And today I am off to the airport to head up to Bethesda for Malice Domestic. How exciting! I’ve not been to Malice in a very long time; I don’t remember what year it was, but it was also my first trip to New York for the Edgars; the two events merged into a single trip. It was quite fun. There were a lot of friends there, and I know we had a lovely after-party on Saturday night post-banquet that was so much fun my sides hurt from laughing. I don’t know that this Malice will live up to the great time I had the first time I went, but I am glad I decided to go, after a little push from Catriona McPherson once the Agatha nominations were announced earlier this year. And while I tend to not make a big deal out of award nominations, I also realized when are you ever going to be nominated for an Agatha again? Never, that’s when so bearing that in mind I decided what the hell, I’ll spend the money–which I will regret later, undoubtedly–and go.
And let’s be honest; I am not traveling for book business again for the rest of the year other than Bouchercon. (note to self: start tracking expenses for the year so you can keep up and be ready at the end of the year–something I say I will do every year and never end up doing) I’ve already checked in for my flight (huzzah!) and have my boarding pass, and it’s a nonstop, coming and going. I used to not mind changing planes when I was younger; now that I’m getting older it’s just one more ordeal as part of traveling. As much as I want to go back to Europe–we’re thinking about Amsterdam and Berlin next year–the thought of all that flying and all that time in airports just exhausts me. Maybe I can get my doctor to prescribe something for me just for the longer overseas flight that will knock me out immediately.
I have to finish packing in a moment. I was tired last night when I got home from work, and had to do stuff–laundry, the dishes–after working on the book and then tried to start gathering what I need to take with me. I have almost everything clothing wise gathered already; I just need my dress shoes and some jeans, my slippers and some sweats…and I also have to gather all the technology I need to take with me–cords, chargers, accoutrement for my laptop–as well as the books I am taking on the trip with me. I really don’t want to get ready or do anything; all I feel like doing is going back to bed, in all honesty–but I am sure once the coffee starts kicking in, I’ll light a fire under my ass and get me going. The weather is supposed to be rainy today; I think I’ve packed the right clothing for the trip. It’s going to be warm during the days and chillier at night; I am not taking a jacket with me so any out of doors ventures after dark will probably wind up being terribly cold for me.
I’ll live, I would imagine.
I do wish I would have had more time to work on getting the house cleaned and organized; I’m going to hate coming back home to a messy house. But I also took off Monday so I can have a day to reorient myself back to my life again, run errands, and so forth. I also have a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon that day–I’ll probably swing by the store and make groceries on the way home from that. And of course, next weekend I will be driving up to Alabama to see my dad–long story, too long for now–so yes, there will be lots of pressure and time issues when it comes to getting this manuscript finished. And I have another one to edit, great.
And on that note, I need to get back to preparing for the trip. Have a great Thursday, Constant Reader, and tomorrow I’ll be checking in from Malice.
I honestly believe that a lot of our problems in this country are a direct result of an attempt to enforce some national prudery standard that relentlessly tries to shame any and every one of us for the perfectly natural and normal human functions of our body. We are seeing this again in this modern age, as the Morality Police (who are all-too-frequently hiding some horrific skeletons in their own closets) try to get books banned, discussions about sex and sexuality and gender stifled and silenced, and entire segments of the population erased from public view and hidden away again because it makes them, well, uncomfortable.
Well, semi-automatic weapons, religion, and bigotry make me uncomfortable, but that doesn’t matter, apparently, as I am (to borrow a phrase from John Irving and The World According to Garp) a “sexual suspect.”
Ironically, I distinctly remember what television was like back when it was heavily censored and what was considered wholesome family entertainment was aired. It didn’t mean sex wasn’t talked about, it just meant that it had to be implication rather than outright said–which led to incredibly stupid phrases to stand in for sexual contact, or sexual intercourse, that were completely transparent and frankly, kind of stupid. That was the kind of television I grew up with, where everything was plastic and phony and created a false sense of what the country was really like (where, for example, are Mayberry’s Black people?), and some people watch those old shows and think, oh, what a better and simpler time we lived in then! We must get back to that world of innocence!
Which, of course, is complete and utter horseshit. Television of the 50s and 60s most certainly were not reflections of culture and society as a whole, no matter how much someone might want that to be the truth…it was not.
When I was a child, I hated the stupid, coy euphemisms screenwriters employed to mention sexual activity and escape the censors; “hanky-panky” is perhaps one of the worst. “Making love” is another one that puts my teeth on edge; “making whoopie” still another, and perhaps the worst offenderof all was ‘vo-dee-oh-doe’ from LaVerne & Shirley. Even when I was a kid that kind of “nudge-nudge wink-wink” kind of thing annoyed me; I can remember thinking, many times, “just say fuck, for Christ’s sake.” “Making love” is one that was really popular on soaps, and it’s always said tearfully; it also made me want to slap the speaker (and of course the movie Let’s Make Love really should be Let’s Fuck). The fact that we don’t have a common, easy to use word to substitute for fucking that delicate sensibilities won’t consider profane is part of the problem in this country, frankly. Oh, no! Sex is dirty, we can’t talk about that! We can’t come up with a non-offensive word for it because just thinking about sex upsets some people. God forbid we actually have a realistic, honest conversation about sex and sexuality. I hate to break it to you prudes, but sex is normal and healthy. The fact that our culture has tried so desperately to appease the prudes by turning sex and sexuality into something we’re just not supposed to talk about has put braces on our brains, and anchored fear and loathing to our sexuality; if our mightiest God in this country is Money, the second mightiest is SHAME. Having your body react to stimulation by getting aroused? SHAME ON YOU.
