childhood – Page 29 – Queer and Loathing in America

Season of the Witch

I read a lot of Norah Lofts when I lived in the suburbs of Chicago.

I originally found her through her historical fictional biographies of royal women, or royal-adjacent. I was in a Henry VIII phase–the whole six wives thing–and I saw a copy of her book about Anne Boleyn–The Concubine–on the wire racks at Zayre’s, so I bought it. It was very well done, and Lofts tried to get into the head of Anne and who she was, the reasons she basically changed Western civilization, and gave me an entirely new perspective on the infamous Anne. From there I went on to A Rose for Virtue (Napoleon’s stepdaughter/sister-in-law Hortense de Beauharnais, Queen of Holland), The King’s Pleasure (Katherine of Aragon), Crown of Aloes (Isabella of Castile), The Lost Queen (Caroline Matilda of Denmark), and Eleanor the Queen (Eleanor of Aquitaine)¹. I also read, from there, some of her historical fiction, which I greatly enjoyed (Nethergate comes to mind). What I liked most about Lofts was she was not, in any way, a sentimental writer; her stories didn’t end happily all the time (especially her books about royal women; they all died miserable). I always wanted to read her Nativity novel, How Far to Bethlehem?, or her book Esther (obviously, the Bible’s Queen Esther). I remembered Lofts sometime within the last four or five years, and got a copy of her ghost story collection, which I enjoyed.

And then I remembered one whose plot I really couldn’t recollect–The Little Wax Doll, and got a second hand copy on-line.

It was like reading an entirely new novel, and I am glad I revisited it, believe you me.

The interview had been arranged to take place in London at half past three on a Saturday afternoon. This was a time so extremely convenient to Miss Mayfield that she was disposed to regard it as providential. It had saved her from the embarrassment of having to ask for time off to attend an interview in which she might not be successful, and from which she might be obliged to return to face her present Head’s resentment. In her diffident attempt to maintain secrecy she had left Alchester without the precaution of obtaining a testimonial. This she recognised as the action of a fool, but she had taught in the ugly Midland town for a bare two years, and she carried in her shabby handbag a coolly eulogistic report of her twenty years’ work in Africa, If that did not suffice, and if the interview showed any sign of leading to a new appointment, then would be time enough to approach Miss Stevens and break the news she was contemplating a move,

Canon Thorby had written, “Claridge’s Hotel would be convenient for me, since I have another appointment there earlier in the day. I shall be waiting for you and if you ask at the desk someone will will point me out to you.”

He wrote on thick smooth paper which justified the term “cream-laid.” His writing was small, elegant, meticulously legible. It called up an imaginry vision of the writer, plump, rubicund, with a fringe of silvery hair and tranquil blue eyes. Kindly, perhaps a trifle pompous.

As I said earlier, I didn’t really remember much of this story, other than the main character was an older schoolteacher moving to an idyllic village in East Anglia to teach at the village school, and the little rural village has some pretty dark secrets that she’s going to stumble into. Another thing I’d forgotten–although I should have remembered from reading her ghost story collection–was how compelling a writer she was. There are beautiful turns of phrase everywhere, as well as observations about life–particularly in a small village–that are really spot on, clever and insightful.

I also love that her heroine is a woman many people would overlook–particularly in the time in which this book was written (originally published in 1960)–a dowdy, plain spinster in either her late thirties or early forties. I wouldn’t have thought much about it when I first read the book, but the deep devotion of her attachment to a woman named Ruth, with whom she built a school and hospital in Kenya and worked there with her for forty years, and her determination to save enough money so she and Ruth can retire together and share a cottage blissfully for the rest of their lives?

In this read, this friendship just screamed lesbian to me.

Deborah Mayfield could easily have turned into a stereotype–the old maid schoolteacher–but Lofts isn’t interested in stereotypes; she created a character who is interesting by virtue of the journey she takes over the course of the story. She is a bit unsure of herself at the beginning of the book, always afraid of calling attention to herself and just keeps her opinions to herself. But as she falls in love with this interesting little village and blossoms with not only her students but the other villagers–she still sees herself as a nonentity, not really seeing herself as the others see her–she also, slowly but surely, finds herself being pulled into a strange situation which makes her, always questioning herself, question herself further. Surely, what she suspects cannot be? There can’t be people who believe in the dark arts and witchcraft in this town? But it’s really the only explanation, and as she gets pulled further and further into the odd circumstances regarding her student Ethel and her grandmother Granny Rigby–to the point where she is willing to give up her comfy little home and job to try to call out what’s going on in Walwyk–she begins to get a sense of her own power; the inability to stand by and do nothing while something untoward is going on strengthen her resolve and makes her stronger.

Then about halfway through the book there is a huge plot twist, which throws everything into a different, just as suspenseful and thrilling, direction–and one in which Deborah finally comes into her own, managing to get her way back to Walwyk in order to stop a horrible outcome that isn’t predestined.

One of the other things I like about the book is Lofts’ lack of sentimentality. The ending of the book makes it seem as though the day has been saved…but has it, after all? I also love that we never really know if there is actually witchcraft going on in the town–or maybe it just looks like it? Lofts leaves this up in the air as well–which she probably wouldn’t get away with today.

