Category: crime fiction

Eight Days a Week

I guess this will be the last Veterans’ Day, since going forward it will be renamed Suckers and Losers Day, right?

It’s Monday morning in the Lost Apartment and I am up early. My vacation is over and I am going back to the office. It’s going to be weird; it feels already like I’ve not been there in eons. But going back to the normal routine after a very restful (if stressful) vacation was inevitable. I had a nice day yesterday, in which I got some things done and made groceries, before Paul and I settled in for an evening of Abbott Elementary and Rivals–both of which I love– and we’ll be finishing Rivals tonight. I’m glad to be back home in New Orleans, and I slept very well last night. I didn’t really want to get up this morning because the bed was so comfortable, but Im not groggy this morning, so that’s a big win for me. I feel rested, which is the point of time off, and ready to face my week and whatever demons are thrown into my path this week. There’s always, sadly, a few.

I also spent some more time with Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory yesterday, and it is truly an exquisitely written and incredibly powerful story. It’s also heartbreaking in its truth about what life was like in Jim Crow Florida for Black people, and it’s a very stinging indictment of whiteness and the false promise of this country. I keep thinking ah yes this is what they mean by make America great again–a return to this kind of disgusting societal norm1s. I will write more about it when I finish savoring it, but I felt it needed to be brought up right now–I am not even waiting for me to finish this book to tell people they need to read it. I started listening to it in the car–the audiobook narration is completely en pointe–and continued reading in physical form when I got home this weekend. It really is superb, and I can see why it was (is?) so acclaimed and it definitely deserved every award it won. Due is going onto my ‘must-read’ list; I’m just sorry it took me this long to dip into her canon.

But after that I think I am going to read a crime novel. I have a shit ton of them in my TBR stack, and with my time on social media being dramatically curtailed going forward (I succumbed to the trap yesterday more than I should have; bad Greg, bad Greg), I should have time to read every night. Tonight I am going to pick up the mail on the way home, and I am going to cook out–it rained all day yesterday–and I’ll read some more while I do that (and clean up the kitchen more). Thanksgiving will be here before we know it, and that’ll be another lovely long weekend. I also decided this past week that this will be the last year I’ll skip Thanksgiving; it’ll mean a lot to my sister to have me there. Dad didn’t go last year (it’s really a Mom holiday), but he might go this year. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have either Dad or my sister, so I should spend as much time with them as I can while I still can. Morbid, yes, but my reality. And yes, since the election I’ve been much more aware of how little time I may have left here.

My new mantra, by the way, is fuck your feelings (see caption on picture), and I am not dialing anything back anymore. What good did being a pick-me gay ever do for me? I’m actually kind of sickened by how much of a ‘pick me’ loser I’ve been for so long in the crime fiction community. My Substack essay? Wasn’t even the fucking tip of the iceberg.

And you know what? DO you have any idea of how many straight “allies” let that kind of shit fly because it doesn’t affect them in the least, and well, if a queer is listening, that’s on them to say something. I can recall exactly ONE time in the last fifteen years when some straight white asshole decided to use the word faggy in front of me at the table in the bar where we were sitting. He smirked and looked right at me when he said it, too; he knew what he was saying and was testing me to see what I’d do or say; in other words, he put his little shriveled dick on the table and dared me to say something to him. As I burned and counted to ten before punching him in his smug smirking face, Lisa Lutz stuck her finger in his face and said, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. We don’t use that word, ever.”

And I will be grateful to her for the rest of my life.

I do find it amusing how many straight men have no clue how close they’ve come to getting punched in the face.

None of this stuff makes me angry anymore; it’s how things are, and I’ve come to the realization that straight white people are never going to change. They are always going to be entitled, selfish monsters who will always convince themselves they were the real victims. “Well, we wouldn’t have had to kill all those Natives if they hadn’t fought back” or “if they hadn’t massacred that white settlement”. If anything, they were too kind to the colonizers. That’s what happens when you give straight white people the benefit of the doubt–it somehow always ends up in genocide.

And on that cheerful note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and never worry–I’ll be here for as long as I can be!

I used to worry about offending straight people by making lewd comments on these pictures, but nobody made you come here, so fuck off. And this picture just needs to be captioned “taste the rainbow.”
  1. For you white people who haven’t thought this through–no offense, but I am sure it’s most of you–when you ask, smugly, who’ll do the menial jobs when everyone is deported? They told us already–those are “Black jobs.” What else did you think they meant? Now do that math. How are they going to get Black people to do that work? Now you’re on the right track. ↩︎

Cool Water

It was lovely getting back into reading last week, and it’s amazing to me how I will just wave off doing things I enjoy; it’s more apparent now than ever that one of the things I need to do is schedule reading time for every week. I am very behind on my reading (always have been) and have been relatively successful at limiting my book purchases this year until I’ve made some more significant progress is working down the TBR pile. I didn’t read as much horror in October as I would have liked, so I was determined to read some more this past week, at least the ones I had planned.

And I am really glad I took The Chill with me to read on the trip.

Molly packed a black silk bag that could be worn as a hood, because she did not want her eyes to open again until she was back in Galesburg.