When I was growing up–and granted, things have gotten a little better since then–even masturbation was considered something shameful that no one would ever admit to; nothing like learning repression when you’re going through puberty. It was an insult to call someone a jack off; you mocked boys by talking about them jacking off…which was something I did pretty regularly, so even more SHAME. And when you take into consideration the fact that even as young and sheltered as I was, that I knew my sexuality–my physical and intellectual and emotional attraction to other men–was wrong and something else to be ashamed of; not only was I masturbating but I was thinking about men while I was doing it: DOUBLE WHAMMY.
It took me years to shake off that prudish conditioning, and it wasn’t until I stopped feeling shame about sex and my sexuality that I finally started to actually live my life, rather than having a life that just happened to me. Fear and shame had made me passive; afraid that being myself and living the kind of life I wanted to would cost me friends, family and employment; afraid that embracing having sex with other men (and exploring every element of what that meant) would lead to an infection that could kill me; afraid afraid afraid.
I often say that I refuse to live in fear, but that I am also sensible; I always am acutely aware of my surroundings and everyone around me–while that may have developed from being gay and knowing that made me a target, I think it’s prudent and smart to always be aware, regardless of who and what and where you are.
Given my prudish upbringing and conditioning, as well as the shame and fear I lived with for so long, it is kind of interesting that I started write erotica in my late thirties. Writing erotica for me was an education in many different ways. I learned a lot about myself while writing it, for one thing; for another, I taught myself how to write short stories by writing erotica (beginning, middle, end is never as apparent or obvious as in an erotic short story), and I was also able to work through a lot of my own issues with shame by writing erotica. The first erotica story I ever wrote, “The Wrestling Match,” was a liberating experience for me; I found myself blushing with embarrassment as I wrote it, which was an interesting (to me) phenomenon. Why was I so embarrassed to write about desire, lust, and sex?
Because years of conditioning to associate shame with desire and sexuality had taken firm root in my mind. It was an interesting experience–and the next time I wrote an erotic story, tit was an entirely different situation; there was no shame or embarrassment. Apparently, all it took was writing that first story to work through it…it was also interesting, because around that same time I was trying to get caught up with all the queer fiction and nonfiction I hadn’t known existed for such an extended period of time, and reading has always been how I learned about anything. I was reading Dorothy Allison’s essay collection Trash (which should be required reading, really), and Dorothy’s point that if we spoke honestly and openly about sex and sexuality (and other aspects of human life that for whatever reason we’ve been conditioned to think we can’t talk about) a lot of the stigma and shame most people feel would be eliminated. As long as your fantasies don’t involve hurting anyone or children–if everyone involved is able to give informed and full consent–there’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. But we’ve been conditioned in western civilization since Catholicism conquered the Roman Empire to consider anything of the body to be sinful and shameful; things of the mind and spirit are what we are supposed to focus on while denying the earthy sinfulness of our sexual desire. (This also goes for other bodily functions, like waste and gas) This is particularly true when it comes to kink. We’ve been conditioned in this country to think anything besides missionary position between a man and a woman is something so beyond that it must be shamed, and reacted to with revulsion. Why? As long as no one is being hurt and everyone is on board, I don’t care if you like being spanked, or lashed with cat o’nine tails; or if you like to wear leather and get a thrill from it. My own kinks primarily are focused around the domination/submission play of wrestling; I’ve written about that extensively enough to not feel the need to go into it again here (but check out my erotic pro wrestling novel, Going Down for the Count, available at any bookseller on-line!).
We don’t have honest conversations about sexuality and desire in this country. Writing an erotic short story was incredibly freeing for me; it broke the bonds of shame that indoctrination had built up in my brain. It may not be the case for everyone else, but it’s always interesting to me that people never question themselves when it comes to their own prudery, lusts and desires. (The way they depict it on the hilarious animated comedy series about puberty, Big Mouth, is particularly genius: the Shame Monster.) If you feel shame about your sexuality and your desires, shouldn’t you examine that? Where did it come from? Why do you feel this shame, and what is its root cause?
I do spend a lot of time gazing at my own navel and trying to figure out where all of my phobias and fears and so forth come from, so it’s always interesting to me when people don’t and seem to have no interest in self-examination. Maybe it’s just another form of my own narcissism and self-absorption; that could easily be the case. I sometimes wonder if the reason others don’t reflect on themselves and self-evaluate is because they are somehow more comfortable in their own skins than I am in mine. It’s certainly possible.
But the only way we can stop a lot of the bigotry and hatred in this country is to start being open and honest about sex, sexuality, and desire. To stop shaming people for being interested in sex, and exploring their fantasies and desires. Almost all of our prejudices are rooted in this fear of sex and sexuality; white supremacy is, in some ways, about protecting the “purity” of their blood and “womanhood” from the sexual predation of non-whites. (That was really what the trial in To Kill a Mockingbird was about; but interestingly enough Harper Lee, in illustrating Southern white bigotry through a rape trial, was also unintentionally sending a very strong message to her readers about class structures in the South; but that’s a subject for another time. White people really love that book….)
Banning books and discussion of sexuality and gender doesn’t make those things go away; instead, it just makes them even more enticing as forbidden, things that are dirty and we aren’t supposed to talk about.
Then again, if we are going to talk about these things, people also need to listen–and the ones who need it most? Never are the ones listening in the first place.