A terrific reread, and a terrific author I am very happy to rediscover.

She also wrote The Lute Player, about Richard the Lionhearted, his wife Berengaria, and the minstrel Blondel–which was my first exposure to the idea that Richard, the great English hero, was queer. That revelation was a bit life changing, as I began looking for hints of homosexuality being covered up in history books. ↩︎

Sleep Walk

Monday morning and back to the office afternoon a really lovely weekend, which wasn’t nearly long enough to satisfy anyone, really. I am wide awake, which is lovely, and I thought I wasn’t sleeping well last night–but this morning I feel rested and fine. Odd, right?

I really need to buckle down and start writing. I started three short stories ideas yesterday (“Passenger to Franklin”, “The Adventure of the Kaiser’s Spy¹,” and “The Haunted Bridge,” for specifics) and I reviewed some of what I have already written on the next book, which was interrupted by the surgery. It’s now extended deadline is April 1, so yes, I need to get cracking. I did get a lot of work on the apartment done this weekend, and I was correct that I had ordered the wrong smart keyboard folio for my iPad, and Apple no longer makes them for mine because it’s too old. They recommended Amazon or eBay; I found one on eBay and ordered it so it will come later this week, which is terrific. Once I got home from refunding and returning that magic keyboard, I decided to go ahead and order two things from the Apple store to be delivered–an external wireless keyboard for my desktop, that is wider than the basic one and has the number pad, too, and a super storage flash drive that will also connect to my phone and iPad…and that resulted in an insane Kafka-like experience. The delivery was supposed to come between 3 and 5; their website showed that “Orrin” picked up my delivery at 4:46, and about half an hour later it was marked “out for delivery”–and the stuff can’t just be dropped off; it has to be handed to a person so you have to be available to go meet the delivery when it arrives. The website never updated, and the delivery never came. I finally connected with Apple Support on my phone, which was insane. Their records showed the driver had never picked it up–and it couldn’t be rescheduled for delivery today, all they could do was cancel it and refund the money. I don’t know if the “support person” I was communicating with was a real person or not, or if it was AI. Whoever it was, either they were AI, or English wasn’t their first language. I still don’t understand why they couldn’t just reschedule the delivery till today, but here we are, you know?

Thanks anyway, Apple. I have since decided that it was frivolous to buy those two items, so thank you for fucking this up and saving me quite a bit of money.

I did spend some time working on the apartment and it’s starting to look better. Hilariously, all the changes I made in the reorganization (the drawers, shelves in the kitchen, etc.) have already been forgotten so I have to go looking for things now–right now I can’t find where I put the printer ink–but that’s okay. I guess I am gaslighting myself!

I did spend some time this weekend reading Norah Lofts’ The Little Wax Doll, which I remember reading in junior high but as I read it, it feels very new to me. I don’t remember anything about it; maybe I never read it in the first place but had a copy which I started to read but never finished? Regardless, I am definitely enjoying it. It’s slow-burn horror, which is starting to slowly ratchet up (it’s one of those “rural communities that seem perfect but always have a dark secret” stories). I like Lofts’ writing style, which was more common in the mid-twentieth century work–she has a point of view character, Miss Mayfield, but her third person is removed; like a cross between an omniscient narrator and tight pov. It has a very Gothic feel to it that I really like, and I am looking forward to finishing it at some point.

We also started watching an Australian show, The Tourist, starring the always fun to watch Jamie Dornan (sigh) as a man who is in a car accident and gets amnesia, but he has to figure out who he is because a lot of people are trying to kill him. We’re two episodes into the first season (and there are two seasons thus far) so I am guessing he doesn’t find out for quite some time….

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Monday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; one never can be sure.

Yes, this is a Sherlock in 1916 New Orleans stories. ↩︎

Come Softly to Me

Sunday morning and as predicted, I didn’t get nearly as much done yesterday as I wanted to, but it was mostly about time more than anything else. I picked up the mail and stopped by Fresh Market, but then once I got home…well, there were chores still to be done (still have some more to do this morning) and I never did get around to writing anything besides blog entries yesterday, like a very bad Gregalicious. Today I have no choice, I have to write today…and I also have to drive out to the Apple Store in Metairie, and make groceries, both of which will be tiring. (I knew I’d regret putting that chore off until today, but at least it’s sunny out today; I think it’s going to be a rather lovely day out there.)

Sparky is always a problem for sitting at the computer as he always wants to sit in my chair–he will hang out and be obnoxious (right now he’s sprawled across the desk, his flicking tail brushing the keyboard as he knocks other things off…) and then jump into the chair the minute I get up for more coffee or anything, really. Heavy sigh, the joys of Big Spoiled Kitten Energy.