The bag was soft and lovely but it was also thick and dark, a stronger shield than the burlap sack or simple white pillowcase that she’d considered. And a kinder shield than the black garbage bag.

She put the silk bag inside her purse beside the pools of heavy saltwater fishing line and the long stainless steel hooks. The iron chains and padlock were already hidden on the bluff above the lake.

I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of towns being flooded when dams are built to create reservoirs; Lake Lanier in Georgia is one of those places, and it seems like several times of year that lake claims victims, in vengeance for a black town that was destroyed because hey, who cares what Black people own when white people want the land, right? I’ve always had an amorphous idea about writing such a book, but was never really sure how to go about structuring such a novel. I digress.

Anyway, I was pretty excited when I realized that was what this book was about. I am big fan of his writing under both Carson and his actual name; I’ve loved everything he’s written that I’ve read and think he’s probably one of the greatest crime/horror writers that we have today. He is such a literate writer, and I love that he doesn’t mind writing about supernatural events in crime thrillers, really. God, he is so good.

Galesburg was such a town in upstate New York, flooded and abandoned when the Chilewaukee dam was built to create Lake Chilewaukee; known as The Chill to local residents. But the reservoir, intended to be part of the water system delivering water to new York City, was never connected to the rest of the system. The story was that the kind of rock in the mountain they’d have to tunnel through to make the connection wasn’t the right kind of rock for tunneling through and therefore that plan was abandoned (one of the things I really loved about this book was all the research Carson did on New York’s water system, and the engineering marvels created to do so).

The book centers on a few main characters; a reservoir police officer, the local sheriff, and the local sheriff’s ne’er-do-well son, whom he loves but is losing patience with. The book opens with him heading to the jail to bail out his son, arrested for his latest drug and alcohol binge. The son feels like a loser that his father doesn’t love or understand; he spent his entire life dreaming of being a Coast Guard rescue swimmer, but was dishonorably discharged and his been adrift ever since returning home. He doesn’t have a job, doesn’t cre about anyone or anything, and is on a downward spiral that easily could end with his own death–being older now, I can see the father’s side of it, even as a child who always felt he was never believed about anything and was always at fault; but I can also see that, as a man of his generation, he has no idea how to talk to his son and get him to open up about what young Aaron feels is the waste of his life; but worry and concern often interferes with getting your point across with love and compassion when you’re feeling frustrated.

The other two characters are a father and daughter; the daughter being the afore-mentioned reservoir cop. The father, Deshawn, actually works for the city of New York on digging a third water tunnel for New York, so that the others can be taken out of service and repaired for the first time in over a hundred years. His daughter, Gillian, was born out of a summer relationship he had up there in Torrance; he got spooked eventually, and while he supported her, he never visited or had her come visit. After her mother’s death, her grandmother raised her until she sacrifices herself in the opening chapter; why, we don’t know. Deshawn brought Gillian to New York and raised her; they love each other and are very close. Gillian took the job up there because of her own confusion about her past and this strange pull she has toward the lake that submerged Galesburg…which is where her mother’s family originally were from.

I also appreciated all the information about the water system and the engineering marvels that made it all possible; my dad was an engineer, and the work they do is amazing and often unsung; we take their achievements for granted and never think about them.

The book is also paced like a runaway train. I stayed up till two in the morning to finish it, and it was marvelous. Check it out; you won’t be sorry. And check out his other work as well.

Winds of Change

It was weird reading Gabino Iglesias’ latest, House of Bone and Rain, for any number of reasons that had nothing to do with the quality of the book. I was reading it when that “comedian” called Puerto Rico “a floating pile of garbage” (not that it mattered); while writing my own book, also set during a hurricane; and was thinking about writing another supernatural thriller about teenagers. This book is set in Puerto Rico before, during, and after a hurricane, and the main characters are teenagers. Serendipity? Synchronicity? An interesting series of events? I’m not sure if it’s anything other than a lovely coincidence, but there it is. I also really loved Gabino’s previous novel, the award-winning and critically acclaimed The Devil Takes You Home, which was exceptional, and had my appetite whetted for a follow up.

It says a lot about an author so good they make me overlook things I generally don’t like to read about–machismo, violence–because they are able to turn those things into art.

The last day of classes, our last day as high school students, marked a new era for us. We wanted it. we feared it. We had plans for it. Then Bimbo’s mom hit the sidewalk with two bullet holes in her face, and the blood drowned out all those plans.

Bimbo called to tell us the day after it happened. His real name was Andrés, but we mostly called him Bimbo because he was brown and chubby and looked like the mascot bear of a brand of cookies. It’s normal for people to report the death of a parent. Old age. Cancer. A heart attack. Whatever. Old people die and we expect it, accept it even. It’s normal. Murder is different. Murder is a monster that chews up whatever expectations you had regarding death and spits them in your face. Murder is an attack on someone’s life, yes, but also an attack on those left behind.

When Bimbo called to tell me about the death of his mother, María, I felt attacked. “They shot my mom, man.” Five words about the recent past that were heavy enough to crush out future.

