best Novel, Scott Carson is the name Michael Koryta is using now to write horror, and of course, one can never go wrong with Stephen King and Barbara Tuchman. The Steven Wright is a debut, and my friend Laura highly recommended it to me; now I need to finish the Woolrich so I can move on to some of these.

It’s truly unbearable how far behind I am on reading, and there’s nothing worse than being too tired (or exhausted) to read.

Perhaps this weekend, I shall have the time to get everything–oh, who am I trying to fool? I’ll get done this weekend what I have the energy to get done. I need to finish revising my Sherlock story, which I haven’t looked at this week, and of course the Secret Project glares at me from its file folder balefully every time I sit at my desk. I’m hopeful that since I’ve been relatively healthy all week–still drinking the electrolytes and the water every day carefully–that this weekend will be restful enough to give me the ability to power through everything, and head into next week fresh, happy and rested, while feeling powerful from getting everything done. It’s also a short week leading into a three-day weekend, which is even more lovely.

I cannot really decide what to read tonight for Queer Noir at the Bar. I don’t really get the opportunity to read from my work; and while on the one hand it’s lovely to do so, on the other it’s always quite stressful for me; and doing it on-line means that I can literally see myself doing it. I generally prefer not to spend much time looking at myself, and of course, on-line means it’s usually recorded and I loathe the sound of my voice. It’s strange, and I do think that once someone hears me speak the lightbulb goes on and, without me having to explicitly state it, most people tend to know I’m gay. That’s not why I don’t like my voice–I am gay, after all, and why not make it easy for others, after all; personally, I think my voice sounds strange. It’s deep, in a lower register, yet somehow high-pitched at the same time–like it cannot make up its mind which tone it wants to be, which probably doesn’t make sense because I don’t have a strong grasp of vocal terminology and cannot explain it more clearly. I also am always terrified I am going to make a poor showing of it; that people in the (virtual) audience will be clearing their throats, shifting in their seats, taking a drink or doing anything to help make the time pass so this hellish experience will end.

I feel like I slept well last night, and hopefully that rested feeling I am experiencing right now will last throughout the day and through the reading tonight. I also am a bit groggy this morning–I could have stayed in bed easily for another few hours at the very least, but I was also awake and Scooter was hungry and thirsty so I went ahead and got up. It’s weird looking outside again this morning–I guess the Saharan Dust Storm is here; I got an emergency alert about it yesterday, which explains the weird conditions out there and why I feel like I am smelling dust this morning.

Last night we started watching season one of Titans, on DC Universe. I had already watched it about a year or go or whenever it was originally current; Paul hadn’t, and since I didn’t really remember a whole lot about what happened and the story, I figured we needed something to watch and I wanted to watch the second season, so I may as well go ahead and watch it again. I like it; I think it’s very well done, fairly decently acted, and the production values are quite good. It’s also an excellent “origin” story for the Titans team; they were my favorite when I was a kid reading comic books back when they were the Teen Titans, which was kind of a junior version of Justice League only for the sidekicks. Robin, Speedy, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl, and Aqualad were key members–eventually they started adding members who weren’t actually sidekicks for main heroes, and eventually they evolved into simply the Titans. Robin/Nightwing is probably one of my favorite heroes, and the young man they’ve cast to play him in the show is perfect for the part. He’s now ex-Robin on the show, and hasn’t evolved into Nightwing yet; I’m really looking forward to seeing Nightwings’s costume debut. Jason Todd, who replaced Dick Grayson as Robin, is also a character on the show–not a part of the regular cast, but someone who shows up now and again, and he’s just as big a dick on the show as he was in the comics back in the day.

And now, back to the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, everyone.

Screaming

I think it’s Thursday? I could be wrong. I don’t know anymore.

But apparently the Saharan Dust Storm will be here today and tomorrow; we are being asked to stay inside, preferably in air conditioning, until Saturday and to only go outside when it’s necessary, and to wear coverings for our face.

Yay, Saharan Dust Storm!