I did manage to watch Christopher and His Kind yesterday, which is Isherwood’s memoir about his life in Berlin during the rise of the Nazis, and it much more explicit than Isherwood’s earlier fictions about Berlin. During that “Staged Right” about Cabaret I watched the other night, he wrote it in reaction to the movie, to leave the record straight (as it were) about himself and his life; he hated that Cabaret made Brian/Christopher into a bisexual and that Sally was played by Liza Minnelli, when the actual Sally was marginally talented at best. It was an interesting film, but Christopher himself really came across as a bit of an asshole. There was also a lot of explicit sex, and there’s no question in watching this film about what his sexuality was, for sure. Matt Smith is simply stunningly beautiful, and Alexander Draymon as Caspar is just too beautiful for words. The two stories (Cabaret and Christopher and His Kind) are similar to each other, but I’m not really sure if a watcher didn’t know that both came from the same source, those similarities are simply base facts the story grew out of, and you might not even recognize them as the same story. I may need to revisit the books sometime when I have more time…as I recognize that a lot of the revisiting of fiction I talk about is probably never going to happen. But as always, I find rereading something as an easy way to shake off the not-reading mode I’ve been in for so long. We also watched the new BBC adaptation of Agatha Christie’s Murder is Easy yesterday, which we quite enjoyed…although I am waiting for the racists to complain since they cast a Black man in the lead.

So I started rereading Norah Lofts’ The Little Wax Doll yesterday, of which I remember very little of my original read back in junior high school (I read her novels about queens and royal women before moving on to her other novels, which was very definitely an eclectic mix), and find myself enjoying it a lot more than I did when I was twelve–I did enjoy it, but I am certainly seeing it differently some fifty years later. As a kid, I just read Miss Mayfield as a lonely spinster who spent most of her life working in Africa in her colonial “white savior” role with her best friend, who hopes to save enough money to buy a little place she and her “best friend” could retired to; now it’s screaming lesbians at me. The book was originally published in 1960, and of course there are the queer deniers who like to think we never existed in the world before Stonewall. The phenomenon of spinsters sharing a home was just a fact of life, and the British never really inquired much further than that–the British cold politeness.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. There’s a lot to get done today and I am feeling like I will be able to make some significant progress today. Wish me luck, and I may be back later. Happy Sunday, Constant Reader!

Lonely Boy

Friday work at home day blog, in which I have PT in a little while and all kinds of things on the agenda to get done. I was productive last night, chore wise, and while I still have some chores to do, I am further ahead than I usually am when I wake up on Friday morning. The weather turned cold yesterday afternoon, and I came straight home. Sparky was feeling needy when I got home, so I had to spend some time cuddling and playing with him (he managed to get the hanging mouse toy off it’s string…but this morning he is playing with the string, and the mouse is nowhere to be found). I watched some news–always a downer–and then the Staged Right Youtube channel’s history of Ethel Merman’s career; from which my primary takeaway was Helen Lawson in Valley of the Dolls was so clearly based on Ethel that I can’t believe she didn’t sue…and it made me want to reread the book again. There was a downpour that started right before i went to bed–and it was even colder when I slipped under the covers. Although a quick check tells me it’s 58 outside…sigh.

But I am awake. My arm feels a bit fatigued, but that’s okay, I just need to monitor myself more at PT and at the gym. I am definitely mentioning it this morning, though–even if it makes me feel like a whiner. This is my arm, that had a serious injury and a major surgery, so I need to get past that kind of self-defeating mentality and understand that they need to know if it’s been tired, hurting, fatigued, etc. If I don’t tell them what I am feeling accurately because I want to please them (a problem my entire life, which has created more issues than its resolved, frankly), this could be bad for my arm.

It’s funny, because the other day I was emailing a friend who’d said something kind to me, and one thing I said in response was Oh, good. I always worry that I am a pest or am too much. He replied that he toned himself down sometimes, too, for the same reason: being too much. After I got his response, I started thinking about it, worrying that phrase and that feeling that both of us, gay men in their sixties, have to tone ourselves down because people think we’re “too much”, and parsed it some more during Ethel Merman’s career history and some other Youtube videos last night. Too much. How many times have I been told I am “too much,” that I’m not “masculine” enough¹, that I need to change who I was and how other people saw me (narrator voice: you cannot control other people’s perceptions of you. All you can do is hope for the best) and that has impacted how I feel about people and how I act and behave, and how much of myself I reveal and share with them. Sigh. Keep unpacking that shit, Gregalicious, and remember, you are who you are and never let anyone dim your bright queer light.

And remember–no one ever tells a straight man he’s “too much”–even when they sexually assault women, so…maybe fuck all the way off?

All right, I am now home from PT. The sun has come out, but it’s supposed to rain all day and most of the weekend. I’ve decided to wait until Sunday morning to go to the Apple Store in Metairie. I don’t really want to deal with evening traffic to get there and back–traffic back into the city is always a nightmare around that time–and they open later, so I can get up later and go later and not have to worry about traffic and so forth. PT was a bit harder this morning, but some things were easier. I am going to make a to-do list for the weekend, as well as a list of all chores I want/need to get done this weekend, and figure out some other things.

And on that note–several hours later, my bad–I am heading BACK into the spice mines. Have a great Friday!