It says a lot about an author so good they make me overlook things I generally don’t like to read about–machismo, violence–because they are able to turn those things into art. I generally don’t like to read about extreme violence, with bones crunching, blood spurting, and teeth flying. Because I do actually abhor the use of violence1, it’s very hard for me to relate to characters who turn to violence for whatever reason; it’s not easy to ever make me think yes, this is the right path. Violence and rage are very dark places to go, and while I completely understand embracing your rage, I will vent it a bit so it calms down before I go there. But Iglesias is the kind of writer who can pull a squeamish reader along the path of male rage and violence, which is emotion-driven rather than logical.

The book centers a group of five young friends who have just graduated from high school, and the brotherhood they develop by uniting as a group and fighting off everyone else; it’s very Three Musketeers-like; “anyone fucks with one of us, they fuck with all of us.” Iglesias also provides enough back story to make each character an individual–not easy to do with so many characters–as well as the group dynamic and why, despite any internal squabbling, they always try to present a united front on this dark odyssey of revenge and violence. Gabe, our narrator, is kind of at loose ends at the opening of the book and not knowing what he wants to do with his life. He has a girlfriend he genuinely cares about and wants to build a life with, who wants to move to the mainland and go to nursing school–and wants him to come with…but his own ties to Puerto Rico, including his mother, make it hard for him to make the choice. What if he does and it doesn’t work out? What will he do then? He is transitioning from callow youth into manhood at far too young an age, but…that’s what life is like for people living under colonization.2

Gabe is also the conscience of the story–if there can actually be one. He goes along with his brothers to get revenge for Bimbo’s mother’s murder, which puts them afoul of a drug cartel (seriously, who sets out to kill the head of a murderous criminal cartel?), but there’s also something else going on…there’s some supernatural elements involved with the cartel as well that either could just be gossipy stories to scare people into obedience, or might just be real.

The book barrels along at an excellent pace–the length of time it took for me to get through it had nothing to do with the quality; I was trying to savor it because I was enjoying the voice and the writing so much. It’s also very vivid and real; Iglesias writes in such a way that puts you right there in the room with the characters–and always, there’s this foreboding sense that time is running out for the boys, and not all of them may make it to the end.

An excellent mash-up of horror, crime, and noir stylings, I have to say this is terrific, so check it out.

  1. Ain’t going to lie, there’s a part of my brain that does think that those who commit violence should get it back, repeatedly and far worse, than they dealt. ↩︎
  2. After the Puerto Rico garbage insult, people thought Puerto Rico should become a state; which I found amusing. No, they should be granted their independence from their final colonizers and paid reparations. Who says statehood in a racist country is desirable for them? ↩︎

Just a Little

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and all is well. It’s raining, and has been since last night–probably related in some ways to the hurricane, Rafael–so I slept deeply and well last night. It was muggy and miserable outside when I ran my errands yesterday morning, and today I have to make a grocery run, but rather than what I usually do–go in the morning or right around noon–I am going to go later and try to get all the things done today that I need to do here in the house instead. That makes the most sense to me, because usually making groceries (going out in public and being around other people in general) ends up with me in the chair with a sleeping kitty curled up in my lap. I want to get these other posts/book reviews done this morning, and I want to do some more writing today; I really need to get back on the Scotty horse this week. I also am going to start going to the gym a couple of times per week. Protecting my mental health is my biggest priority right now. The nice thing is that now that LSU humiliated itself in front of the nation last night, we don’t really have to pay much attention to college football anymore this year. Really, it’s such an enormous waste of time on a free day that I really shouldn’t waste my time on it going forward. I will say that I was incredibly lucky when I landed Paul; we both have the kind of dark sense of humor that makes us laugh about this horrible world in which we’ve always lived. It’s gotten us through some really dark days, and at least I have someone to face down the darkness with–while pointing and laughing at it. Thank heaven for him, seriously.

But my relationship isn’t real, you know. Perverts can’t love, right?

I am completely out of fucks now, and so yesterday I wrote a Substack entry talking about some of the homophobia I’ve experienced in the crime fiction community, and it got me a lot of new subscribers. I called out some people in the piece, not by name–I can never really get over that polite thing that was instilled so deeply in me by my mother–but I said some things that have been bouncing around in my brain for quite a while. Bigotry is very insidious, and it pops up all the fucking time, whether it’s direct aggression or a micro-aggression. I’ve always been the kind to give people the benefit of the doubt–“well, they don’t know how homophobic they are being”, but no more. Straight men making jokes about being gay, or gay people in general, or our sexuality, isn’t funny. It isn’t funny to have a writer’s retreat you mocking call after a movie which is literally about how much it sucks to be gay in this country and one of the main characters is beaten to death for it, ha ha ha, how funny!1 Maybe we can have a gay male writing retreat we can jokingly name after a miscarriage, or a dead child? If my rights are going to be stripped away from me, why the fuck should I keep giving straight people the benefit of the doubt? (I know, I know, #notallstraightpeople, right? Yes, yes, those of you in the dominant culture are the real fucking victims.) I never completely trusted straight people to begin with–you know, the people who wanted us all to die in the 1980s and laughed about it–and have always been somewhat wary.