Seriously, this year has been so fucking whack already–and seems determine to top itself at every opportunity.

I slept pretty decently last night; it was a lengthy, emotionally and physically draining day. And through it all I was sitting at my desk here at home, making condom packs while talking on speaker phone or quickly answering an email. Ah, multi-tasking at its finest. But it also helped to have something relatively mindless to do while some stuff was going on yesterday, and as always, I find that a mindless task can always be somewhat soothing. I am going into the office this afternoon, as I have some work there to do and some on-line trainings that need to be done…I was expecting it to rain this morning but the sun’s out in a strange ghostly way–which may very well be the Saharan Dust Storm effect–which is, again, interesting for these times.

And next weekend is the fourth of July/long weekend. Thank you, Jesus. As always, I am spinning my wheels in mud, trying to get caught up so I can breathe and relieve some of my stress; although the stress keeps me from being almost completely dead inside (kidding) and reminds me I am alive. Honestly. One of the things I wanted to do yesterday was to make a to-do list; I really need to get back into the habit of not only making one but actually following it, rather than trying to remember what I need to get done–because there’s always so much I cannot remember and there’s always new things being added.

It ain’t easy being a Gregalicious. Don’t try this at home, kids.

I am looking around at my kitchen in horror. I’m doing one of those virtual Noirs at the Bar tomorrow evening–queer edition–and my desktop computer is still wonky, so I’ll probably have to use a laptop or the iPad, but I certainly can’t let anyone see my counters and sink behind me; I definitely have to get that taken care of this evening when I get home from the office. It’s also very difficult for me to get things done when my kitchen/office is in chaos–it always bothers me on multiple levels, interrupting my thought process and hovering just out of my peripheral vision–and it’s quite often during such cleaning/sorting/organizing that I get some thinking about writing done in my head….or start getting other ideas for stories/books to write. STOP THAT CREATIVE ADHD.

I also have to decide what I am going to read from tomorrow night. I think I might read the opening of Timothy; I’ve never had the opportunity to read aloud from it, and it’s one of my favorite books of my own. I think I’ll practice it, and my story from The Faking of the President–or maybe I should read “This Town” from Murder-a-Go-Go’s? It’s not a queer story, though…damn. “This Town” I think is one of my favorite stories of my own, actually. Decisions, decisions.

And on that note I should head into the spice mines.

My Head is Spinning

And somehow here it is Wednesday yet again.

And it’s pay day; or as it is known in my corner of the Lost Apartment, “pay the bills and hope there’s grocery money left day.” I’m still swilling electrolytes every day. I managed a cup of coffee yesterday without a relapse; I may try a second cup today (“Greg never has a second cup at home”–ten points to anyone who gets that reference); that’s me, always living on the edge. But I have been feeling better. I’ve been tired, but the kind that comes from insomnia, not that wretched exhausted-drained-of-all-energy tired that comes with whatever this is–dehydration or whatever. That is quite a relief. But I finally slept well last night, and actually feel rested and healthy this morning. Huzzah!

I woke up to an amazing thunderstorm (and the inevitable flash flood warnings in the city). It’s pouring outside, bright flashes of nearby lightning followed by rolling thunder that seems to last forever. One of the many things I love about living here in New Orleans is the glorious thunderstorms we have here; I don’t think I could ever live in a desert climate again with its dry heat and rare rain. And sure, the flash floods aren’t particularly fun–especially if you get caught in one in your car–but I’d rather that then little to no rain ever. I’m also kind of glad to be working from home today so I don’t have to go out into it; that’s also quite lovely–but as I’ve said before to friends–the thing about being out in New Orleans rain is that your umbrella is useless because you’re going to get soaked anyway, so you might as well give into it and enjoy it.

Sometimes getting drenched in a rainstorm is a lot of fun.