I am writing another essay–which I hopefully will finish someday–about this very thing; the strait-jacket of toxic masculinity I was raised with and conditioned by education, school, and culture to think and believe was the only “normal” way to be a man. It’s called “Are You Man Enough.” ↩︎

Mack the Knife

Yesterday was a low-energy day. I felt fine, but not motivated, and that was partly due to feeling more tired than I have in a while. My mind wasn’t foggy and my muscles weren’t fatigued, but at the same time I just felt off-balance and getting things done just wasn’t going to happen. I did my work duties, of course–I always manage to get my work duties done, and I am still ahead of the curve on all of that–but I was more spacy than anything else mentally, having trouble remembering things and so forth, etc. I also managed to run errands on my way home from work, and then went to the gym for PT. It seemed a bit easier this time than it did on Friday, in all honesty. Once I was finished with that, I came home and showered and had a mostly quiet, slow evening. I fell asleep a few times in my chair and finally went to bed early, slept really well, and now feel pretty good this morning. My legs feel a bit fatigued from the walking, but other than that, I feel like today is going to be a good day.

I am completely awake now. This is something I’ve noticed since the change in medications–it doesn’t take long for me to shake off sleep and grogginess and wake up completely. That is something I much prefer to how I used to get up in the morning, to the point where I really don’t dread getting up in the morning so much. It’s also entirely possible that my body has finally completely adjusted to getting up this early every morning. How many years did it take, LOL? But whatever the reason, I am not displeased with this development.

It was a beautiful day yesterday when I set out for the gym to do PT. It wasn’t nearly as difficult walking over there in the late afternoon; I wasn’t feeling tired so I made good time walking. There was also no one there–I’d finally managed to time it so it wasn’t crowded. Several guys came in just as I was finishing up, and escaped. I’ve never felt really comfortable or relaxed at this gym since we joined it all those years ago. I knew everyone who worked at our old gym, I knew a lot of people who worked out there, and it was just a short two block walk up St. Charles. We also belonged to that gym for almost eighteen years or so, and so getting used to a new one was always going to take me a while. I never got used to it before because I never managed to get into a rhythm of going regularly, either. That’s one of the things straight white people get to take for granted, you know? They never have to worry about dealing with any kind of hateful, bigoted reaction to their existence, which can happen at any time, really.

You never get to completely relax when you’re in public.

Which is really a continuation of a theme I started in my “why I am not going to Bouchercon this year” post from yesterday. It’s very hard to ever trust straight people, really; I’ve been burned so many times in the past that you become paranoid and it then spreads from straight people to all people. You never can be sure if the group of people you’re hanging out with in a bar, laughing and having a good time, won’t start talking about you using slurs when you walk away. There are people who realize the optics of homophobia aren’t good, so they are very careful not to give you anything to make hay with in your presence. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t homophobic, it actually means they are worse–they know it’s wrong and socially unacceptable but do it anyway. I will never forget the self-styled Very Important Author who felt it was okay to smugly use “faggy” in casual conversation, while looking at me with a smirk on his face I so badly wanted to punch off it. (He has since outed himself to many others as a garbage human being since then; I just smugly smile when I hear tales about his most recent egregious crime.) It’s hard to explain what that is like, you know, so that people will understand? (And I think it’s also important, while making this point, to defend the other people around when he said it, because he got called out almost immediately. That was a good feeling.)

One last time for the arrogant straight men in the back: there aren’t many gay men who’d be interested, so stop flattering yourself that we are all such deranged cockmonsters that we froth at the mouth over straight guys. We don’t. And I would add further that we would never, unless they collectively start figuring out what anal hygiene is. Hilariously, they always forget that some of us are tops, you know–so if I were to ever sexualize a straight man, I wouldn’t be thinking about him fucking me or me sucking his dick; I’d think about fucking him.

Not something that plays into their disturbing male-on-male sexual fantasies, is it?

Seriously, straight men, stop flattering yourselves.

And yes, I have been rethinking a lot of things about my past and my life since Mom died. New information always is cause for a good rethink, and again it’s interesting (if sad) to realize how oblivious I inevitably was throughout the majority of my life. Heavy heaving sigh.

And on that glum note, it’s off to the spice mines with me. Hope you have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again probably later.

Back Off Boogaloo

I realized while washing my face this morning that it’s Thursday already, which was an enormously satisfying moment. I was productive last night after work–shocking, right? I came straight home, played with Sparky for a bit, then folded laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, and straightened the kitchen up a bit. It’s always nice to come down to clean counters and a kitchen that doesn’t look like a natural disaster went through. I also slept really well and don’t feel groggy this morning (a little when I first got up, but my brain cleared very quickly). I’m also a bit excited this morning because I also did some decent writing work yesterday. Yay! Not many words were written, but a lot of figuring things out for these stories that hopefully I will finish tonight or tomorrow so I can move on to something else. I am really looking forward to this weekend, I must admit, and all the writing and cleaning to come.

I’ve also been ordering things for the house that hopefully will make things more organized and efficient around here. I got a shoe rack for the bedroom, a rolling cart to replace the little table next to my desk (with the intent of emptying some drawers to make more room for things), and several other things, too. I still need to order blinds for the kitchen and air filters, too.

What an exciting life I lead.