Clearly, that wariness was smart. I haven’t felt this way since 2004, when the entire country made it abundantly clear to queer people that they think we don’t deserve love or happiness or full citizenship.2

You can never go wrong expecting straight people to be horrible. Trust me, they’ll never disappoint–like the ones I actually know who basically called all queer people groomers and pedophiles and couldn’t understand why that was like punching me in the mouth. I’ve shared meals with you. I’ve hung out with you. I’ve been nice to you. But queer people shouldn’t be around children, right? Thanks for nothing, mediocre bitch.

But I no longer care about other people’s feelings anymore, or not wanting to make other people feel bad about their own fucking bigotry. I’m not explaining to you why you’re a problematic bigot anymore. You don’t like and there’s nothing I can do about that–so fuck you to hell and back. I’m not getting paid to educate your stupid ass, nor do I care about your fucking feelings. You have no idea what a fucking bitch I can be, and I am taking the gloves off now. I’m not playing nice anymore, and until proven otherwise, you’re my enemy. I don’t like being that way, but how many times do we have to be abused by our fellow Americans before we finally say fucking enough?

And if you ever ask me to be on a fucking diversity panel ever again, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born–or demand payment for being an educator to troglodytes.

Be nice we need their support.

No more fucks.

Have a great day, Constant Reader.

  1. You want an idea how offensive that is? My partner was almost beaten to death twenty years ago and lost an eye. HILARIOUS, right, assholes? It’s no different than telling rape jokes. ↩︎
  2. Funny how we still have to pay all of our taxes to a system with its boot on our throats. ↩︎

Catch Us If You Can

I rolled into New Orleans around eight thirty last night; twelve hours, give or take, in the car for the second time in less than a week. It was an okay drive, although there was a lot more traffic than I would have preferred. It was also cold in Kentucky but hot when I got further south, so I didn’t dress properly for the drive and got home feeling kind of icky. But the good news is that neither drive exhausted me the way that drive used to, which is pretty awesome. This is also the first time I’ve been up there since new meds/surgery recovery. I slept well the entire time I was there and wasn’t tired for a change, too. I’ve gotten a lot closer to my dad since Mom passed away almost two years ago–they were such a unit and so devoted to each other that they were all either really needed. I didn’t foresee this, and talking to him about my childhood and what it was like for them when they were young and first dating and so on. I choked up many times while I was up there that I lost count, but I still won’t cry in front of my dad–childhood training in masculinity still deeply engrained in me.

I also have decided, in the wake of last Tuesday, that my primary focus going forward is myself (and Paul and Sparky, of course) and not wasting any energy on things I cannot control. I have finally achieved some kind of mental stability and settled into my life and who I am and what I want out of my life, so I am going to enjoy myself and focus on my work and Paul for as long as I can until I either have to step up because of my conscience, or…I get classified as a dissident for my sexuality and my work, with whatever horrors that is going to bring. I accepted a long time ago that most straight white people are homophobic garbage, and even those who think they are allies don’t care about us when they are voting. These people wanted us all dead in the 1980s, and I guess that’s what we’re going back to. I also decided to unsubscribe from a bunch of newsletters, and did so this morning. I will never go back to CNN or MSNBC; and I am definitely for sure done with the New York Times, Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times. Fuck you people forever. Have fun being controlled by the state, assholes. This is what you wanted, and no sympathy from me. I also am going to severely limit my time on social media. I’ve wasted too much of my life on there as it is, and I have better things to do.

I guess not enough people have seen Cabaret, or missed its message.

I did finish Gabino Iglesias’ latest (more on that later) and started Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory, which is extraordinary; I also read Scott Carson’s The Chill, which I also loved (more on that later). I also had some ideas while I was up there for stuff that I am working on, and am looking forward to getting all that worked on in the upcoming week. I have a manuscript to edit, a manuscript to write, and all kinds of other things to work on and complete and get back to the gym so I can get myself back into better shape again and be healthier. It will help me have more energy–which now that I sleep better has also improved (well, and finally recovering completely from my surgery), and while I do know it’s unrealistic to expect to ever get back the energy I used to have, regular exercise will help decrease muscle loss with age and bone density, which is something I have to be concerned about genetically. I also find that regular exercise triggers my creativity, which is pretty fucking awesome.

I have a lot of things to do today–errands and such–and of course there are great football games on today, capped off by Alabama-LSU in Baton Rouge tonight. I also have some other posts to do–book reviews of what I read while I was gone–and I also have some thoughts about essays I want to get working on. So have a lovely Saturday, hang in there, and by all means, protect your mental health. You’re probably going to need it.

Baby the Rain Must Fall

Up far earlier than usual on a Sunday morning1, because of course, later on today I am driving to Kentucky. Twelve hours in the car, but I’ve figured out what to listen to on the drive, which is cool. I don’t know what traffic is going to be like, but that’s cool; I am also going to go a different way than I usually do–going thru Nashville instead of the nightmare that is always Chattanooga–so that will be interesting.