Monday morning of Malice week. Ugh, all the little things one has to do to get ready for traveling. Make a list of what to pack, take inventory of the kitchen to make sure Paul has what he needs while I’m gone, and so on and so forth. Heavy heaving sigh. But my flight Thursday isn’t super early; eleven-ish, if I recall correctly, which means I don’t have to be at the airport until around nine, which isn’t bad. I’m going to take some books with me to read for pleasure at the airports and while in flight; I will be editing when I can in my room periodically trying to get this revision finished by the end of the month. The weekend wasn’t nearly as productive as it could have been–there was another wave of depression and grief to be gotten through this weekend, unfortunately–but I did make some progress, which I am taking as a win. I did also make a to-do list for the week; that should help in some ways.
We watched A Knock at the Cabin last night, which I enjoyed; a lot more than I usually enjoy an M. Night Shyamalan movie. I had also enjoyed the book on which it was based, The Cabin at the End of the World by Paul Tremblay, who is one of our best horror writers today; I’ve enjoyed everything of his I’ve read thus far. The film follows the book very closely; it’s one of those claustrophobic horror stories where some city folk take a vacation in the country at a remote cabin–but remote and country are very much staples of horror; someone really should do a look at the trope of “city folk in the country” horror–and things of course go very south. The film is very well cast; Jonathan Groff and Ben Aldridge play Eric and Andrew, a gay couple who’ve adopted a young Asian girl they’ve named Wen and they make an adorable little family group. The location of the cabin is idyllic and tranquil and beautiful; the perfect spot for some city folk who want to get away from the every day and rest and relax. Wen collects grasshoppers in a jar because she wants to study them; the movie opens with her catching grasshoppers and then catching a glimpse of a very big man coming through the woods to talk to her. This is Leonard, played very well by Dave Bautista, who is the leader of a group of four people who have seen visions and have concluded that in order to stop the apocalyptic end of the world, they must come to this cabin and present the family with a horrible choice: they have to sacrifice one of their own in order to stop the end of the world. Are they crazy? They sound like it, as they try to reason with the family…but what if they aren’t? The movie’s ending is different than the book’s–there was no way they could film the book’s ending, really–but I do prefer the book’s ending than the film’s; it seemed like the inevitable outcome, and made the most sense. It’s a good movie, I do recommend it, but one thing I’ve always been curious about since reading the book and was only heightened by viewing the film: why a gay family? I gave Tremblay props when I read the book, because they were very real and didn’t seem forced or stereotypical at all; I thought it should stand as an excellent example of someone who is not gay writing gay characters. The politics of the representation–gays in peril–is one I am not going to give any time to; sure, the gay family was in danger almost from the minute the credits rolled, and it was nice having a gay couple to root for in a horror film. Horror by its very nature is disturbing and tragic; you cannot have gay representation in horror and then not expect the gay people to go through some things, you know? And having gay characters also adds another dimension to the home invasion situation–are they crazy, are they telling the truth, or did they target a gay family purposely? There’s an essay to be written about the book and the movie from a sociopolitical and sociocultural perspective, but I don’t know that I am the right person to write such a thing; I’m not an academic, after all, and have very little desire to ever be an academic.,.although that sometimes can explain my insecurities about thinking deep and heavy thoughts and wanting to write deep and heavy essays picking apart and deconstructing gay representation in modern fiction, with an emphasis on horror and crime.
I also read some academic treatises this weekend, one about being gay and the gay rights movement’s intersectionality and how it got away from that in the beginning only to circle back around to it in the present day, and the other about the television show Dark Shadows, which probably had more influence on me, my writing, and my preferences when it comes to reading, film, and television than anything else I’ve watched or read in my life. I know I used to watch classic black and white films with my grandmother (she was a big fan of the gay icons, ironically: Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, and Katharine Hepburn; she also liked horror and noir, and she was a fan of Dark Shadows, as was our babysitter down the street, Mrs. Harris), so pretty much my course was set when I was a little boy–gay writer was my future. I should write more about Dark Shadows–I was actually thinking last night that I should write a memoir of being a writer; my influences and how they shaped my creativity and what I actually write–not that anyone would be interested in reading such a thing, of course; which is partly why I don’t write more personal essays. Just as I’ve never really been interested in writing a writing manual, or one of those Greg Herren teaches you how to write a novel things. I always feel like a fraud when I talk about writing; never does my Imposter Syndrome strike as hard as it does when I am talking about writing or teaching a workshop. I don’t know.
It’s back into the office with me today. It’s a light day for me; mostly busy work, like data entry, filing, resupplying testing rooms, that sort of thing. It’s always nice to ease back into the week with an easy day in the office. It’s also weird to know that I am leaving on Thursday morning; the trip doesn’t seem real to me yet even though I’ve already made plans to meet up with people while I am there. Looks like I’m going to have to take a Lyft or an Uber from the airport once there, which is fine. And then of course when I get home I have to make up for lost time with the manuscript. Heavy heaving sigh. It wasn’t a good weekend for working, really; I kept spiraling and had to finally, on both days, remind myself that my mental health was more important than a deadline and so focused on positivity and and worked when I was able to get things done. The house isn’t nearly in the kind of shape I would like for it to be in when I am leaving for a weekend (two in a row; the next weekend I am off to Alabama) but seriously–when is it ever? I just need to make sure everything is in order before I go away on Thursday morning. Heavy heaving sigh.
And my books that I’ll be taking to read with me are going to be That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street, Wined and Died in La,, Let Me Die in His Footsteps, and Monday’s Lie. I am not going to get through all of these, of course; I may even cut it down to two–like I won’t be buying books in the book room, please–and I will also be working on the revision while I am there, too. (I so wanted to be finished before I leave…)
And on that note, I am going to get cleaned up and head into the office. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.
Tuesday and somehow we managed to survive yet another dread Monday. I was tired and not feeling well most of the day; I wasn’t completely sure whether I actually was sick or was just so damned tired that I felt sick. In either case, it was a thoroughly miserable day for one Gregalicious. I was very close to calling in sick, but I knew I had things in the office that needed doing today–I was right; we’re having site visits from our primary funders this week–so I am glad I went in, even if I felt like shit for most of the day. I was so tired when I got home yesterday that I retired to my easy chair almost immediately, and I got little done. Which was fine. I slept better last night than I did Sunday night, and feel more rested today, but will without doubt be tired when I get off work again tonight.
We continued with P-Valley, and it did pick up with the second episode of the second season. I think watching in a binge–going from the season one finale to the season two opener–was the problem. The season finale was a non-stop adrenaline rush, with things blowing up and a shoot out and fights and violence and just in general insanity; the season two opener was bound to seem a bit slow and not quite as entertaining, particularly since they had to deal with a pandemic. But it definitely picked up again, and we were quite absorbed in the story. We may be able to finish it off tonight; I don’t know how many new episodes are left for us to see. And then we’ll need to find something else to watch. Yippee.
I also am looking forward to deciding on my next read, too. I have several strong contenders, but I think I am going to dip out of my field for a change and read something different, not a crime novel. I am leaning toward Chris Clarkson’s That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street; we did the y/a panel together at S&S, and I really liked him a lot–and he’s a local; lives even in the same neighborhood, and probably not really all that far away, either. We’re going to try to get together for coffee sometime when I have I have some free time. Ha ha ha ha. Well, when I can carve out some time from a weekend, that is. This is my last weekend at home before Malice Domestic, and of course that next weekend I am going to Alabama. Heavy heaving sigh. No, it’ll be okay, methinks. I’ll be able to somehow get everything done that I need to get done; it always gets done and I have yet to collapse under the stress and weight of too much to do and not nearly enough time to do it in.
Which, of course, is absolutely nothing new in the life of one Gregalicious.
Note to self: update to-do list from last week. I actually was able to cross some things off it, which is always a pleasant feeling, but I really need to get a new one together. I hate when I am so tired on Monday, as I was yesterday as well as not feeling good; it gets my week off to a very bad start, and since I have to get up at six every morning until Friday…starting the week off tired is never a good thing. I feel better this morning–I don’t feel sick anymore, which is nice, and of course I feel rested somewhat–but I also tend to think that the reason I felt sick was because my blood sugar was low. I didn’t eat much over the weekend and so of course yesterday felt like I was starving to death at times. (Okay, that’s wrong and extreme; I simply felt hungry, and since I rarely do, it felt much worse than it probably would to someone else.)
I’ve been spending a lot of time going down wormholes when I’m tired–don’t ask, it’s mindless and a nice diversion when I’m really too tired to think–and wondering if it is indeed possible for me to write about the past, even if they are decades I lived through. New Orleans history is so rich and varied–I came across another article about the Trunk Murders yesterday, which I’d love to write about sometime; there are so many marvelous crimes in New Orleans’ past to build books around the fictionalization of; the kidnapping of that little boy, for example, whose name is escaping me at the moment, or the lynching of those Italians who were found not guilty of killing the chief of police–that would also make an interesting book. I’m kind of casting about for another Sherlock in New Orleans before the Great War story, to be completely honest; I really enjoyed visiting that world when I wrote that story and would love to do another. I don’t think I’ll ever write a gay Sherlock book, even though he’s now in the public domain and anyone can do anything they want with him–primarily because I do NOT want to raise the ire of the Sherlockians. I think I captured the essence of the character in my story, but…not being an actual Sherlockian makes the Imposter Syndrome very strong with that one.
And on that note, I should get cleaned up and get started on my day. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again later.
Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and feeling fine. I did get sucker-punched yesterday morning; I got an email about Mother’s Day gifts already (isn’t it in MAY, for Christ’s sake?) and yeah, wasn’t expecting that tidal wave of sadness and overwhelming grief. However, I took that as a sign to walk away from my computer and get my errands run, which is precisely what I did. Sigh. I guess I have Mother’s Day and the holidays without Mom to look forward to this year. Yay? Sigh again.
Ah, well, it’s not like I’m the first person to go through this. Just because it’s new to me doesn’t mean anything profound, really.
Yesterday was a good day. I made some excellent progress on the book–the revision should be finished today, praise Jesus–and did get some things done. I made groceries and went to get the mail. I also dropped off two boxes of books to the library sale. I did some of the dishes and made some progress on the apartment, which was lovely. We got caught up on Yellowjackets and started watching The Night Agent on Netflix, which isn’t bad. It’s not great, either–it’s a spy show, involving skullduggery probably within the government structure–but it’s entertaining enough, and the lead actor (whose name I cannot recall) is handsome enough. And then I had a very lovely night’s sleep to top everything off. This morning I feel rested and relaxed–which is always a good thing–while for some reason Scooter wants to sleep in my lap while I am sitting here working this morning. I don’t mind, of course–he’s such a sweet thing, really; and he’s getting older, so I know that a day will come where I will regret not cuddling with him every time he wanted me to.
I’m not feeling burnt out, which is also a good thing. It’s hard to believe it’s April already–I’ve got to get my taxes ready–and already I am way behind on all of my plans for this year. That was to be expected–even under the best of circumstances I will always tend to get lazy and put things off–and of course I hadn’t counted on a death in the family, which has impacted me far more than I ever could have realized (I guess there’s no way of knowing until you actually experience it). I was thinking last night that now all of my surviving aunts and uncles, with one exception, are all widowed now; and the only one where both are still alive…well one probably won’t last much longer. I guess I am now understanding how my dad felt after his mother, the last in her generation, went; the time will come far sooner than I would like when my generation will be the oldest surviving one in the family. It’s a somber thought, and I guess I should also realize how lucky we are as a family that my generation is still intact.
Today LSU’s women’s basketball team plays Iowa for the national title. I probably won’t watch–I haven’t really enjoyed basketball much since the advent of the three point shot and the shot clock (which should give you an indication of how long ago that was), so it’s unlikely. I have to finish the revision today anyway, and the game is this afternoon, I think. I doubt I’ll be finished with the manuscript by then, either, and that’s the most important thing. Much as I would love to go read a book this morning as I rev up to write and revise, I’m not going to because of the danger of getting deeply involved in reading and I won’t want to put the book down and get back to work. Instead, I am going to finish the dishes and do some filing–gah, my computer files will take weeks to get organized, not to mention how bad I am with the paper files. I’d hoped to take a week off this summer to clean out the storage attic, divest myself of a lot of these paper files, and get rid of a lot more books, while also working to get my electronic storage straightened up. But I am going to probably have to use at least part of that week going to see Dad up north; I’ll just have to be a lot more efficient with my time than I usually am when I take time off, I suppose (good luck with that, right?). But I also plan to start being better about some other things in the meantime. I want to reactivate my gym membership for May, and in the meantime I want to start stretching several times a week as well as using that back-roller thing to loosen the muscles in my back (which are tight and knotted, imagine that). I also am going to have to baby myself when I go back because of this issue with my left arm, which is irritating, although I suppose all of this is part-and-parcel of getting older and the slow, steady slide into the grave.
LSU Gymnastics is also in the regional final tonight, too.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow–before I head to work.
And it’s Friday this morning, in which I get to work at home and do chores around the house when I need to get up and away from my computer. Huzzah! Alas, some of those chores will have to wait, as we had a notice that the city is turning off our water between 10 and 5 today to do some repair work. Great, so laundry and dishes are out until this evening, but that’s okay. I have work to do, and as always, there’s always filing and organizing and the floors. At least I have enough water for my morning coffee, which is tasting really good this morning. I slept in a bit–always a pleasure on Friday mornings–and slept deeply and well. I feel very well rested this morning, which is a good thing. I did soak the dishes in soapy water over night, so all I have to do is rinse everything before putting it in the dishwasher; and I probably don’t even need to do that. I can just empty it and add the new stuff, and then run it once the water is back on. Why couldn’t they have done this yesterday while I was at work? Because that’s just not how Greg’s life works, everyone. Tis a pity, but also tis a fact.
I slept well last night and feel really rested this morning, which is lovely. I am also having to get used to having Paul at home in the evenings; I was a Festival widow this year for far longer than usual and I really didn’t care for it much. I did get some writing done last night before he came home, and we settled in for some more episodes of season 3 of Outer Banks, which kind of lost its way at first but seems to be settling into that cheesy, over-the-top writing that we so loved the first two seasons. I was getting a bit worried–the storyline of John B’s father’s return from the dead isn’t really working for me, plus it was some terrible casting; more on that when I’ve finished watching the season. I also want to watch some of the movies that are available to stream now, especially The Pale Blue Eye, based on Louis Bayard’s wonderful novel, and there’s another, too, that I really want to watch but I can’t think of the name of it now–the great joys of old brain combined with long COVID brain, hurray!
I do have to make groceries at some point this weekend and I also have to get the mail at some point. I do need some French bread because I’d like to make pasta this evening; I also have clean the refrigerator on the weekend chore list, and I also would like to start cleaning out my cabinets; I have a tendency to buy stuff and forget about it–which is annoying–and then it expires and sits in my cabinets for years because I never check or look at those things until, of course, I need it and well, it’s not any good anymore. I really need to reorganize my cabinets, and I’d also like to make at least one box of books to drop off at the library sale tomorrow–I’d also like to wash and clean out the car, which would be really lovely. I also want to start, I don’t know, taking more control and charge of my life than I have been? It’s incredibly easy to feel tired and just collapse into a chair and do nothing, of course, and scroll through videos on Youtube and then binge television shows once Paul is home. But that isn’t getting me anywhere, and really, I’ve also been operating without a to-do list for a couple of weeks now, too; perhaps I should add make a to-do list to the chores list for this weekend? Yes, perhaps I should. I also want to spend some time reading Scorched Grace this weekend; I need to get back into my regular reading schedule else I will never finish all these books I want to read–and I’ve limited myself to how many books I can buy until I make some progress in getting rid of some of these books I have on hand that I’ve not read yet, and that means actually reading them. And I have so many great books on hand to read, too; and there are more coming out all the time. This year will see new books by Laura Lippman, Megan Abbott, S. A. Cosby, Lisa Unger (so behind on Lisa Unger it’s not even funny), and so many others whose work I both admire and appreciate and respect. So I clearly need to get back to reading. Perhaps today I can find some time this evening, around writing and chores and making dinner and so forth? Stranger things have, in fact, happened before and will probably happen again at some point.
And of course, my major project for the summer is cleaning out the storage attic, which will wind up being an enormous pain in the ass–which is why I’ve not started it yet–as well as cleaning off the tops of the cabinets in the kitchen, which has kind of turned into a catch-all storage place, too–seriously, I have papers and books packed into boxes every-fucking-where in this apartment–and one of the things I really would like to do this year is somehow get my hoarding and apartment back into some kind of control and in some kind of livable order. I only have two definite author trips left this year–Malice Domestic at the end of April and Bouchercon at the end of August–and I’ll also have to do some family visiting this year as well–Mom’s death means I need to check in with Dad a lot more often than I ever have before–but hopefully my vacation time will start accruing and building back up over the course of the year.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again later.
Sunday morning rolling around like a marble in the Mousetrapgame–do they still sell that? We never had that game when we were kids–I remember having Clue, Monopoly, Life, and Chinese checkers, but never Mousetrap. We were a game family, often playing cards–Rook, Hearts, Spades, and Pinochle were enormous favorites within the family–and much later adding Uno and Trivial Pursuit (although no one will pay Trivial Pursuit anymore because I always win; and have even won on my first turn). Yesterday was kind of a lovely day, overall; I slept deeply and late, got up and did some things around the apartment; soaked my toe and slathered topical gel over it all day; read Bobby Mathews’ quite marvelous Living the Gimmick for a while, and worked. (Bobby’s book is really good, y’all) The work wasn’t easy but it also wasn’t difficult; in fact, I was kind of enjoying myself, which for me is lovely and encouraging. I do have to run out to the grocery store at some point today, but I’m not going to get terribly worked up and/or upset about it. I slept decently last night; I feel rested this morning but managed to get up early and am hoping that today will be a good, productive one.
The Lefty Awards were given out last night in Tucson: I lost Best Humorous to Ellen Byron and her delightful Bayou Book Thief; Kellye Garrett won Best Novel for Like a Sister; Wanda Morris won Best Historical for Anywhere You Run; and Ramona Emerson won Best Debut for Shutter. Congratulations to everyone! It was both a thrill and a surprise to be nominated in the first place, completely unexpected, and just a bit sad that the “race” is over. I can’t imagine being nominated another time, to be honest, but am very grateful for everyone who included A Streetcar Named Murder.
I still get to enjoy being an Agatha nominee for another month, though.
Yesterday was pretty good, over all. I did get a lot done, and I was pleased with the work I got done. I’m feeling a lot better these days about everything, really; it’s hard for me to explain but it feels like I’ve been operating on autopilot since even before the pandemic started; like there was a dark cloud inside my head that I somehow managed to get things done, but it was harder than it used to be. I don’t feel like that dark cloud is there anymore, at least not since last weekend, and it’s delightful to be free of that whatever-it-was. Depression and anxiety, most likely; I know I’ve been worrying about Mom in the back of my mind for years now, and I still kind of tense up when I get a text message alert from my phone. I guess a lot of that worry has now transferred over to Dad, but he’s healthy–or at least has been so far. The grief comes and goes still–far less frequently than before–but it still happens from time to time that I’ll get a bit overwhelmed and have to go withdraw from the world for a while.
While I was waiting for Paul to get home and after I had finished working for the day, I decided to watch a movie instead of just endless scrolling through social media and looking for things on Youtube to watch. I couldn’t remember if I had seen Uncharted or not; I like Tom Holland and still kind of enjoy Mark Wahlberg (while admitting that he’s probably not a great person–it’s complicated), so I queued it up and started watching. As I watched, I began remembering things from it, so I had seen it before, just didn’t remember it. It didn’t take long for me to start punching holes in the plot/story, and I remembered that it became so far-fetched that I didn’t enjoy it. I was about forty-three minutes into it when I gave up; the entire premise that Magellan had a fortune in gold that somehow got lost (he didn’t; he didn’t stay anywhere long enough to amass such a treasure) was simply taken for granted without explanation; that’s the legend so we just don’t question it. Props for using an actual historical figure to give it more authenticity, but…it also lost me. We watched the SEC Gymnastics championships (LSU came in third, but it really was a matter of tenths of points), then finished watching Servant, which was interesting and different and strange and very well done before catching this week’s The Mandalorian, which wasn’t a particularly good one. I’m not feeling this season, to be honest; and of course the best part–Baby Yoda–hasn’t really had much to do except just kind of be there.
Such a shame about Uncharted, really. I love treasure hunts, but they are so rarely (outside of Indiana Jones and Romancing the Stone) featured in good movies that I’m always a little hesitant to watch one. I still want to do my Colin treasure hunt book sometime, but God only knows when. The Festivals are this week, so Paul will be moving into the Monteleone Hotel on Wednesday, most likely, and I’ll probably go down there on Friday. I’m going to have to commute, which isn’t going to be easy–the limping toe, for example–so we don’t have to board Scooter, and means I will probably be exhausted by the end of the weekend. So be it, seriously. I definitely need to make a to-do list today; I’ve been operating without one for quite some time and I think it’s necessary for me going forward to stay on track with everything,
And on that note, I am going to read some more Bobby Mathews while my coffee continues to warm me up. I have some chores to do around the house (as always) and I am going to run over to the Fresh Market at some point to get some things (not entirely sure what is needed, to be honest, with Paul going away on Wednesday), and so I must be busy and productive today. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.
Ah, it’s marvelous having a dryer again. And it’s an upgrade from the last one, which actually cost more, so winning on chore fronts here in the Lost Apartment.
Which says a lot about how spoiled I am. My grandmother used to wash the clothes in an agitator on her back porch that she had to fill with hot water and had a ringer to crush excess water out of the clothes before hanging them on the line. IMAGINE how long that must have taken, and how long it took for the clothes to dry in the heat and humidity of an Alabama summer when it could also rain at any moment without notice. Modern conveniences are quite marvelous, really, and I don’t think we appreciate how much time they actually do save us. Granted, I could load all the laundry up in the back of the car and go to a laundromat and get it all finished in about two hours; but that’s two hours where I would have to sit in a laundromat and either read/ or stare at my phone…and it’s never really quite comfortable in a laundromat anywhere. Also, the one around the corner closed due to the pandemic so yeah, I’d have to get in the car and take it somewhere, and have coins and all that nonsense; although I suppose with all the marvelous modern technology that has sprung up since the last time I went to a laundromat (when the washing machine was broken and we were waiting for its replacement) would enable people to use electronic payments? I don’t know, and I’d prefer to never find out, quite frankly.
But you know something? Sitting at my desk doing data entry to the washing machine agitating and the dryer tumbling and heating was weirdly comforting; a return to my normal Friday routine of chores and day-job duties–almost like the world has been slightly tilted off its axis for a while and has finally settled back into the way it’s supposed to be around here. I also wound up having to run my errands after work yesterday, because I remembered (fortunately, thank you, Facebook) that today is the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which makes access to everywhere I would need to go nearly impossible or an enormous time-consuming pain in the ass. So I picked up the mail and made groceries after I finished work yesterday, and will see about washing the car on Sunday (and possibly a trip to the Fresh Market, since it’s right there). Saturday will be my day of not leaving the house, which is probably for the best–although I do need to take clothes to the dry cleaners. Hmmm. They aren’t open on Sunday. Hmmm. *adds dry cleaning to Saturday to-do list*
I had to disassemble the bottom shelf of the laundry room so they could remove the non-heating dryer and install our new one, and once I finished my work for the day I started putting the room back together again–I have framed covers of my books on the walls in there, and I had taken those down too. I started putting the covers up not remembering where they were originally and I thought well, who wants it to look the same again for the next ten years anyway and so I just started hanging them wherever. The same with the books. I had to put the shelf back and then the books; so I started reorganizing and pruning, and then started working my way through the upper shelves to make it at least look neat, if cluttered. The fun thing about doing this sort of thing is you start unearthing treasures–“oh, there that is!” and “Oh, I’d forgotten about you!” and “oh yes, I still want to write that story this was research for” and “Oh, yes, definitely want to reread that sometime” and “Oh, I am so far behind on her series!” that makes it kind of like an adventure and less like an odious chore.
Plus, making it all neater looking to the eye pleases my OCD, and I can fold my arms with a smug sense of satisfaction when I look at them. Now if only I can accomplish the same in the living room…
I slept really well last night, and even stayed up later than usual. Paul came home last night (!!!) and we watched the LSU-West Virginia gymnastics meet, which was way fun, and then this week’s The Mandalorian. I did wind up staying later than I would have preferred–not sure how that happened, to be honest–but I feel very rested and relaxed today, which means I think it will be a good and productive day. Paul has his trainer later this morning and then will head off to the office, so I have the day to myself to clean and write and read and do Gregalicious things. Once I finish this I am going to repair to my easy chair with my coffee and Cheryl Head’s Time’s Undoing, which I am looking forward to finishing–it’s sooooo good–and getting my act together. This week I am seeing my doctor about my toe (appointment on Thursday afternoon) and I need to make the ENT appointment as well as try to get my dentistry needs taken care of, and I should probably make an eye appointment, too. Maintenance becomes increasingly important the older you get, you know. The toe is much better–still hurts, but not throbbing –and of course, by the time I see the doctor, it’ll probably be all fine and he’ll think I’m completely insane, not that he doesn’t already.
Most people do, at any rate.
But the new dryer just beeped which means the last load from yesterday has finished drying, and I am going to go fold some clothes, perhaps put some dishes away (there’s a load in the dishwasher, too, clean) and then read while I swill the rest of my morning coffee. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I may check in with you again later.
The bad news is that the dryer’s issue wasn’t the thermal heating fuse, alas. I did manage to get the back off the dryer so I could replace said fuse, but even once I’d accomplished this feat, there was still no heat. So the problem is with the heating unit itself, and after pricing that, seeing how long it would take to get it in (assuming I could do it myself, but I watched a video and frankly, not comfortable with that)…I don’t think it’s worth me trying to accomplish. Realistically, we would need to call a technician/repairman whatever (minimum $200 just for showing up), and since the part also costs almost $200, it would only take another few hundred bucks or so more to get a new one. (Our dryer is 11 years old; dryers traditionally last on average, per Google, 7-10 years so we got more use out of this one than the last one.) Disposable society, remember? And if we get it from Costco, everything is included–delivery, installation, hauling away the old one–so….I guess we’re getting a new dryer at some point. Yay. We’ll also be getting a new refrigerator, too, at some point, probably after the Festivals are over. Hurray for new appliances.
Sigh.
But I’m proud of myself for at least trying to repair the dryer myself, and I am kind of proud that not only was I able to move the thing by myself but I was also able to take it all apart and put it all back together again without any issue or problem and it was much easier than I would have ever dreamed it would be. I suppose that comes from my longstanding feeling of not being particularly or especially masculine, so things like appliance repair and so forth seem like they’re out of my wheelhouse; primarily because I was always told I was clumsy and fumble-fingered and not dextrous at all, when the truth is I can pretty much do anything I want to do, if I put my mind to it and want to do it badly enough. (My mom was like that, too–she could literally do anything she decided to do. She decided to play golf, took some lessons and started winning golf tournaments. I was always terrible at golf, but like tennis–if I took lessons, wanted to do it badly enough, and put my mind to it, I’d probably be decent at it.) And now we have a definitive answer: yes, indeed, we need a new dryer. And I feel much better about spending the money because I tried to fix it and couldn’t because what needs doing was beyond my skill set comfort level. The heating coils and unit are too complicated for me, and they’re also too expensive to risk buying and then fucking them up–and I would be livid if I spent that money and fucked it up.
I think it’s also important to recognize one’s limitations and plan/live accordingly.