But it’s that very simplicity, that minutiae, that makes me feel like I am living my life again. I’m no longer going home from work, collapsing into my easy chair, and mindlessly letting Youtube videos play on continuously while I doom scroll through social media on my iPad, or dipping into a nonfiction ebook there. I’m beginning to get excited to be writing again, and realized, yet again, what a monumentally shit year 2023 was. I realized this morning that it really did start with me injuring my arm–which kept me out of the gym for well over a year now, and that snowballed my emotional state and life stability. Then came Mom, and yeah, it never really did get better over the course of the year….and of course the surgery was the final derailment. Creativity is overflowing my brain again, and I am trying to make sufficient notes and create the proper computer files so that nothing ever gets lost or forgotten ever again. I got so many ideas over the weekend in Alabama, and they’ve still continued coming since I got back, which is great.

I also made a phenomenal sandwich for dinner last night. I am eating somewhat healthier, and am hoping to keep that momentum going as I head back to the gym tomorrow morning in the first time in over a year. YIKES. But I am not going to be doing a whole lot, just focused shoulder/back/arm stuff, and I’ll have to ask my PT guy next Friday about other body parts. It would be hard to do chest or back, but what about legs? Inquiring minds want to know! But I can certainly do crunches, one would think. I am a bit excited about getting back to the gym, in case you couldn’t tell.

Tonight, I am going to pick up the mail and make a few groceries; then I am coming home to empty the dishwasher and do another load, do some more writing, and maybe organize beads and books to donate. I also need to get gas on the way home tonight, heavy heaving sigh. But I do kind of feel like I am starting to get a grasp on my life and entering a new normal period for me. Woo-hoo!

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Thursday, Constant Reader, and you never know; I may be back later.

Alone Again (Naturally)

Monday morning and up too early for PT before work. Heavy sigh. My body aches this morning–my back is especially tight–which means today will be exhausting. It’s a paperwork/admin day anyway–unless I have to cover for someone–and it’s also terribly cold this morning: 41 degrees, to be exact. I collapsed into bed last night somewhere around nine, and was dead to the world in a matter of minutes. It was a good night’s sleep, but I really need to sleep late sometime soon–probably not till this weekend, alas.

I did listen to River Road by Carol Goodman in the car both ways instead of The Drowning Tree, and as always, loved every minute of it. I still had some time left to listen to something, but only had a short time left, so I went ahead and started an Amazon Short by Zakiya Dalila Harris, “His Happy Place”, which was decidedly creepy but also extremely well done. More on both to come, of course, once I’ve gotten back into (what passes for) a normal routine around here. This will probably be a rough, tiring week, but I hope to manage. This weekend I am going to drop off beads and books for donations, and will also hopefully keep working on the apartment.

The coffee is starting to work, which is nice. My brain and body are starting to wake up, which is great. I’m also a bit hungry, so will probably make something to eat before I leave. I have dry noodles at the office to have for lunch, and will take some breakfast snacky things with me. Tomorrow I know we are going to be super-busy in the clinic, which will make for a rough day as well. Fortunately, I enjoy my job! But this weekend will be the hard reset I need, and I just have to make it through this week, which seems to be stretching out far into the distance and is a bit overwhelming to contemplate. I also need to make a grocery list, and today I have to run some errands after I get off work. Tomorrow I’ll make groceries after work, and hopefully I’ll start feeling more settled in. Sparky was a bit stand-offish when I got home yesterday–just mewed at me reproachfully for a while, but after a few hours he forgave me and was very affectionate, obviously having missed me while I was gone. I do kind of feel like our earlier cats were more Paul’s than mine, but Sparky is kind of mine. Of course, I was chair bound for almost three weeks, so he had a place to cuddle and sleep and hang out all day, and now of course no one’s home with him all day. Once the Festivals are over, he’ll be home more and then he and Sparky can bond some more.

So really, my return to normality after Carnival has been pushed back on the calendar because of the trip over the weekend. My word, how my imagination was out of control while driving and staying in Alabama. I remembered stories and ideas I’d forgotten about as well as having more ideas (just what I need, right?) and I also figured out how to finish off my short story collection. I am hoping to get some more stories finished this week and get off to submissions while working and planning my next book. I also have a shit ton of unfinished drafts here I’d like to get done at some point so I can clear out the drafts folder.

I also took a lot of pictures this weekend, to help me describe places when I write about Alabama some more. I also realized that fictionalizing the place where I was born means it doesn’t have to be exactly the same in my work than it is in real life, you know? But that’s also my own stubborn brain trying to make everything correct when it doesn’t have to be, which happens a lot. It’s not like New Orleans, which appears as it is in my work. Corinth County is based on where we’re from, but it’s not the same. I had an idea for something completely new on my way up there; there was an In Cold Blood-kind of slaying there in the late 1960’s; a couple who ran a corner store were brutally killed and robbed, and so when I got home I started looking for information about it on-line (I’ve done this before, but not for a potential writing project; more out of idle curiosity when I was writing Bury Me in Shadows) and interestingly enough, there have been any number of crimes down there over the last forty or so decades; in fact, in one article about another murder I read a quote from someone at a café in town that the county “seems to be cursed”–which I must have read before because that has always been the underlying theme of the fictional county; it’s even in Bury Me in Shadows with people saying “the history of this county is written in blood.” Anyway, I would be interested in writing about that 1967 shooting–either fictionally or as true-crime.