I was very tired yesterday morning, the way I always am on Saturday, but I got errands done and then came home to work on the house and get ready for today. We mostly watched football all day before going to bed; starting with Vanderbilt-Auburn (Auburn lost) and Mississippi-Arkansas, then Georgia-Florida, capping the night off with South Carolina’s big win over Texas A&M. The SEC is indeed crazy this season; it almost seems like no one wants to win it all this year. Now, all the one-loss and two-loss teams are going to continue knocking each other off the rest of the season, which is wild. LSU still has a chance, but they have to win out…and that won’t be easy (Alabama, Florida, Oklahoma, and Vanderbilt remain on the schedule). Interesting season, this first year of super-conferences and paying players and a play-off, hasn’t it been? All in all, a very nice, relaxing day was had by everyone in the Lost Apartment, including demon kitty Sparky–who turned himself into a love bug for the entire day. I’ve not yet packed or loaded up the car–I got up early this morning to do that specifically, as well as to add to the “I’m really tired so will sleep well tonight” feeling when I get there tonight. I’ll also be on the road for the Saints game today, so GEAUX SAINTS and I hope they do well.

It’ll be nice spending some time with Dad, resting and relaxing and reading. I don’t know if he’ll want to go do things–like sight-see historical sites in the area (I am not going to the Ark, rest assured of that)–or if we’ll end up just sitting around chatting and watching television. The weather will be similar up there to what we’re having down here, which is great as I don’t want to take a coat with me, either. I decided to finish listening to Gabino’s book in the car on the way up, move on to The Reformatory, finish reading it over the week, and then listen to Shadowlands in the car on the way home, so I can finish reading it when I get home Friday. I have a lovely weekend when I get home before I have to go back to work, and then of course it’s only a few more weeks to Thanksgiving. Paul is probably going to visit his mom for the holiday, which will give me a long weekend alone at home with Sparky, which could be a lot of fun.

And of course, once I get home from this trip I need to really get back to work on the book and everything else around here that I want to get finished by the end of the year. I need to do some research on actual hurricanes (as well as the ones that have hit New Orleans over the centuries, including from before when they got names), and I hope to spend some time brainstorming on the book’s plot. I know I want it to shift direction several times, but I am still not sure of how everything comes together and why, which is part of the fun ohf writing these types of novels, isn’t it?

And on that note, I think I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely, lovely day, Constant Reader, and I don’t know how much I’ll be here posting this week, so hang in there without me, okay? MAKE SURE YOU VOTE.

  1. But not as early as it usually feels, thank you for the extra hour this morning, Daylight Savings Time. ↩︎

The Seventh Son

Saturday and I need to make a to-do list, as well as a packing list. I do get an extra hour of sleep tomorrow morning (thank you, daylight savings change!) which should make the drive somewhat easier. I am also kind of excited about trying a new route, which is oddly thrilling to get out of the usual rut of going the same way I have ever since I started driving up there around the turn of the century. I was still very tired yesterday from Thursday’s toe procedure (which isn’t difficult to care for, so that bit of anxiety was for nothing) so after I finished yesterday’s work, I ran my errands. I picked up my new glasses, got the mail, and picked up a prescription before heading home and just collapsing into my chair. Paul was working, so I watched the news clips and so forth to make certain I was aware of the daily madness that is the election, and then Paul and I finished off Agatha All Along, which was fan-fucking-tastic (more on that later, as the utter queerness of the show deserves more reflection and commentary) and for which I am hoping there will be another season, which was sort of set up in the show, too, although they may not be able to call it the same thing. Such brilliant writing and direction and production values and the acting! The show should get multiple Emmy nominations, but I am pulling mostly for Patti LuPone, who was fantastic as Lilia. Today I have to clean the house and make groceries for Paul and run a few errands and pack. LSU is off this weekend, so I don’t care about the games today–background noise, more than anything else, really–and hopefully, I’ll get to read some today as well. I just don’t want to get lazy, you know, and blow everything off and leave it for next Saturday when I am home again.

It’s kind of nice not to have my toe hurting again. I have to go back to the podiatrist next month (how is next month December already?) to have it looked over again. Yay! Closing out the year with non-stop doctor appointments constantly isn’t exactly the biggest thrill of my life but might as well use the insurance as much as possible before the deductible kicks in again…and I am rather pleased with both the dermatologist and the podiatrist; I’ve really felt like I am in better care than I ever have been since I fired that primary care doctor last year. I am dragging a bit today, too–carryover from the shock to my system as well as exhaustion from the week, which is okay; I usually am dragging a bit on Saturdays lately, which is why watching games all day on Saturdays usually is so appealing. But I’ll finish this, take a reading break, get cleaned up and redress the wound, and then run those errands. I’m not terribly concerned about doing any writing today, although I might so as not to lose the time. I mean, I probably won’t even be here after tomorrow until Saturday anyway. And so much will have changed by then, too. The election will be over, for one–I can’t be the only person who is sick of the endless elections cycles; elections were never meant to be a billion dollar industry, let alone a life-career path. They also didn’t expect people to make a life out of public service, either, but here we are.

