Monday morning after a lovely weekend, and we have Labor Day coming up this weekend. Huzzah! I am a little bleary for being up so early this morning, but I don’t feel tired, just not completely awake yet. The good news is I wrote thirteen hundred words of the new Scotty yesterday, and feel very smug and pleased about it. At first I was concerned when the tap was turned off, 1300 words is nothing compared to my old output, but I realized those muscles are tight and haven’t really been used as thoroughly or regularly as I should, so they are going to need to be retrained, just like I need to be retrained with regular going to the gym. I have to slowly build back up so I don’t strain or pull one of those muscles. The weekend was nice–low humidity, and the so the temperatures didn’t feel as brutal, especially since we’ve gotten used to it “feeling like” over 110 for almost two solid months. Yeesh. I think the humidity is coming back today; I know we may have rain this afternoon. But overall, this morning I feel pretty good–at least so far–and am ready to get some stuff done.
It really is lovely to have the weekends free from everything, you know? I didn’t get nearly as much work done on the house as I would have liked, but at the same I worry the lack of pressure or any anxiety driving me is making me a bit more lackadaisical when it comes to things…despite intellectually knowing that my brain has been rewired so I have to rewire everything else to get things done. It’s a learning process, and I had thought I had my routines and so forth down to a science. And hopefully, this time around I will not teach myself the bad habits I allowed to develop over the years. We shall see, won’t we? I did also rethink some of this stuff over the weekend, too. I’ve been so rigid in my writing and how I construct a novel and rarely, if ever, varied that pattern. It was what worked for me then, and I never really had the free time to sit down and figure all of this stuff out. I’m kind of doing that now, and I also think writing two books at the same time (when I was still writing books and hadn’t yet encountered the nightmare that was 2023 kind of broke my writer brain a little bit. It happens, you know? But the rigid way I always used to write my books wasn’t working for Never Kiss a Stranger, and because it’s not my usual kind of crime novel, the unstructured writing of it made it much harder to write. If I am going to finish that book–and I intend to at some point–it needs a plot summary and an outline. Maybe that’s something I can work on while I work on this new Scotty? Stranger things have happened, after all.
Maybe, just maybe, I should do the same with Scotty, rather than making it up as I go? Again, I did that with the first and second, didn’t I? Something indeed to ponder as the three day weekend draws nearer and nearer by the day. I am excited to be writing another Scotty book, because it’s in my comfort zone, and isn’t that where I need to be to get into the swing of persevering with the daily writing, in my comfort zone? I think it’s probably smarter to write another Scotty, and then step out of my comfort zone and go back to Never Kiss a Stranger...although I did remember yesterday why I focused on finishing it in the first place. It developed from me going from finishing the novellas into a collection, realizing this one could be a really good novel, and then moving on to writing it…when what I should have been doing, if I wasn’t doing another Scotty, was finishing either Muscles or Chlorine, and I am going to write one of those next, PERIOD.
But it’s also nice to be putting thought into these things.
On the way home, I am going to stop and make groceries. Once I am there I am going to finish the dishes and laundry, possibly make dinner (or possibly not), and get the rugs back in place in the kitchen. Paul will be home, so I should make something for dinner but I’m not really sure what…and I definitely don’t like deciding while at the store itself what to make for dinner. Pizza would probably be the easiest thing, really; just got one of those premade crusts and slather pizza sauce and cheese over it. I do need to work on my cabinets, but that might be a project for the three-day weekend. I also need to revise and update the to-do list. I feel pretty good this morning, and the nice thing is that my “bad” days now are just more low-energy than depressions as deep as the Grand Canyon, like it was before. I also need to start listening to my body again. I need to stretch regularly, and I need to get back to rehabbing my arm/shoulder at the gym or I will never get back to (as close to) normal (as I can get after the injury and surgery) again. But I’m starting to fall into a routine, I’m not sleepy and groggy until well after ten every morning anymore, and getting up is more about leaving the warmth and comfort of the bed more than anything else.
I hate when I’m comfortable and have to stop.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader. I might be back later–I’m trying to write an essay about toxic masculinity for the Substack, and trying to stick to the “one essay per week” thing there. Or…I may come back over here and try to talk about something, you never know.
Wednesday morning and back to the office with me today. It’s a good thing, but I did really enjoy my four days of rest and relaxation. Yesterday I did nothing. I mean, I didn’t put any pressure on myself to do anything and was just a lazy slug for most of the day. I did do some of the dishes, and I did make salisbury steak for dinner (I really do like it, and it wasn’t that difficult) and even took a nap yesterday afternoon (fell asleep for almost two hours in my chair). I watched the DNC last night, and was reminded of how much I love the Obamas; Michelle certainly burned the Republicans to the ground, and after years of them going high–it was nice to see them drag the right and Trump for the racist, juvenile filth they are. It was very cathartic to see and hear, frankly. I feel so much better about the election it’s like a whole new world for us to live in now. Oh, I know it’s going to be much closer than it should be (bigotry and prejudice will still sway some people, alas), and election night is going to be incredibly stressful. But I no longer dread the election, even if it there is an eternity until the votes are counted.