And on that note, I need to get ready for PT and then heading straight to work from there. Have a lovely Monday; I may be back later as one never truly knows.

Country Roads (Take Me Home)

I’ll be driving back to New Orleans in a little bit, and I am exhausted. I went to bed last night ridiculously early–so early that I don’t want to admit to it publicly. I was very tired when I got here Friday afternoon. I made very good time despite some highway construction stupidity in Mississippi (which is always) but for the most part it was a nice drive and I got up here relatively easily. I stopped to get gas and eat in Toomsuba, which I’ve not done in a long time, and as I feared, once I slowed down and sat down to eat lunch, fatigue set in. I did have PT yesterday morning and left afterwards (and a few errands for good measure) and so, like always, was worn out by the time I got here.

It’s also cold here, which is hard for me to get used to as I haven’t been here during the winter very often in my life, so I always think of home as being hot and humid and muggy and miserable (going to Murder in the Magic City and Murder on the Menu doesn’t count because that doesn’t involve my kin in any way). It was bitterly cold here today as we drove around with Dad showing me places from his and my childhood. We went down to the bottoms of the Sipsey River on what used to be my grandfather’s land, which I hadn’t been to since I was a kid, and the river was really high and rushing quickly because of all the rain. (It rained really hard on Friday night). I actually slept well–which should be an indication of how tired I was, as sleeping in a hotel isn’t usually easy for me. Maybe the new drugs have helped in that regard too? I was very calm as I drove and didn’t feel the pressure of the ticking clock or the need to get there as fast as I could and feeling frustrated and irritated by any delays en route. I do not miss my anxiety in the least.

But, oh the memories that came back to me as we drove past my grandmother’s house (now crumbling and in disrepair) which was an indelible part of my childhood. My grandfather’s house, where my dad was born and raised, is also gone. I was also getting all kinds of ideas, as I always do when I come to or through this part of the state, and started really getting into this idea of a sequel to Bury Me in Shadows, only with Beau Hackworth was the main character. I really do want to write more about Alabama, and several other ideas of stories that are either in progress or exist in a very rough draft. It even occurred to me that I could do an entire collection of short stories set in Alabama. I have already published a couple of them, and I have enough ideas for another collection just for those alone–but I suppose I should finish my next one first before I think about another one, right?

This place will always have a hold on me, and it does worry me a bit that once Dad goes, my last connection to the county and my childhood summers here. And yes, I am aware that I am looking back through the nostalgic rose-colored glasses of sentiment. But summers here–how to describe them? Hot and humid, dragonflies and dirt daubers and five o’clocks, fried baloney sandwiches and buttermilk, sweat tea and cobblers, mosquitoes and watermelon and fresh blackberries from the woods, trips to town to the Piggly Wiggly and the library, long rows of cotton and corn and watermelon vines, red dust and orange clay roads, heat shimmering up from blacktop roads and how everything was so still in the lazy heat of the mid-afternoon, ghost stories and Civil War legends and lost treasure.

I miss my mom. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea that she’s buried here, that her remains are there under the ground between the big HERREN headstone and the foot-stone with her name and the dates underneath. It was such a cruel twist of fate for her to go on Valentine’s Day, which was also the anniversary of their first date sixty-six years ago. But in this time since she died I’ve also spent a lot more time with Dad and have gotten closer to him, which is really nice. I’ve also spent more time with the rest of the family, too, which is even nicer.

I know I’ll be exhausted tomorrow and I am starting the day with PT, so I will be really tired when I get home tomorrow night. I guarantee when the weekend rolls around again, I am sleeping as late as I feel like on Saturday, period.

Well, I didn’t get to post this before Dad called my room to get me to come downstairs for breakfast, after which I helped him load up his truck, I loaded my car, and we said our goodbyes and I headed for New Orleans while he made a detour on his way to Kentucky to say goodbye to Mom again.

The drive back to New Orleans was easy, little traffic, and I made it in slightly under four and a half hours, which is excellent time. I was exhausted once I got home, and then Paul and I got caught up on Abbott Elementary, we watched an unsettling documentary (but really, aren’t they all?) and then I started watching Alexander. Paul went upstairs to work, and so I did some chores and then remembered I never posted this. Not really sure what I’ll write about tomorrow morning, if anything at all. It’s going to be a long, tiring day.

And on that note, I am going to go sit in my chair and finish watching Alexander on Netflix. Maybe I can talk about that tomorrow? Have a lovely evening.

Reunited

I am off to Alabama later this morning. I have PT in a bit, some errands to run, and then home to get cleaned up and hit the road. Carol Goodman’s The Drowning Tree is cued up on Audible. It should be a nice day for a drive, but it’s going to be cold in Alabama. I’ve not taken a nice drive in almost four months, and it’s always good for firing up the creative synapses and loosening the bindings on my imagination. The worst part of the drive for me is always getting out of New Orleans through the East and I am not a fan of the twin spans to the north shore or getting through Slidell. But once you get on I-55 North, it becomes a very relaxing drive through rural Mississippi. Not much traffic other than around the bigger cities (Hattiesburg, Meridian, Laurel) and then you’re in Alabama. Alabama is also beautiful, and of course it always always always makes my mind wander back to my childhood and stories of the county, histories and legends and gossip and tall tales of a time so different it may as well be an another planet.