Imagine my shock, when sitting down at my desk and waking up my computer simply to see that I never finished writing this, let alone never posted it. Bad Greg! I am getting older, you know. Yikes. I don’t think I’ve ever started in the morning and never finished the entry till later, which is bizarre. Ah, well. I did run my errands, and it was a lovely day outside. I Armor-All’ed the inside of the car, vacuumed it out, and washed it. I should do that every few weeks, frankly, and maybe going forward that will be my plan. I got the mail (another royalty payment; that’s two this week!), made groceries, came home, went to the car wash and then stopped at the Fresh Market. I think I have Paul supplied, plus he can always eat out whenever he wants to or doesn’t want to mess with making anything. Now I just need to make my packing list and get started on that, too. I’d like to get the suitcase packed and loaded into the car today, and then tomorrow morning the other things can go into the car as I depart New Orleans for the week. I did spend some time this morning with House of Bone and Rain (I keep saying blood instead of bone, which also works, but not as well), which continues to be extraordinary; I’ve decided to finish listening to it in the car on the way north tomorrow, move on to The Reformatory in the car, which I’ll finish up there, and then on the way home I can listen to Shadowlands, which I’ll finish reading when I get home next weekend. A very good plan, methinks.

And on that note, I am going to bring this to a close as it is LONG overdue. Have a great Saturday, and I’ll post tomorrow before leaving town.

A Walk in the Black Forest

Thursday leaving work early because I have an appointment with a podiatrist (for the very first time in my life) to see if a) I have arthritis in my big toes and b) if there’s anything that can be done to stop, or at least delay, the continuing pronation of my feet. I have finally found an every day shoe that is incredibly comfortable and my leg joints finally feel good again–or at least, don’t ache. (Air Monarchs, to be exact. I love my new shoes.) I slept really well again, which is great, but I do feel a bit wrung out, if that makes sense? I was very tired yesterday when I got home from work–came straight home, too–and so took the evening off after finishing the character list (so far) and starting the outline. Maybe, if I’m not too tired from running errands tonight after work, I’ll be able to get some writing done on the book before the trip, which is Sunday.

And it’s Halloween! Yay! I didn’t get as much horror read this year as I would have liked, but I think I am still going to read some more horror for a while, just for the fun of it, before going back to my usual crime novels. I am so far behind on my reading it’s not even funny at this point. I will try to read some tonight, since tomorrow is a work-at-home day and I don’t have to get up at six (Sparky to the contrary). My new glasses also have come in, so I need to pick them up before I leave town. Yay! I’m not dressing up for work–I always go as Bitter Old Queen Close to Retirement— but I do miss the days when I would wear costumes for Halloween. I was never good at costumes; I always say the descriptor for my costumes started with ‘slutty.’ Yup, I used to be one of those gay men, ready for any opportunity to go shirtless and/or dress ‘slutty.’ I don’t see anything wrong with it, though–then or now, for that matter. I’ve never been one to turn up my nose at embracing our bodies and our sexuality in a positive, healthy way, and yes, I’ve had people explain to me almost my entirely openly queer adulthood about how ‘desperate’ and ‘thirsty’ that is, that gays who dress like that1 and show off their bodies are just attention-seeking narcissists who love to show off, etc. etc. etc. I’d listen to them, all the while thinking and if one of them was interested in you, you wouldn’t say no2 and wow you are really saying this to me. Bold choice to insult me right to my face!3

The thing is, gay men are just as guilty as everyone else of making assumptions on other gay men, based on superficiality, and sometimes place more value on how people look than who they are. This is not peculiar to gay men, either; everyone does this. When I lost weight and joined a gym, it was astonishing how differently I was treated by strangers…

Envy is always ugly, for the record, which is why I refuse to go down that path with my writing colleagues. No good ever comes from envy (as opposed to spite, my primary motivator), it’s a waste of time and energy because it doesn’t change anything, and so I don’t indulge myself with it anymore, and haven’t in over twenty years. I never envy anyone their talent or their careers. That’s pointless, and who wants to head down the path of negativity like that? My focus going forward is to try to stay positive, while making myself and my career more of a priority than it ever has been before. And it kind of feels good, you know? It’s so incredibly freeing to say “I don’t care” and “no thank you” and “sorry that just doesn’t work for me.” (That last is my absolute favorite.)

I actually do feel a bit rundown this morning, now that the coffee’s hit and I’ve had some sugary treats for breakfast (follow me for tips on how to live a more healthy lifestyle!), I do feel a bit of fatigue and some slight brain fog. At least I’m not exhausted, the way I used to get by the time Thursday rolled around again. That’s progress.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, and I may be back later.

  1. A former woman friend of mine, when I once complained about being groped without my consent in gay bars, replied, without missing a beat, “That’s what you get for dressing like a whore” to which I replied, “so you’re saying I’m asking to get raped?” and the look on her face was priceless as that reality dawned on her. I really should have cut her off at least a decade before I did. She was the kind of Trumpelthinskin asshole I have come to detest: “I get to say horrible and cruel things to and about people because I’m being funny but IT IS NOT FUNNY WHEN PEOPLE DO THAT TO ME AND HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE SO HEARTLESS AND MEEEEEEAAAAAAANNNNNN TO MEEEEEEEEE???.” Immature piece of shit. ↩︎
  2. Trust me, scruples go out the window for gay men when someone hot is interested. You’d be surprised (maybe not) at how many gay men want that homophobic POS Nick Bosa to fuck them…and let’s not forget Aaron Schock. I appreciate their looks, but who they literally are as human beings is so revolting to me that I could never. ↩︎
  3. I have so many marvelous stories about not being taken seriously because of how I looked, but that’s a story for another time. ↩︎