Last night we finished watching Ordeal by Innocence, and while it’s been quite a long time since I read the novel by Agatha Christie, I feel relatively confidence in saying that I don’t think the television adaptation hewed closely to the novel–like the adaptation of The Pale Horse we watched over the weekend; as opposed to that, however, at least this revision (or reimagining, if you prefer) of Christie’s original story was rather well done. Again, I’m not entirely sure why screenwriters and producers feel they can do better than Christie, but there it is, and as I said, at least this one was told well and interesting. Excellent cast, as well.

As always, the Lost Apartment is tragically a disaster area again this morning; the illness and exhaustion have sadly long kept me from doing a deep and thorough clean–I’ve accomplished some surface cleaning, but haven’t done the floors in quite some time, and it shows–and I am hopeful that today, once I’m through with my workday, I can get some writing done. I am so horribly and woefully behind on everything that I fear I may never catch up. I’ve simply got to get the Sherlock story worked on, and I need to get the Secret Project caught up, and there’s another couple of stories I really want to be working on as well–“Condos for Sale or Rent” and “The Flagellants”–and of course, the novellas, “Festival of the Redeemer” and “Never Kiss a Stranger”. Sigh. Will I ever have time to work on everything and finish everything I want to finish? Most likely not.

And on that depressing note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader.

Paninaro

Apparently, this old dog can learn some new tricks.

Yesterday morning, after the relapses of the previous weekend, I decided that I was going to have to give up caffeine again, as well as call my doctor’s office to see if I could get in sooner rather than later. After all, this has been going on for far longer than I would like, and perhaps more drastic measures were called for then just drinking Gatorade and water while cutting caffeine out. A friend suggested that I drink some PediaLyte, so on my way into the office I stopped at CVS, bought some–and suddenly, I felt like Gregalicious again. I just had always assumed, I guess, that Gatorade had whatever you needed in it to get over dehydration, and was apparently wrong. I drank water the rest of my shift, and was feeling a little dry-mouthed when I got home so I had another Pedialyte. Electrolytes were what were called for, and I am going to continue to drink one of these a day (at least) until this dehydration issue is taken care of. It was never something I ever really had to concern myself with–even after dancing all night on Ecstasy–but now, alas, yet another sign that my body is decaying.

But at least I know what to do now, even if it took me two weeks to figure it out.

I do learn, even if it takes me awhile.

It was lovely, though, last night to just feel tired and now it was from not sleeping well, rather than that horrible physical exhaustion.

Of course, I’m also on night four of insomnia.

But I am getting by. I’m still way behind on everything, and keep hoping that today–maybe–I’ll start to dig out from under. One can dream at any rate, can’t one? I need to get the Sherlock story worked on this week–in my fever state the other day I realized something could be cut and something should be added–and of course, last night as I was thinking about it, I started thinking about how much more could be done with the story; how much more could be done around Sherlock in New Orleans in the 1910’s; and how rich and layered and textured such a period piece could be…so of course I started wondering if I should think about possibly doing a Sherlock pastiche in this time period.

Because of course.

I read some more of the Woolrich last night; the pacing has picked up dramatically, although I’m still not sure where it’s going or how it could possibly end; and after Paul got home we tried to find a new show to watch, without much luck. Love Victor lasted about fifteen minutes–I wasn’t a big fan of Love Simon–and we tried a few other things before finally landing on another Agatha Christie adaptation, Ordeal by Innocence, which isn’t quite as I remembered the book either, but it’s an intriguing story and very well filmed and acted–and there are only three one hour episodes, so it’s not much of a commitment.

And let’s face it, Elite is a very tough act to follow.

I am tired again this morning, but this is entirely due to the insomnia as opposed to anything else; I am trying a cup of coffee this morning (after which I am going to have some Pedialyte) and it’s not sitting well with me; it’s kind of stuffy and sticky in the Lost Apartment this morning, and that’s certainly not helping any. I have to run errands after I get off work this afternoon–I have packages waiting at the postal service, and I need to stop at the grocery store for a few things as well–and so I am hoping today will be a productive one. There’s a million emails to sort and answer–and I really need to find my to-do list from before I relapsed into whatever this was the last two weeks and make a new one.

Every day I’m juggling.

And now back to the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader.