Sunday morning and the last day of Saints & Sinners. It’s been a lot of fun, if tiring. I headed down there yesterday afternoon in a Lyft, hung out in our suite for a bit and practiced for my reading–I read my story “The Ditch” from School of Hard Knox, and I think it went very well. It was a terrific reading session; Rob Byrnes, Jean Redmann, Marco Carocari, David Slayton, David Pederson and one other person whose name I can’t recall off the top of my head; my apologies because I really enjoyed what he read.I then went back up to our suite and came back down for the anthology launch with Paul. Those readings were also fantastic–and I am looking forward to reading the book more than I already was. I am also the judge for next year, so I’ll be reading a lot of stories in the fall. That will suffice as my volunteer work for 2024, so don’t bother to ask; the answer will be no.
I started reading an old Evan Hunter novel yesterday, Last Summer. It was a book I’d always wanted to read when I was younger, and I was reminded of it sometime during the pandemic, so I got a copy of it and its sequel, Come Winter, from eBay and so I started reading it at long last yesterday. I’ve never seen the film, either; but I do remember Barbara Hershey and Richard Thomas (aka John-Boy Walton) starred in it. It also put me in mind of another trope from that era of publishing; books with teenagers as protagonists (and/or antagonists) were almost always set during the summer, and so many were set on coastal islands–this one, Summer of ’42, A Summer Place, etc. It of course makes sense; teenagers had a lot of free time to get into shenanigans during the summer, especially when they were on a vacation somewhere. I’ve actually fallen into that trope a couple of times myself–Dark Tide, Lake Thirteen–and numerous other stories I would like to tell at some point. I do like the idea of gradually getting rid of all this paper around here by digitizing or disposing of things that I’ll never get around to writing. I don’t want to start writing fast in a frenzied attempt to write everything I want to before I die–and there’s always new ideas, too. But i know I’d really like to eventually get back to that novel where I based the victim on Ann Coulter…hmmm, maybe that could be the next Scotty. That’s actually a very good idea. Hmmmm.
It’s so nice to be around writers. It really is a balm for my soul. I did write some yesterday morning, but I am not going to even try today. I am very tired–I’ve done a lot of walking this weekend–and of course having to be “on” is tiring. The truth is I am not at 100% yet, much as I want to believe that I am, and there’s nothing wrong with that. One exciting development of the weekend is that I experienced no stress, anxiety or stage fright for my reading yesterday. Not only was I calm and not sweating buckets, I was actually able to relax and enjoy the experience. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before? It was wild. I’ve actually been relaxed the entire weekend; I don’t believe I understood before how much my anxiety impacted me at events like this. Having a calm and quiet head is a lovely thing, and now that the creativity has come back, I might actually start enjoying my life again.
I’ve also been spending a lot of time reminiscing about past S&S weekends, too; remembering how it all started, how much of it was done on a fraying shoestring because there was no money for it, and held in donated spaces at gay bars. It also used to be in May, so the weather was a LOT hotter. Paul and I used to always get the pool suite at the Olivier House for our home base, and people always used to wind up in our room later in the evening to drink and socialize and have a lot of fun. I couldn’t do that now–as it is, i stayed up past my usual bedtime Friday night and paid for it all day yesterday (legs are tired today, too). I also came up with a title for my memoir should I ever try to write one: Unreliable Narrator.
And LSU won the SEC women’s gymnastics championships last night in very dominant style. They weren’t as on as they usually are, and still set an incredibly high score and really have the potential to win the national title this year, too. And the US had a great outcome at the World Figure Skating Championships, winning two golds (men’s and ice dance) and a silver (women’s).
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely see you tomorrow.
Paul moved into the Monteleone yesterday for the weekend, so I find myself home alone with Sparky, who either feels needy when there’s only one of us here, or gives me a lot more attention when Paul’s not home to make me feel less lonely. I’ll be spending most of my weekend down there myself–although I am hoping to get some writing done every morning before I head down there for the panels and parties and things. A boy can dream, at any rate. Sparky was pretty needy after I got home from work, and spent most of the night either sleeping in my lap, following me around, or riding on my shoulders.
I did spend some time going down an Internet research rabbit-hole for the new book I am looking forward to writing later this year, The Summer of Lost Boys. I found a Facebook page for the suburb we lived in that is going to be the basis for the story (the same suburb the main character of Lake Thirteen was from), and spent some time between clients going down memory lane and remembering people, places and things I’d forgotten in the ensuing fifty years or so since we lived there. (FIFTY YEARS???) Most of the members of the group are people I didn’t know or don’t remember, but there were certainly some familiar names there–including some of my bullies. Charming, but glad to see they don’t look so great now. It was a strange suburb, really. When we moved out there it really wasn’t much of a town or anything; it was mostly subdivisions that were going up very rapidly. The town (or village; it’s still called The Village of Bolingbrook) started developing more after we moved out there…the end of the street we lived on was a field about a block away from our hose…within a few years, the Ivanhoe subdivision went up in that field. We got our own high school in 1974; I was going to be in the first graduating class for BHS that had gone to BHS all four years; the older grades has spent some years attending Romeoville High in the next town over. I am going to try to immerse myself in the period–culturally, politically, and so forth–which should make the book more interesting, or at least to people my age. I’m kind of excited about it, to tell you the truth. (And yes, some of my earliest post-pubescent crushes are also there. Also didn’t age well, but hey, we’re all in our sixties now.)
I’ve also picked out the other stories I want to use to fill out my next short story collection. Those two stories need a bit of work, but I hope I can get this whole thing finished relatively soon, so I can move on to the novellas I want to finish, the two books already in progress, and then this new one I want to do. See? I’m feeling ambitious and driven again, which is lovely. I wrote some more last night, and it was good work; revising the second chapter and pulling the story and everything together, and I’ve found the voice again, which is so crucial and was part of the problem I was having before.
I also spent some more time with Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour (Taylor’s Version) last night and realized…I’ve liked every song thus far, and I am well into the second hour of the film. I will undoubtedly write about it once I’ve finished watching, but it’s an excellent way to hear her music–some of it for the first time–and think, I really need to listen to her albums in the car and this is why she’s the biggest star in the world right now. It’s also a pretty amazing show; the girl knows how to please an audience and make them happy.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back probably at some point later today.
Wednesday middle of the week blog, in which it is a miserable 48 degrees this morning in New Orleans, with a forecast high of a mere 67. Oh, well, I’ve survived worse, have I not? Indeed I have.
Yesterday turned out to be a good day. I finished the first draft of the short story (huzzah!) and started editing the first chapter of the book, primarily to get me back into the voice and swing of the story, and I feel like it’s already better than it was. It also felt delightful to be writing again, and the words were simply flowing out of me, which also was lovely. Needless to say, I was in a very good mood when I saved the files and closed Word. Hopefully tonight I’ll be able to get some more work done, and yes, I slept extremely well last night, too. I just felt better than I have about everything in a very long time.
I always forget how much I love to write, you know? I love writing and creating; which are my favorite things in the world to do. Part of the reason I was in the throes of another long-lasting malaise was because I wasn’t writing, which always affects my moods and how i feel about everything in my life and the world in general. The short story needs work, of course, it’s just a first draft, but once I finished it, I realized how to make the story stronger and make more sense to the reader. Huzzah for writing again! I also have my last supervised PT session this Friday morning, and then I am to do it all on my own. I have a lot of questions about that I will get cleared up at this last session. And once the Festivals are over, we’ll be back on our normal, most of the year schedule. I feel good still this morning–well rested, still pleased with the work I got done yesterday and very much looking forward to getting even more done today. The friend I had drinks with Monday night reminded me that I love to write, and that everything else is just a side effect. I’ve had some disappointments lately for sure–but that’s part of the up-and-down cyclical nature of the business side of things. Not everything is going to be as successful as you’d like, and it doesn’t mean I am a terrible writer or the book wasn’t good but rather that not enough people knew about the book to consider buying it. I’ve always been terrible about the business side of being an author; I need to make more of an effort in the future and learn how to do all the things I generally don’t like to do–but I also need to get over that and stop feeling like a carnival barker selling snake oil when I am doing it.
I am good at writing. And if I were able to devote all of my energy and focus into a book, that would be different.
I think my next read is going to be either a cozy or a Barbara Michaels reread. I’ve not reread some of my favorites of hers in years (I always end up going back to Ammie Come Home and Be Buried in the Rain but there are others I love almost as much, like The Dark on the Other Side, Witch, Prince of Darkness, and House of Many Shadows). I do want to write another Gothic at some point soon–I love Gothics–and there’s no better writer than Michaels to help get me into the mood and find the voice. There’s a New Orleans ghost story I want to write, and there’s at least one more Alabama book I want to write as well. I was thinking about reading She Who Was No More, the book Diabolique was based on, which is a fantastic and grim story. (I originally saw Diabolique in its American television movie remake, Reflections of Murder, which Sam Waterston, Joan Hackett, and Tuesday Weld.)
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader; I may be back later, one never can be entirely sure.
Tuesday morning and the temperature dropped over night, so I had to turn on the heat once I got up. I was exhausted yesterday when i got home from having a drink with a friend, and was nodding off in my easy chair by eight o’clock, finally deciding to just go ahead and go to bed early. Maybe it was the alcohol? But I slept deeply and well, and because of the cold (and a cuddling purring kitten) I really didn’t want to get out of the bed. But I was wide awake and the day wouldn’t be denied, so I went ahead and got up to feed Sparky, threw on my sweats, and started getting the day going.
The short story is now about four thousand words, and nearing it’s completed first draft. I am hoping to get it finished tonight once and for all, so I can get back to writing the book without any distractions. I am feeling more determined than I have in a long time, and while I am sure my mind will still wander and I’ll still get sidetracked easily, but this morning? I feel like I’m a writer again, which is odd but nice. Maybe the feeling will fade eventually as the day gets underway, but it’s nice to feel like this again. It was probably talking about writing last night with my friend? Which is funny, because talking about writing and publishing and so forth last night made me feel like an outsider…because I’ve not felt part of that world in a very long time. Given the tumultuous upsets of last year, it’s not really surprising. I was coping with a lot last year and my focus went away from not only writing but reading as well. I am still reading at a much slower pace than I used to, and I don’t write as fast as I used to either–but I also flipped out of the right mindset dealing with everything from last year, and I’m still dealing with some of it even now, despite it getting a bit easier every day. I also realize this morning that despite my intent to be kinder to myself, I slipped into that incorrect mindset and have been beating myself up over not reading or writing faster, and feeling shame about it, which is insane. I had a major surgery in November, and the recovery after; of course that’s going to affect my creativity and my ability to focus.
I am actually really grateful that I changed medications to something that actually handles the problem rather than the symptoms, otherwise the post-surgery months would have been horrible, much worse than it was. Almost my entire life my focus has been on books–either reading or writing them–and I either wanted to be a writer, or was one; my identity has always involved writing in some form or another. Not being able to focus enough to write since having a cadaver tendon sewn into my arm (it sounds so much worse when it’s put that way, doesn’t it? It also sounds like something out of those horror comics I used to read when I was a kid, where it would have inevitably turned out to be from a serial killer and it’s possessed or something) would have been peak anxiety for me, but fortunately while I still had those thoughts (who am I if I can’t write anymore?), I was properly medicated so it didn’t turn into an anxiety spiral. I am also very impatient, and always want to be done with the healing/recovery as quickly as I can. I am healing physically much faster than anyone could have anticipated (had another new PT on Friday and she was constantly commenting in shock and awe at “how advanced I was”) but the mental recovery has clearly not been as fast, which then becomes a concern, and then so on and on and on.
I really don’t miss the spirals at all.
And I think I’ve decided that my next new novel (the next one after I finish everything on hand that isn’t) is going to be The Summer of Lost Boys. I can’t stop thinking about it, even though I need to put it aside and focus on everything else before I get to it–but I may start the prologue because that’s what I can’t get out of my head. And yes, this morning I am starting to feel excited about writing again…maybe all it took was a martini with another writer.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, I may or may not be here again later–one never truly knows, does on?
Monday morning and back to the office blog. I did write some yesterday–not nearly enough–and I did get some things done this weekend. I bought blinds for the breakfast nook, but I think they are too small; I may have to exchange them for another, larger set. Which is okay; I can do it after work one night as the Lowe’s is just up Elysian Fields. Tonight after work I have to go to the gym to do PT, and then I’m coming home to do some more writing and cleaning. Paul’s moving into the Monteleone on Wednesday, which means I’ll be here alone with the Sparkster, and also means Sparky will be very needy. He loves the cat treats I got him this weekend, no surprise there, and so I will continue to dole them out for good behavior. I feel rested this morning, which is different from most usual Monday mornings, but I think that has to do with making myself get up early Sunday morning and not sleeping late again the way I did Saturday morning.
Still, that felt amazing.
I feel pretty good this morning, too. The temperature dropped again over night, so there is a bit of a chill in the air this morning. I need to actually look at the program for S&S this weekend so I can put the stuff I am doing on my calendar and can start planning for the weekend. It’ll be weird being home alone for the long weekend (Wednesday thru Monday), but I’ve been a Festival widow since January anyway, so it probably won’t even be noticeable. I’ve also taken Monday off, as it’s always brutal getting up at six in the morning after the Festivals have concluded. It was a little odd this morning, though; Sparky usually comes and starts smacking me in the face with his paw just before the alarm goes off, and continues to do so while purring and cuddling until I get up. He didn’t come out from under the bed until I actually got out of bed, and just followed me downstairs instead of insisting on food immediately. His bowl was completely empty this morning, too.
I did write about a thousand new words on the short story yesterday, but my mind kept wandering and I got up to do something and just never went back. I also edited the 2000 words or so I had already done, so I think it was probably more new words than merely a thousand. It still feels a little rusty for me when I’m writing, but the best way to get past that is to keep writing until it starts to feel natural again and my mind stops wandering when I am writing. That’s the weirdest part. Usually when I write I shut out everything and am laser-focused, that’s not the case anymore and that’s fine.
My mind is still bouncing all over the place, too. It’s trying to spike my anxiety, too, but I just take some deep breaths and calm down, which is a lot easier to do with the new medications.
I did finish reading The Cook by Harry Kressing, which was an interesting and short read. It was a black comedy of sorts, more of a Kafka-esque fable than anything else, but in all honesty I enjoyed the movie version (Something for Everyone) a lot more than I did the book; in the book Conrad seduces everyone with his incredible food and force of will; in the movie, he’s played by a stunningly beautiful young Michael York who actually sexually seduces his prey until he gets what he wants. I will do a more in-depth review of the book at some point, but it does play into my thoughts that Saltburn owes more to that movie than it does The Talented Mr. Ripley or Brideshead Revisited.
We also finished watching season two of The Tourist, which was twisty and clever and fun and we really enjoyed it and are really looking forward to the third season–the second ended with a terrific cliffhanger twist that definitely will make for a fascinating and exciting third season. Plus, Jamie Dornan and Danielle Macdonald have some amazing chemistry together.
I also watched some documentaries last night about Jayne Mansfield, who I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I’m not entirely sure what triggered me to thinking about her again. I first read about her in Earl Wilson’s The Show Business Nobody Knows when I was a teenager, and from there went on to read May Mann’s biography of her, Jayne Mansfield. She was very interesting to me, and was thrilled when her daughter began her career as an actress. I remember thinking Mariska Hargitay? She must be Jayne Mansfield’s daughter because what are the odds of there being two Mariska Hargitays? and watched her for years on Law and Order: SVU. Oh, now I do remember. I bought a copy of the Wilson off ebay because I thought it might be helpful with Chlorine, to give me an idea of what it was like to be in show business in the 1950’s, and of course, he devoted a chapter to her. I bought another bio of her off eBay recently, and she is very interesting, as she always has been to me. I’ve only seen one film of hers, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter, which I thought was hilarious and she was fantastic in it. Benjamin Dreyer brought her up on one of the social media channels this weekend, and so I thought I’d find what I could of her on Youtube. Her story was actually perfect for someone like Jackie Collins or Jacqueline Susann to have written a huge trashy novel about, I’ve always thought. I also loved that she was actually–despite her image as a sexy dumb blonde–incredibly smart, almost genius level. And she only worked in show business for about ten years–while having four children, too, and keeping that incredible figure.
It’s funny; I’m not sure if you’ve ever noticed, Constant Reader, but I generally use song titles for my blog posts. About twelve years ago it was getting harder and harder to think up song titles organically, so I started using themes–Stevie Nicks songs, Pet Shop Boys songs, top 100 hits of 1977, that sort of thing. I can’t remember now which years I’ve used so I recently went back to the top 100 of 1959, I think; it’s interesting how many titles and songs have to do with teenagers; clearly, modern songwriters don’t have to write about teenage heartbreak anymore to appeal to young listeners. I also started watching Eras: The Taylor Swift Concert Movie, and I have to say I am very impressed. I can’t dedicate three and a half hours to watching it, but putting it on and listening while doing chores is terrific. Her show is amazing–I still have over an hour to watch (and am bummed she didn’t do “Red”) and I am actually looking forward to it. I also love how much right-wingers hate her.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day Constant Reader, and I may be back later, you never can be sure. I’m tricky that way!
Sparky was cuddling with me this morning in the bed as I took my time deciding whether the siren song of the comfortable bed and blankets was resistible when I heard thunder and that decided me. I do think I will take advantage of this gloom and the falling rain and the thunder to read some more of my book this morning (The Cook by Harry Kressing) before diving into an exciting day of writing and cleaning. Yesterday I ran some errands–Lowe’s and Rouse’s–before coming home and getting back into the filing and cleaning. I got us a pizza for dinner, and when Paul got home we watched two more episodes of The Tourist, which I am really loving (despite the fact there have been no gratuitous shirtless shots of Jamie Dornan, which seems a shame and a waste). Oh, and the Saints and Sinners program is available here. I am moderating a crime fiction panel with a powerhouse panel, and I am also doing a reading. I’m not sure what I will read from, but I am leaning towards my short story “Moist Money” or “The Ditch.” Guess I should start rehearsing. Or getting ready to moderate the panel. Maybe later.
“The procrastination is strong in this one.”
But once I finish this and make myself some breakfast, I am going to take my coffee into the living room and read some more for a little while before getting cleaned up and heading back into the spice mines. I feel like I can get some good work done today. Paul will probably get up later today, and we’ll probably finish watching The Tourist, which is a fine and lovely way to spend the day, methinks. I also need to finish up some filing and emptying out my inbox, and before you know it it’ll be bedtime. I had hoped to barbecue today, but if the rain doesn’t let up that’s a no-go, alas. I also bought a new grill yesterday (Lowe’s) which needs to be assembled and the old one disposed of; I also bought blinds for the window which I fear might be too small. I am debating whether I should try to put them up myself or ask Sam our handyman to do it when he works on the windows (he’s trying to unstick them so I can get fresh air into the house), The desk and the computer need to be moved before hand, of course, which is a problem…but I also have a laptop and an iPad with a keyboard, so I have no excuse for not writing when I’m in the chair, do I? And yet…
I do feel good this morning, rested and alert and awake and raring to go; we’ll see how long that lasts. It’s very gray outside, which means we’ll most likely be getting rain for most of the day. Which is okay; I can make something else with the ground sirloin in the fridge, and I am adapting, always a good sign–I used to get so unsettled by a change in plans for the day that I’d inevitably wind up doing nothing, which was not a good thing.
I’m also thinking about what I want to do for the rest of the year, and with my career for the rest of my life. It’s weird to think in those terms, isn’t it? But I am also getting to the point where I am having to start thinking in terms of well, if you die, which idea will you be most disappointed in not writing? And this is tricky, because I am always getting new ideas that sound terrific. It’s really important, at least to me, that I spend the rest of this year finishing things in progress and getting them out of my hair. I know I want to write about both Alabama and Kansas again, and probably a New Orleans ghost story I’ve been wanting to write for a very long time now. I have a book that has about 40k done on it, but will need extensive revision and at least another 40k.
And who knows? I may even bring Chanse back ONE MORE TIME–but don’t count on it.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back at some point later.
Friday morning work at home and up early for PT blog. I slept very well last night, but didn’t get much of anything done when I got home from work. I wasn’t super tired or anything, but Scooter was feeling needy and the next thing i knew it was time for bedand I’d wasted the entire evening. But that’s okay. I’m not sure why he’s been so needy when I get home the last two nights, but he has been and I don’t mind letting him sleep in my lap so he feels loved. He’s such a darling. He also was cuddling with me in the bed this morning after the alarm started going off. Much as I miss Scooter, I’m glad we rescued this sweet playful boy.
I’ve picked out my next read, and it’s a short one, The Cook by Harry Kressing, which is the book the film Something for Everyone was based on. I think I am getting to the point where I am ready to finish my long-overdue post about Saltburn, and reading the book potentially could be a help on that score. I also want to read some of the other short books I have on hand, and hopefully that will get me deep into reading again. It would be great to spend an hour a day at least reading; the days when I used to compulsively read, and get so involved in a book that I’d blow off everything else I had to do in order to finish it. Heavy sigh. I don’t know why I’m having so much difficulty reading these days; and I do strongly suspect that the two things–inability to read and inability to write much–are very linked together. Something for me to work on this weekend, at any rate.
I had a breakthrough on the story I’ve been struggling to finish writing, and so I am hopeful that today, once I am done with work-at-home duties, will be able to dive right in and get this draft finished. I’d like to edit “When I Die” tonight as well; Lord knows I’ve printed enough hard copies of that damned story in order to get it edited easily enough soon, sheesh. I am debating changing the story a bit–why would they go out into the swamp that night, I am not convinced the reason I gave them in the original draft is good enough–and I am considering changing the make-up of the cast as well; instead of two guys and two girls, maybe three or four guys instead? A fraternity hazing ritual or something? That might be more compelling than what I had written already. I don’t know, really. I guess rereading the story will make a difference, and then start picking it apart.
I also have errands to run this weekend as well, and definitely need to wash the car again. What a glamorous life, right? But the festivals are next weekend, and I won’t be staying in the Quarter because of Sparky–who will definitely be needy–so I am not sure how much I am going to be able to get done then. Heavy heaving sigh.
I do love my new saddle shoes. I wore them to work the other day to break them in (so I can wear them next weekend) and they are so comfortable. I think maybe I am going to try to develop, this late in life, my own sense of style and start wearing the types of clothes I’ve always wanted to. I kind of want a cape coat, like the ones Barnabas wore on the original Dark Shadows, which I’ve always thought looked cool and always wanted. I am also thinking about getting a walking stick for dressier occasions, too. I’ve never really been much into clothes, primarily because I’ve always felt like men’s clothes were always too staid and patriarchal for me, so I never cared. But now that men’s clothes are getting more stylish? Sign me up. I think I want a cape, too, and a denim duster. I love the way younger male celebrities are mixing things up with their formal wear, and trying new styles and looks and I think it’s wonderful; definitely one of the best outcomes from more gender fluidity in society–and really, it’s all just drag, isn’t it?
And I kind of need to be more serious about everything to do with my career. I need to get that website finished, I need to get new author photos done, and of course all kinds of work that needs to be done on the house.
At least I’m thinking about making improvements to my life and everything, right, rather than just coasting along again and letting life happen to me?
So on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, and I may be back later; stranger things have happened.
TRIGGER WARNING: Racism, homophobia, and archaic racist terms.
I learned long ago that the best way to deal with assholes was to develop a razor-sharp quick wit. I don’t know how I trained myself to be snarky and fast with my sense of humor, but at some point in my teens—in college, I think—I realized that not being filtered, and not being able to recognize most social cues, could actually prove to be a powerful defensive tool, if controlled. It has worked marvelously for me ever since. I also learned that a really good thing to do was say things to people I disliked that could be taken as either a compliment or shade, leaving it up to them to decide what I meant.
A few years ago, I had an experience at Left Coast Crime in Albuquerque where my usual biting sense of humor deserted me when I really needed it the most. I’ve grown used to dealing with homophobes and contemptuously cutting them off at the knees; I even relish doing it at times. But this? I’d never dealt with this kind of bigotry before, and my only excuse is that I was caught completely off-guard. I’ve also turned what happened over and over again in my mind in the time since, wondering how I should feel about it. It still hasn’t finished processing yet, and I’ll probably keep processing it for a few more years.
This was my first (and so far, only) time attending Left Coast Crime (unrelated; I want to go again but it just hasn’t worked out). I had always heard wonderful things about it, but the timing was always difficult for me to actually attend; all too frequently it is around the time of the Festivals here. I’d come home to the locks changed, methinks, were I to go away at that time.
At the time, I was still serving as Executive Vice-President of Mystery Writers of America. It was 2021, we hadn’t had any kind of crime publishing events since March 2020, and the events were just starting to slowly to come back. MWA had signed on to sponsor the Lefty banquet, and I felt someone should be there to rep the org at the event, and it wound up being me. I felt a bit uncomfortableabout registering and agreeing to do panels; we were a sponsor, and I didn’t want Programming to feel pressured to give me anything because of that (I tried very hard not to use the position to promote myself; I may have been a bit over-zealous on that score, but better safe than sorry). I arrived in Albuquerque on Thursday, had a quiet dinner with a friend, and the next day I went to panels, ran into people, and had a lovely time. I also had dinner plans for Friday that I was excited about–I was having dinner with Marco Carocari, whom I had just met at Saints and Sinners; John Copenhaver, whom I was starting to get to know better; Oline Cogdill, a dear friend of well over a decade; Mia Manansala, whom I met at New Orleans Bouchercon before she was published and I’ve always felt a bit protective of her (my neuroses, not hers) and someone new to me–Wanda Morris, whom I had neither read nor met before.1
Constant Reader, that was such a fun dinner, the kind I always dreamed of being a part of when I was that lonely kid in Kansas wondering what his future would be. We talked about books, writing, gossip, and I believe everyone, other than Oline and I, was up for a Lefty. We toasted their nominations, and when we headed back to the hotel I felt marvelous; giddy almost. I was having a good time and was excited to be around writers again, and I wanted it to keep going. I didn’t want the evening to end…
Little did I know what I was in for as we walked back into the hotel lobby, and we three gays decided to go have a drink at the bar, while the women wisely all went up to bed.
It started with a chair.
So innocuous, so nothing, just a little thing that happens in hotel bars all the time; you join a table without enough chairs so you grab a free one from the next table…but this time? Very different.
Basically, we had decided to join friends at a high-top table with room for eight, with all the chairs already taken and some others pulled up. There was a tall bar chair standing at the next table–a low table, so it didn’t really belong there in the first place–and several people were sitting around that table. I smiled, said, “is anyone using this?” and one of the three people shook their head no, so I took the chair…which bothered the woman who was sitting closest to me and who decided, in her inebriation, that I shouldn’t have the chair.
DRUNK WHITE WOMAN (Henceforth, DWW): You can’t take that chair because you have to sit here and talk to me.
I’d never seen her before in my life, but I’ve also been drunk in public before, so I just smiled as I sat down at the other table, and said politely, with no idea of what I was letting myself in for: “Can’t you talk to me if I sit here?”
DWW: Great!
I nodded to her, hoping that was the end of the interaction. I’d had two drinks at dinner, but wasn’t even slightly buzzed. I had a glass of Pinot Grigio in my clutches, I’d had a marvelous evening already, and I was looking forward to catching up with the others at the table. I started to turn back to the table to talk to my friends, when…she leaned towards me, narrowing her eyes, and saying, in a very low tone, “Are you a mulatto?”2
Needless to say, I was taken aback–not by the assumption, but the language.
I literally thought, are we really still using that word in this year of our Lord 2022?
I didn’t know what to say, I was so stunned and shocked that my ability to lobby back an icy, conversation ending retort, something of which I was so so proud, had deserted me. I just smiled and said, “no,” which she countered with a scoff, “Well, you’re at least a quadroon.3“
And rubbed each side of her nose with an index finger, adding with a knowing smirk, “Especially with that nose.”
I said, rather sharply, “I know who all my grandparents were, so no.”
Again, it wasn’t the racial profiling that bothered me, but it was the entitlement and the language she was using.
First and foremost, my racial heritage–anyone’s, really–is no one’s business.
She was being racist to me, but even as I floundered, I couldn’t figure out why I was so flustered and having trouble figuring out what to say next. It didn’t bother me in the least that she thought I was part Black (more on that later), but she was using racist language to inquire, which I was offendedby, and I was more than a little insulted by her condescending assumption that I’d lie about it? And again, what business was it of hers if I was or wasn’t? (I’m still not sure how to wrap my mind around this; two years later I am blogging about it in order to process it in my brain.)
DWW: (waving her hand, poo-pooing me) Oh, everyone’s mixed there.
Hoping this ordeal was over and still in shock, I turned back to my friends…only to hear her voice loudly asking me, “Are you gay?” I confirmed that yes, I was–and then she went on a long, incredibly tiresome (and repetitive) monologue about how she’s always been good with the “L and the G and the B and the T”, tried bonding with me over hot male asses (in horrific terms: think locker room talk), and just kept on until finally I was able to finally excuse myself. I got up and left my friends, never to return. Definitely made me uncomfortable, so yeah, it also counts as sexual harassment–what I do or don’t do in my bedroom, DWW, is none of your fucking business.
I still can’t believe that happened, that someone felt comfortable using that kind of language to, and about, me about my racial heritage (when I was a child in the 1960’s I knew you don’t use those words, and they usually only appeared in old racist books, like Gone with the Wind), not to mention trying to get into my bedroom and what I do there. It’s not okay for anyone to use those horrible, archaic old terms that were humiliating and degrading even when they were in common use…and I also felt like I’d failed. I should have stopped her, I should have called her out for using racist and homophobic language, not to mention the fact that she felt, in her drunken stupor, perfectly okay to treat me not as a person but as a thing.
That is the real shame I feel. Not that she used such language to me, but I allowed it. I have to do better than that. My silence was complicity.
And yes, I should have filed a complaint with the conference. I’m still ashamed that I didn’t correct her or say anything before I made my escape. But I sensed it also wouldn’t do any good. Alcohol brings your barriers down, after all.
It also wasn’t the first time this has happened–but at least the first time, it wasn’t so offensive.
This, for an illustration, was my second author photo.
Taken by Sylvester Q, a photographer in New York, he also loaned me the shirt and some other clothes for the shoot. It was my first professional author photo shoot, and this was the best image, in my opinion, to come out of the session. I used it for Jackson Square Jazz (when I got the book down to reread it for the new edit for the 20-year anniversary edition, I noticed the picture) and for several other books. I don’t remember which image I used to replace this one–I think it’s the black and white one of me sitting and hugging my knees–but I am very well aware that I need new author photos. The one I just referenced was taken in either 2008 or 2009; the one of me with my stack of books is from around 2013 or 2014 (and yes, old age has hit me very hard since those last ones were taken). I did a shoot at Sleuthfest with Morgan Sophia in the summer of 2022; the pictures look like me but I don’t like the way I look in them, so I’ve not really used them.
Anyway, this was the image I provided to the Louisiana Book Festival when I was on a New Orleans Noir panel for their program in 2007 (I think). I don’t remember everyone else that was on it, other than editor/moderator Julie Smith and the person I am about to mention.
I was a little taken aback when said contributor sat down next to me, and exclaimed after we were officially introduced, “But I thought you were Black!”
She’d only seen my photograph in the program.
I was more amused than anything else, and perplexed. But when I looked at my image in the program later, it had printed even darker than the image above, which was already pretty dark. I think it had to do with how the shot was lit more than anything else. It was kind of funny, and it became a story that I told sometimes over drinks.
That wasn’t the first time my genetic heritage has been questioned by someone.
White people have this strange curiosity thing about people’s backgrounds, always trying to figure out where you’re from. “Are you German?” “Are you Italian?” That sort of thing. I will comment on a name–“oh, is that French/Spanish/German etc.”–but I would never ask anyone what are you?
I’d never really thought about it before the LCC incident, but people have very often wondered–and asked–what I am.
And in all honesty, I’ve never liked being asked, mainly because I wasn’t entirely sure.
I guess I am what is I’ve sometimes seen referred to as “ethnically ambiguous5“; in other words, had I been a movie star in Hollywood back in the golden age I probably would have been cast in roles that today would be considered offensive for me to play. People have often–again, this weird thing white people have about trying to figure out “what” I am–taken me for everything from Greek to Italian to indigenous to Syrian to Persian to Latino. I’ve never given it much thought, and I don’t really see it. My skin tone is what is called olive, and I’ve always tanned easily, a very dark brown with some red mixed into it (I’ve only been sunburned twice in my life). My facial features are a curious mix of my family; I look like both my parents, and my nose was broken in high school, with the cartilage never reattaching to the bone. I also shave my head, which apparently adds to the confusion.
Almost all of the ancestors (that I’m aware of, but I only know my father’s side, and there’s not anyone left on Mom’s side who’d know more) were British (Scots, Irish, English and possibly some Welsh) but white people have this weird need to classify people. I don’t know if it’s an American thing, or what, but it happens. Not so much anymore as it used to–maybe people are finally starting to realize that it’s offensive or that it doesn’t matter or some combination of the two.
But still. Basically, the woman in Albuquerque othered me. She looked at me and was confused, so she just had to find out what I was.
What I am. “What ARE you?”
And for the record, what happened to me at Left Coast is the kind of horrifically racist and offensive behavior that racialized people have to deal with multiple times every damned day. In some ways I’m glad it happened; that I got to experience racism targeted directly at me, but at the same time…it shouldn’t happen. To anyone, regardless of who they are or how they identify. It also made me very aware of my own privilege, which is something I do need a reminder about periodically; I get so wrapped up in being marginalized as a gay man that I forget how horrible it is to be a person of color in this racialized country and society and culture.
And ultimately, white people? It’s really none of your fucking business in the first place!
And would people have considered me white in the antebellum South? is a question we might have to revisit at another time.
Part of the struggle in writing this all down and sharing it with you, Constant Reader, comes from not wanting to make myself seem like either a martyr or center the conversation about racist bigotry on me. Unsettling as this all was–the privilege on display, the language used, the shame in not putting her in her place–it was momentary, something that didn’t impact or effect my life in any way; another anecdote for cocktail parties or dinner conversation. The sexual harassment aspect of it, had that been all there was (oh yes, during the ass conversation she also talked about mine), would have merely been something I would have laughed about with friends later, but the racial component was horrible. All I could think about was, really, how lucky she was that I wasn’t biracial.
Which makes me squirm more for not reporting it to the conference–what if she does this to authors or readers of color at one of these events? Was I coward for not only not stopping her but not reporting her? It’s been two years now, and I still am not entirely sure what I think or feel about this, which is very unusual for me; it’s very rare that I am unsettled this way.
But putting it all down has helped somewhat. I probably should have written this years ago.
I did buy her book that weekend, and once I read it became a fan. ↩︎
If you aren’t aware of this word, it’s an old, ugly, and pejorative term used for biracial people during the human trafficking era and the Jim Crow time that came after it. I’ve not heard anyone say the word aloud in at least fifty or so years. AT LEAST. If you want to understand just how offensive it is, it’s root word is mule–the product of interspecies breeding. Go fuck yourself, you horrible racist. ↩︎
Again an archaic deeply problematic word that actually comes from antebellum New Orleans, indicating how much Black blood someone had. These were the days of the “one drop” rule, which meant any Black ancestry, no matter how remote, made you Black in the eyes of the state and the law. Quadroon means one quarter, so the person had a single Black grandparent, the “roon” comes from “maroon”, which is another old and archaic racist term for Black people. Despicable, really. ↩︎
Credit where it’s due, she was using racist language that originated in New Orleans. ↩︎
Well, yesterday was a pretty good day overall, I think. I managed to get some writing done (about a thousand or so words, give or take) which felt amazing, if too little; and of course I went to PT after work and it actually felt good. I think the working out after therapy is going to actually take hold this time? Of course, it remains to be seen what else life is going to throw at me in the meantime, but I feel pretty good about things, overall. After I finish this book I’m writing I may step away for the rest of the year and just live for a while? I’ll still write, and I want to be clear that I am thinking in terms of time off from deadlines, really. It would be nice to finish all these unfinished things I have lying around here, and I’d also like to clean out the physical files at some point in the near future. Operation Declutter is still working, but it’s an ongoing process. I am about to put a moratorium on new books, too, unless it’s a must-read book by a friend. I really need to make more progress on getting through the mountainous TBR stack without consistently adding to it, over and over. Just this week I added Angela Crook’s Hurt Mountain and Amina Akhtar’s Almost Surely Dead and Simone St. George’s Murder Road. The question of what to read next also has not yet been answered, so it may wind up being a reread, which is actually counterproductive–but something that breaks down the wall and gets me reading every day again for pleasure would be pretty fucking fantastic.
My short story that I am writing is starting to take shape, even if my gears have rusted and need to be oiled before I can really get to work on writing again. I like what I am doing with this story–which is more horror/Gothic suspense more than anything else, really, and it’s been a really long time since I finished a story. “When I Die” still needs to be significantly edited and revised, as do so many other things. I need to get working on the book again–I came up with a great name for the Miss Queer Utah queen, but alas, forgot it already. I am actually kind of getting excited this morning to write this book. I saw a news item on social media that DeSantis’ anti-gay legislation essentially got ended by a court decision yesterday–I’ve not read the entire article yet, but it was a “settlement”, which makes it more interesting because surely that would make it a civil case, rather than a criminal one? But anything that gets Rhonda Santis’ panties in a bunch, as well as a massive defeat for his hate-filled agenda (your daily reminder, Moms for Liberty, that real patriots HATE you and your hate agenda; have fun in hell, skanks), will always make me very very happy. I also saw that the West Virginia legislature, under pressure from constituents, dropped (or allowed to die) 21 anti-queer bills.
As Winston Churchill said, “You can always count on Americans to do the right thing–after they’ve exhausted every other possibility.”
I didn’t sleep through the entire night, but woke up a couple of times but in both instances was able to fall back asleep and get some more needed rest, which was awesome. I actually woke up this morning feeling awake rather than foggy, which is simply marvelous to contemplate. Paul was working on a grant last night, so we only got to catch up on this week’s Abbott Elementary, and soon my widowhood will end when the festivals do next weekend (not this weekend) and a dear friend is coming to town this weekend, and I hope to meet her for drinks and a good gossipy catch up. I’ve also learned this morning that when the alarm goes off the first time and Sparky makes his appearance on my pillow, to just get up and feed him…because once he’s eaten, he’ll get back into the bed and cuddle like a sweet purr-kitty, which is lovely. I really have fallen completely in love with this crazy kitty, which makes losing Scooter ever so much easier. Losing him made rescuing Sparky possible, and I imagine I will always have a cat for the rest of my life, maybe even a bonded pair at some point after Sparky goes–assuming, of course, that I will outlive Sparky.
Some more things that I ordered arrived yesterday after I picked up the mail, so I’ll have to swing by there again this afternoon, which is fine. I have to get gas, too, so it makes sense to swing uptown, come back downtown via Tchoupitoulas, and then the Shell on Jackson Avenue on the way home. Tomorrow is also payday, which is lovely–pay-the-bills day, at any rate–and then I need to start prepping for my Saints and Sinners panel. There’s always something to do, isn’t there? I also need to stop by Physiofit and pay my bill, too. I got another camera ticket yesterday, which is super-annoying–but it gave me an idea for a story or a subplot for a Scotty book, so that’s a good thing, right?
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will most likely be back again later.
I cannot believe today’s title was actually a hit song in 1959. I mean, the jokes here simply write themselves.
Monday morning and back to the office morning blog. It was a curiously relaxing weekend, but my energy levels were up and down the whole time. Last night, of course, when I needed to go to sleep? After two nights of falling asleep in my chair, here I was, having trouble falling asleep. I think it’ll be okay for tonight, though, since I have PT after work. It rained off and on yesterday for most of the day, and the temperature dropped overnight. Absolutely no huzzahs on that front, for sure. I do think not going to do PT last Monday messed up my week significantly, so I definitely have to go tonight. I was very happy to finish reading my book, too. It had been so long since I was able to commit to a book, it was nice to get drawn into one again, even if it did take me over a week to finish. I don’t read as fast as I used to, nor do I write as much or as fast as I used to. This is going to have to be overcome soon enough, but that’s okay. I think my full-fledged deadline panic mode will probably start kicking into gear again at some point this week.
We finished season one of The Tourist last night, and dipped into season two–which looks to be just as good as the first. I don’t know how long this show will be able to keep going on the basic premise that he has no memory of who or what he was before waking up in the hospital in the first episode of season one, and Jamie Dornan is wonderful in the lead role, menacing when called for, but delightfully funny at others. And Danielle Macdonald, who has been delightful in everything I’ve seen her in (including Dumplin’), is doing some really good work as Helen. Highly recommended, even though Dornan isn’t shirtless nearly enough. Dornan should be shirtless at least once per episode. Think of it as “fan service.”
I’ve managed to gain back all the weight I’ve lost since the soft food diet began after Labor Day. This doesn’t please me, to say the least. It’s actually disappointing. But if I am barbecuing burgers on the weekends and/or ordering pizza…it’s not really a surprise. I’ve also gotten my taste for hamburgers back, which is kind of nice. The new dentures have altered my tastes somewhat, but they seem to be shifting back at last, which is nice. Last year was a bit of a slog, wasn’t it? It’s not a surprise that it’s taken me a while to recover from everything–from the arm injury to the dental surgery to the arm surgery to Mom and Scooter dying and this endless war with my insurance company–any one of these things on their own would be leveling; having it all happen within the same year is pretty fucking terrible, frankly. But… I am also a firm believer in having all the bad stuff happen within a certain period of time, because you get so overwhelmed with everything that you really can’t focus on your own misery at any time. But I am hoping that once the PT is done and I can exercise normally again, that I’ll get to the gym at least twice a week.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Happy Monday, everyone.
Queer and Loathing in America 