After failing to fix the dryer (but tried! I tried! I get credit for trying!), and sank into my easy chair to give Scooter a proper cushion to sleep on, I started the usual flipping through Youtube videos and began finding myself falling into a proper malaise and panic about any and everything and the usual spiral down into the pit of despair and I grabbed my spiraling brain with both hands (properly cleansed and sterilized first, of course) and said no you’re not going to do this snap out of it and get to work and I popped out of my chair and came into the kitchen and started. I filed, I created new files and put ones away; I put things that need priority attention this weekend into the nearest inbox; put books away and wiped down counters. I reorganized books in the laundry room and found places for things. I threw things away that were no longer of need, unless I need dusty things lying around, which I do not. I swept the living room and put things away and straightened up in there. I made a plan of action for today which I plan to stick to resolutely. And if I should start feeling lazy, or take a break that begins to turn into something longer and perhaps counter-productive, I plan to slap myself silly until I snap back out of it and dive back into, if not writing, then at least rereading and editing along as I go. I am way behind, way off schedule, and I can still get what I need and want to get done this year as long as I don’t allow distractions and other things draw my focus away from where it needs to be. I will still continue being kinder to myself than I have been most of my life–that horrible self-criticism default and dreadful little voice in my head seriously can go fuck themselves–because I don’t think I need to be so hard on myself to drive myself anymore. I am not the “loser” I was convinced that I was for so long. I don’t have to keep proving my worth and my value anymore. I may not be the best person that I can be–I can be a judgy bitch, without question or doubt–but I am competent and efficient and I work very hard and can produce good work.
I don’t need to prove anyone wrong anymore.
That was a lovely realization to come to, and I am glad that I had that lightbulb moment last night. I also know that I am probably still overly raw emotionally and in the midst of the inevitable mood swings that come in the wake of grief. I remember how it was after Paul was attacked, and after Katrina; there were good days and there were bad days, but the good days eventually began to outnumber the bad and things got better. And that’s how life works, isn’t it? (How profound.)
So, this morning I am going to drink coffee and after sending some emails, I will spend a couple of hours with Cheryl Head’s Time’s Undoing. After that I will get cleaned up thoroughly and get to work on my own work, which I will do (whilst cleaning around the writing and editing and revising) until five or six o’clock in the evening, at which time I will finish for the day and make Swedish meatballs for dinner. That sounds, to me at least, like a lovely plan. I hope you also have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again later, or tomorrow; one never knows, does on?
Thursday and my last day in the office this week. Woo-hoo?
I slept really well again last night and feel very rested. Yesterday was a good day; today feels kind of like it might be one, too. I suppose we shall simply have to wait and see how it all plays out, won’t we? But when I got home last night I felt pretty good. I picked up my copy of Cheryl Head’s Time’s Undoing, which I really want to spend some time with this weekend, since I’ve been looking forward to reading it once it was announced to be forthcoming. Cheryl’s a terrific writer and a wonderful person, and it has been a pleasure and joy watching her career take off since we first met all those years ago.
I didn’t get much done last night, nor did I even get to read much either; not sure what happened to last evening once I got home, to be honest. I know I worked on the dishes for awhile, but never finished. Scooter was, as always, feeling needy and screaming for attention, and once I get in the easy chair and he starts sleeping/purring in my lap, I’m a goner. I know I watched a lot of Youtube videos but I honestly can’t remember doing much of anything other than going down Internet wormholes on my iPad. Today I believe is a slow day at the office, which should help me get caught up on things I am behind on there, and of course tomorrow is my work-at-home day. Tomorrow morning I am going to try to replace the dryer fuse–I do remember debating about trying to do this last night and finally deciding not to try, because of the extreme frustration that would result from that not being the thing that is actually wrong with the dryer, plus it’s not going to be terribly easy to begin with; I have to pull the dryer out from where it is snugly place beside the washing machine in a very small laundry room; it has to come all the way out and be turned around so I can access the back of it (I am dreading seeing what it looks like behind and beneath the dryer), which is going to be an irritating pain in the ass.
And of course, there’s always the chance Scooter will go back there and won’t come out. Heavy heaving sigh. But I am looking forward to being in New Orleans this weekend, and I am starting to feel a lot better about everything. It still sneaks up on me now and then–when people offer condolences, it becomes problematic as I tend to choke up when talking about it with people face to face–but when I am on my own, I tend to be able to handle it without breaking down, if that makes sense? It’s when I talk about it with kind people that it overwhelms me; I know they are trying to be a comfort and it’s coming from a very good place…but it’s rough. Everything’s rough, really, and I’m still trying to figure out everything and processing it all. I am definitely not over it yet, acceptance is beginning, but it still sneaks up on me from time to time.
Sorry to be so dull and keep going on about it. It is what it is, after all, and no amount of moping or sadness is going to change anything. I do think I need to spend some time writing about my mom, though; writing always helps, and fictionalizing things is always the best way for me to handle things that happen to me. Writing my essay “I Haven’t Stopped Dancing Yet” and Murder in the Rue Chartres was enormously helpful to my healing process in the years after Hurricane Katrina; even last night as I was thinking about the Title IX issue in my old school district in Kansas (which I am becoming more and more obsessed by) and thought, you could write a book about this, and from the perspective of a queer adult from that school district who goes down a rabbit hole after his mother dies and…
Kind of pulled back a bit from that one as it developed, but it’s not a terrible idea.
And I already have so much else to write on the agenda. I’ve got to get these two manuscripts revised, I need to move on to Chlorine and the other one I have in progress, and of course I wanted to get all those novellas finished this year and I don’t think that is going to happen unless I get out of this malaise and affix my nose to the grindstone again. And there are short stories I need to get written.
Okay, on that note I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.
Queer and Loathing in America 