I submitted a story yesterday, which felt like progress back into my career again. I finished editing it last night and sent it off without a second thought, logged it into my spreadsheet (which didn’t include my last sale, so I included it as well) and started working on my swamp ghost story again. I made some necessary changes (correcting the wrong geography by using a map) and moved on a bit. I am very pleased with the story, but it’s already very very long so there will be some necessary cuts and revisions in future drafts–but again, it felt good to be writing fiction again. I’ve also been getting things written in my journal–lists of things to get for the apartment as well as what stories to write and submit where; what books I want to work and finish this year and when I’m going to write them. It feels good, frankly, to be creative again.

Paul didn’t make it home last night before I went to bed, which was a pity, but I’ll see him before I leave today; he should be up by then I would hope.

I did watch this week’s episode of Feud last night. The performances are amazing, the show’s production values (particularly in set and costume design), but it’s also not a lot of fun to watch someone on a downward self-destructive trajectory, either, particularly when they’re as talented as Capote was. That seemed to be a lot more common place with writers back in the day–they all seemed to have substance abuse problems, but I suppose if you had to type everything…it would eventually drive you to drink.

I also slept really well last night, too. Sparky woke me up by clobbering me in the face this morning, claws out, so I now have a scratch on my nose and another on my cheek. Perfect timing, right? Heavy heaving sigh. I also have some scratches on my shoulders and chest, from him riding on my shoulders. We really do need to learn how to trim his nails. I also caught him last night trying to get on top of the refrigerator again. He really is a mischievous child. Sigh.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I have to leave for PT in a moment, and I need to start getting everything together for the trip. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and bear with me–I may not be back until Monday.

Oh Very Young

So, are you ready for some MORE blatant self-promotion?

During the Bold Strokes Book-a-thon, the other panel I was on had to do with writing young adult fiction (the other panelists were amazing, I might add), and once again, I am answering the questions sent to us by the moderator to turn into an interview with JUST me (because it’s all about ME ME ME) but I do urge you to seek out the video of the panel. It was terrific, and I was definitely the most uninteresting person on the panel, seriously; this is NOT self-deprecation. (I bought everyone’s books during the panel, I might add; definitely check out Lauren Melissa Ellzey.)

What is the definition of Young Adult? How does it differ from other genres?

I think it’s primarily an age distinction, to be honest, which is something that always makes me uncomfortable. Growing up I read far above my age level; when I was in seventh grade I was reading at a college level, per the tests and so forth. I mean, I did read The Godfather when I was ten; my parents, despite their conservative religious beliefs and values, let me read whatever I wanted without having to ask permission–I think when I asked Mom if I could read something the last time she replied “Read whatever you want, I don’t care” and after that I never asked again. When I was a kid, there was no such thing as young adult; everything was either for adults or “juvenile.” The juvenile category contained multitudes, beginning with the Little Golden Books and picture books to kids’ mysteries to Judy Blume. I think sometime in the 1980’s the genre was separated into “juvenile” for kids 8-12 and “young adult” for 12-18.

But there are kids like me, who can read above their age/class level and others who can’t read at their age/class level, and I think in some ways that differential could be harmful for those who are below-average readers–reading is the most crucial aspect of education, because if you can’t read…and no matter how many ways they try to make the language around slower readers more accepting and less stigmatizing…it doesn’t really help kids to be told they’re below average or not as smart or quick as the other students. (One of my primary problems throughout my education is I would understand something the first time, while others inevitably didn’t, and as the teacher explained for a second or third or more time, my ADD would kick in and my mind would wander because I didn’t need to listen and then wouldn’t be listening when the teacher moved on.

Ah, well.

Oh, and all subgenres of fiction also have the middle grade/juvenile and young adult sub-sub-genres.

Why or how did YOU choose YA?

I don’t know that I chose y/a so much as it chose me.

I started writing when I was a child (all my childish scribblings are lost to moves and time passing), and I wrote about kids my age. My first attempts at writing were always some kind of kids’ mystery series, a la The Hardy Boys and The Three Investigators (I’d still like to do this, frankly), and when I became a teenager, I started writing about teenagers. I wrote a bunch of short stories while in high school about the same group of kids going to the same high school. Those stories slowly but surely grew into a sprawling, handwritten novel about the county with plots and subplots and main characters and minor characters and all of this history; a “Peyton Place in Kansas kind of thing”. I worked on it for like five years, and eventually had this enormous sprawling mess that needed to be revised and rewritten and typed…and since I didn’t know how to type, made that part of it a problem. So I shoved it into a drawer and started pulling from it rather than revising it; taking out plots and characters and using them in other books and other stories.