I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am

Yeah, I’ve been big on the Tudors for most of my life–first the Virgin Queen, and then her father, Henry VIII and his many wives1, and eventually the entire family (Henry VIII’s sister Margaret was a pistol–and it is her descendants who sit on the throne today, not Henry’s). As I got older, I became more interested in the century as a whole, and eventually I moved on from the Tudors to the Stuarts, who I find much more interesting. I still love the Tudors, and will watch documentaries and films, but won’t read any more books about them, especially because I’ve not really scratched more than the surface with the Stuarts, and I want to read more about the Tudors’ French contemporaries, the House of Valois. (Yes, I loved The Tudors, because it was more of a Renaissance version of Dynasty; I don’t watch historical films and expect accuracy2, and if you are, wake the fuck up. Book adaptations are never the same as the book, either. It’s entertainment, not a fucking documentary.)

Speaking of entertainment, I finally gave up on Jon Stewart with his defense of the indefensible. His joining in on the media’s decision to badger and hound Joe Biden–one of the most successful presidents of all fucking time–out of the race? None of that, not one bit of that, was actual concern; they all were giving (and continued, until recently) Shady Marmalade a pass on his obvious mental decline…and Jon’s decision to defend the indefensible “because comedian”? Fuck off and die, you arrogant rich white cisgender piece of shit. I’ll never watch him again, so congrats on that year contract extension, Comedy Central. You thought calling Puerto Rico a floating pile of garbage was funny? You thought comparing Travis Kelce to OJ, implying he’ll murder Taylor Swift, was funny? And on and on and on. Straight white male comedians will always circle the wagons for another comedian with a penis, but when a woman comedian (see: Kathy Griffin) is being attacked, not a fucking word? So he’s a misogynist, too. I’m not telling you what to do, Constant Reader, but Jon Stewart is dead to me, now and forever. And don’t even get me started on the 49ers and Nick the Traitor Bosa. Talk about pussy. Someone got slapped down by management when he hit the locker room and before he talked to the press, and like a good little beta soyboy, he caved and sulked like the pathetic emotionally-and-intellectually stunted bitch he is. He’s not being punished because when asked he shut his fucking mouth, which is the other primary difference between him and a true hero, Colin Kaepernick (besides the obvious “white man gets away with shit a Black man never could” racism).

And really, 49ers managers and coaching staff? Your team represents San Francisco, the most tolerant city in the country. Trade him to Dallas, where he belongs.

Thank God I am on anxiety medications. If not, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all since June. But the medications and my personal ban on legacy media companies who are garbage and untrustworthy has helped a lot with my election anxiety, and refusing to engage with the trash on-line (block, block, block) I’ve managed to take good care of my own mental health this time around. I refuse to worry about what will happen if he wins, or if he loses and they try another violent coup; I do, every once in a while, think you always wondered what it was like to be a Berliner in 1933…and I didn’t really need to get an answer to that question, you know?

I feel good this morning yet again; I’ve been sleeping well every night this week and it’s been really nice. I did my errands last night, got home and got started on the dishes and did some other clean-up around here. Paul didn’t get home until late, so I mostly went down Youtube idle curiosity research holes. I also managed to get the Scotty Bible’s first draft finished; it’s just raw information for now that I have to reorganize and pull together. I am also realizing, as I mentioned yesterday, that I should do a concordance of everything I’ve written by place; Kansas, California, New Orleans, Louisiana, Florida, and Alabama. That’s the problem of having characters cross over from stand-alones to the series and back again, you know? I was realizing that the lawyer the boys hire in Royal Street Reveillon doesn’t have as much information in the Scotty series about him as I would have thought…only to remember that Loren McKeithen has a much larger role in the Chanse series than the Scotty. Oops!

I also realized last night, as I watched news clips and documentaries about the Civil War, that with my anxiety gone I no longer feel the need to belittle and dismiss things I’ve accomplished in this wild and crazy career of mine. I’ve written a shit ton of books, short stories, and blog posts–and when I think about all the queer papers and magazines that I’ve written for over the years, yes, my output has been a bit prodigious. It wasn’t false humility (though I am often horrified at how easy it is to slip into egomania, and always over-correct once I catch myself); I honestly still thought I wasn’t very good at what I do. I always compare myself to other writers and come up wanting; but it’s really not a competition of any kind; I appreciate great writers who produce great work, and my work is different from theirs. I always strive to be better, to get better, and not stagnate–the problem that creates is it extrapolates to I could have done that better and dismissing it. Those are the kind of brain landmines I need to watch for, and avoid whenever possible. I’m proud of all my work, for the record. Sure, going through the old Scotty books was always difficult (I always edit it another time as I’m reading it) but doing it for the Bible, where I’m just looking for information, was different. Sure, there were some clunky things I could have said better, but overall, I was actually a little surprised to see how good–and clever–the books actually are. It also reminded me of how I used to write the first ones, what I have always tried to do in my work–whether anyone notices or not. (Someone once emailed me after reading one of my books and said, “Did you deliberately do this?” and delighted, I wrote back “Absolutely!” That was a big thrill for me.)

And I am proud of my work. I overcame so many obstacles to build this career, and I am pleased with myself, too. My books are pretty good–yes, there will always be a few where I think, God I wish I could give that one more pass, but even those are pretty good. There are some I am more pleased with than others; yes, I have favorite children. But that doesn’t mean that I am not pleased with all of them. How many people told me along the way that this would never happen for me, that I didn’t have what it takes, or that I have no ability at all? Maybe, maybe not–but if that’s what you think, how many books have you published? How many awards have you been nominated for, or won?

I really wish I’d known it was anxiety much sooner.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again, perhaps later!

  1. I love that historians count all of the women he married as his wives; although technically the first two were actually annulled, so the marriages were never, at least legally, valid. ↩︎
  2. I totally understand why films and television shows based on history have to make changes; the actual stories don’t play out perfectly for different media and thus must be adapted. I do ↩︎

Go Now

Ah, Sunday morning and the last day of relaxation before I return to work tomorrow, and of course next weekend I am driving up to Kentucky. That’ll be nice, if exhausting–I never sleep enough when I travel–but I’ll get to see my sister and spend time with Dad, which is always nice. I’ll get to listen to books in the car, and read some while I am up there. I doubt I’ll write anything; or even edit much. I should just accept that in advance since it never happens, and I’ll have my journal with me and the laptop if the urge should strike. That should be enough, don’t you think? I know I certainly do.

Yesterday was kind of a flat day. I ran my errands and came home to watch football games, and was pretty tired. I did end up getting some chores done around watching games, but not much of anything. I did read some, too, between games. About the best game of the day was Texas-Vanderbilt; Alabama seems to have righted their ship at last, Auburn finally notched a win, and LSU lost last night at Texas A&M. They played great in the first half and then just crumbled in the second, and it was mostly the offense and the kicking team that cost the Tigers the game. But good for you, Aggies–your rivalry renewal game with Texas over Thanksgiving just became super-important. We don’t play again until November 9th, when Alabama comes to Baton Rouge, and we’ll see how and if the ship gets righted that night. I can’t remember the last time the two played where both had two losses coming into the game…I cooked out last night and that turned out well, and I did get some things done yesterday. There’s a few dishes in the sink and of course, the floors…but mostly today I think I am going to focus on writing and reading the most. I want to work on the Scotty Bible today and I want to revisit the manuscript completely, and of course there are short stories and essays to be worked on, as always. So, once I finish this I’m going to go read for a while with my coffee, and then get cleaned up and get to work on writing. Exciting!

I do want to start the week with the apartment cleaned, for one thing.

Yesterday I was thinking–during the dull Alabama-Missouri game–about projects I want to work on and the things I want to get done over the course of the next year, until 2026. It’s an ambitious slate, to be sure, and does require me to actually focus and work rather than blow everything off and spent time with Sparky, who gets sweeter and sweeter every day. He’s finally started cuddling and sleeping with us downstairs while we watch television–he’ll sleep on Paul before moving over to me in the chair–and of course, every morning he gets into bed with me (because he’s hungry) and is kind of a snooze button/alarm that I much prefer to the clanging of the actual one. I need to research hurricanes, too, because I am writing about one, so it doesn’t hurt to actually research and find out a basic overview of them so I can write about it in the book. I do think this Scotty could easily turn out to be the best of the bunch, frankly. Which is a nice feeling to have, I don’t remember feeling that way with the last two, but at the same time I also wrote the last two maybe five years apart? That’s kind of crazy, because I really should at most space them a year and a half apart, which I’ve not done in well over a decade. Kind of nuts, isn’t it? I’d say so. That’s no way to write a series, is it? I don’t know. I probably don’t care all that much, either. I’ve never been terribly smart about my writing career, mainly because my primary driver is the writing itself. I love writing, even when I complain about it, but it’s my primary source of joy in this life.

This week I have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday, with a podiatrist to see about my pronating feet and what is up with the pain in my big toes. It’s not always and it’s not bad enough to make me limp, but it is noticeable. I also noticed when I was pushing the cart around the grocery store yesterday that my hips were sore and hurting, which means time for a new pair of shoes. I should probably get that checked out as well, but it is most likely a side effect from my feet and their pronation. It wouldn’t surprise me if I’d need to have them (the hips, not my feet) replaced at some point over the next five years or so. My new glasses should come in as well, which will be great. I’m hoping they come in before I leave for Kentucky, because I got transition lenses because bright light and glare have become really painful for me, and that will help me on the drive up. I also think I am going to be brave and go up a different way, skipping Chattanooga by going north on I-65 at Birmingham to go through Nashville instead. That’s a better route for me; there’s a lot more places to eat and get gas between Birmingham and Nashville than there are between Birmingham and Chattanooga. I can always come back the normal way–I do want to get a look at the rest stops on 75 for a short story that I think I’ve finally figured out–which never seems to be as bad as going, you know?

And on that note, I need to get another cup of coffee and have breakfast and get cleaned up this morning so I can have a good, productive day. I hope you have a marvelous Sunday, too, Constant Reader, and I’ll chat with you again probably a little later.