After I finished that, I spent the next five years mostly working on short stories. I started another book, more horror than anything else, but never got further than the third chapter. I finally decided to write a horror novel built from my old manuscript and those short stories from high school. I was about three chapters into it when I discovered two things: there was a big market in y/a horror at the time (Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine were HUGE during this period) and so I bought some of them. When I finished, I thought, “You know, I should turn Sara into a y/a novel” (because I thought somehow that would be easier? Foolish, foolish rookie) and so… I did. I was right in that thinking of it in those terms made it possible for me to finish a draft, but I wasn’t very happy with it so I put it aside and started writing another one, Sorceress, which was also horror but also had some strong Gothic moments in it. When I finished that one, again I wasn’t pleased with it so I started another–Sleeping Angel–which was the one I thought really had potential. I never finished that draft–by this time I’d discovered that gay fiction and nonfiction existed, so I started reading that and trying to write about gay characters instead.

Those manuscripts remained in my drawer for well over a decade, until a friend of mine took a job as a young adult acquisitions editor, and she wanted to work with me. I told her I’d written three (although it was technically two and a half), and gave her a brief synopsis of them. She liked Sorceress the best, so I started revising and editing it and turning it into something publishable. Once it was all done, she’d left that publisher, but started her own small press for y/a books for underrepresented teens, and she wanted to launch the press with Sorceress. I said “okay” and we were off. I eventually realized I needed to let Bold Strokes know, and when I did, I got an email back saying you know we do y/a, too? And so I sold the other two to them, and have never looked back since then.

Are there specific rules for writing YA (things you can’t do)? Does Bold Strokes add on or impose specific or additional rules?

I don’t pay too much attention to rules, frankly. There’s no graphic sex in my books, but it’s hinted at. I also try to swear less in young adult books than I do in adult fiction, which is probably not as big of a deal as I think it is? The society I grew up in was a lot more puritanical–believe it or not–that the one we live in today. So I always default to that setting, and then have to shake it off. Swearing isn’t as big of a deal as it used to be. No one thinks they’re marrying a virgin anymore, and on and on. And having been attacked for daring to accept an invitation to speak to queer high school students, I tend to tread softly. There have been a couple of times where I’ve had to change language, or how a scene went, because my editor thought it might be problematic; and frankly, I never want to be offensive, so I have no problem with it. I don’t see it as a free speech issue the way so many intentionally offensive writers claim it is. I shouldn’t take offense to someone calling me a faggot? Grow the fuck up. The so-called free speech “crusaders” are always defending hate speech as well as trying to shut up the people who find it objectionable. You do not have a constitutional freedom from consequences or getting a negative response to things you say and do, period. It’s really not hard to understand unless you want to be passive/aggressive and childish and a moron.

How do you remember back to these days, specifically how it felt or feels? (this is coming from your moderator who is much older than you are)

Well, for one thing, I’ve always kept a journal and I still have them all. (I was insufferable when I was younger, seriously.)

My sister has a theory that we forget a lot of the pleasant memories from our childhoods, but remember the traumas in great detail. I believe the truth of that, because school was a nightmare for me from the day we moved to the suburbs until I was done with it. I remember how it felt to read Greg Herren sucks cock on a desk at school. I remember how it felt to be mocked, laughed at, and bullied by assholes. I do remember the good things, though I tend to always focus on the bad.

The first thing I always do is abandon whatever “wisdom” about life I’ve theoretically learned since leaving high school, and put myself into the teenager mindset: they think they are the main characters in everyone they know’s story, and everything is the end of the world or their life is ruined and you are the most horrible parent ever! I’m not entirely sure I’ve escaped thinking that way, to be brutally honest: I am horribly selfish.

How do you come up with your characters? Your stories?

I am weird in that I inevitably always start with a title. I hear something or read something and think, that would make a good title. The next question is what story would fit that title? And it kind of goes from there. The title may change, the character names and story might change and evolve, but I can’t write anything that doesn’t have a title. Bizarre, I know. Usually with my young adult stuff it’s an idea I’ve had for a number of years and finally decide to explore whether it’s a novel or a short story, and go from there.

Dark Tide was originally called Mermaid Inn, Bury Me in Shadows was originally Ruins, but the others pretty much stayed the same from beginning to end.

I wrote #shedeservedit because I was angry about the Steubenville/Maryville rape cases, and remembered stories and gossip from when I was in high school and college…and rethinking them through a more evolved brain about women and misogyny… well, it made me angrier. I had already planned on writing a story set in the same town with the same characters and opening with the same murder (I always referred to it as “the Kansas book” for years), but the motive was something I always had trouble grounding in reality. After those cases…it clicked in my head. You need to write this story about small town misogyny, protecting the star jocks from the girls at all cost, and make that the plot. It was easy to write because I was angry. Making it a compelling read was harder, because the subject matter was sickening to me.

I needed to write that book, and I don’t regret doing it, either…but it’s not exactly a feel good story people can escape into, either.

Why do you think YA is so popular?

It’s more accessible, I think. I mentioned reading ability before, and I do think that most readers aren’t into the Great Literary Tomes, hundreds of pages of beautiful writing with no real point or story. People kind of want to escape their cares and worries, and y/a books tend to be really entertaining. We’re competing with phones and tablets and streaming, so we need to write entertaining and engaging books.

Any specific must do-s or must-haves to get your writing each day?

I’m not nearly as anal about that as I used to be, before I returned to work full-time. I am very aware that I have little time to waste when I write, and thus must seize whatever opportunities to write show up. But if pressed, coffee. I can’t write unless I’ve had coffee when I got up.