These changes over the last month or so have been so incredible. I went from feeling like I was living under another dark cloud–the same one that’s been up there since 2016–and that dark cloud just made everything else so much worse. Everything just seemed bleak, and then so much else happened in the time since. I think that also had a lot to do with the writing burnout I was/am experiencing on top of everything else awful that has happened in the intervening eight years. There were a lot of dark clouds since 2016, and of course when you’re already prone to things because of your anxiety and some deeply imbedded self-loathing that you’ve never really gotten past, it makes the writing so much harder. I’ve clearly slowed down over the last seven years or so–and the successes I’ve had I’ve not really been able to enjoy. I’ve been nominated for a lot of mainstream awards since the sewage rode the escalator down and grifted his way into the White House, which is incredibly cool.
It’ hard to believe it has only been a month since the President decided not to run again.
I’m also on the fence about Never Kiss a Stranger, and I am slowly coming to the conclusion that it just may not be the time for me to write it. I think I am going to go back over those chapters I’ve already done this week and try fixing them. I think that it’s not so much “Imposter Syndrome” or burnout or even laziness as it is maybe not the right time to write this book. Maybe it’s not a book and should just remain novella length? Not everything has to be a novel, after all. It does, as a novella, need more work; but it also needs more work as a book. And if I can’t decide right now which one it should be…maybe it’s just not the right time for me to be writing this book. Maybe I should just write another Scotty–not that it will be easy to do so–but just to get back into the swing of writing again. There is something comforting about revisiting Scotty’s world; and it means I need to revisit those books, and maybe–just maybe–it’s time to copy edit Jackson Square Jazz and get that ebook up and available.
And it’s also entirely possible that Never Kiss a Stranger is one of those projects destined to remain unfinished. I have quite a few of those on hand these days, it seems! But not everything needs to be finished, and not every idea plays out in a story or a novella or into a book, you know? I also worry about repeating myself with my work; what if I’ve already written this character or this story or used this subplot already1; the problem is I’ve been creating and writing for so long–as well as plundering old stuff for plots and character names–that the possibility of completely forgetting that I’ve used a plot or characters already is pretty high.
So, I am going to futz around the rest of this week, work on some stories, and maybe see how a new Scotty might flow for me. Hey, you never know.
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 later on or tomorrow!
Absolutely no disrespect intended, but even Agatha Christie recycled plots. ↩︎
Yesterday was kind of nice. I worked on the apartment and worked on some stories–mostly thinking, some writing, some notes–and started working on the desk area too. We started watching Bad Monkey (more on that later), and then spent a lot of time streaming Solar Opposites, which continues to delight. I also started working on the rugs and the floors, which is way overdue, and also did some other work on the apartment, too. I feel very good this morning, as far as being rested and everything is concerned. I slept deeply and well, Sparky woke me up around eight this morning–when I first woke up he was curled up into a kitty coil sound asleep, so I closed my eyes and turned over…which got him up and brought him up to my face to see if I was, indeed, actually awake. I let him do that for a while, before succumbing and getting up. Today is my Birthday Eve, and while I do need to make a grocery run and get the mail, I can stay inside most of the day and do whatever i please. I plan on working on the house more (cleaning out cabinets, working on the floors, pruning books) before running those errands later this morning, and it’s only going to “feel like 112.” Sigh, my power bill for this month is going to be so brutal.
Oddly enough, I just walked over to the Walgreens and back (I needed sweet and low and forgot to get some this weekend) and it was actually pleasant outside with a cool breeze? I didn’t even break a sweat, which was super nice and definitely weird for this late in the summer. I don’t know if it’s supposed to rain today or not, but it would be super-awesome if it rained all day tomorrow for my birthday, so I can stay inside and read. I’ve not decided how I want to spend my birthday tomorrow, but I know I am probably not going to do any cleaning or some-such unless I so desire. How exciting I sound this morning! What can I say, my brain isn’t waking up as fast as I would prefer! But I am on my second cup of coffee and am about to eat some breakfast, so that should help.
One would think, anyway.
I’m not feeling particularly profound or insightful this morning, but nevertheless here I am, typing away on the day before my birthday. It really is astonishing how long I’ve been keeping my blog; it’ll be twenty years this December (the 26th, I believe, to be exact). That’s a lot of entries and a lot of writing. I know I’ve missed days over the years–I’m the only person committed to this on a daily basis, well aware–but I’ve been pretty consistent with it for all these years. Apparently I was a bit more commitment-phobic in the past. I’ve now lived in New Orleans longer than I’ve lived anywhere else; Paul and I have been together for close to thirty years now; I’ve been blogging for almost twenty years, and I will also hit my twenty years at work in January. I’ve even lived in the same apartment for almost twenty years. Not bad for someone who rarely lasted in any job longer than two years at most; and I’ve also been writing professionally since I cashed my first check for writing back in 1996. That’s almost thirty years. My first short story was published in 2000, and my first novel came out in 2002. I’ll probably be more reflective tomorrow, most like.
I also wrote an essay this weekend that I published over at Substack; do check it out if you’re interested. I probably should have revised and rewritten it one more time before sending it out into the world, but the whole point of my Substack is to get more practice writing personal essays, and as with anything, there’s a learning curve. A personal essay is more than a blog entry (although they are kind of mini-essays in and of themselves, detailing whatever is going on and through my mind at the time I write the entries), and so I am slowly learning how to pull an essay together. They don’t necessarily have to be longer than the essays I’ve already posted there; they work as essay abstracts, for sure. This latest one, “Death by a Thousand Cuts,” has been idling in the back of my mind for a long time now–the original inspiration for it came from getting tired of being straight-splained, as well as being aware that straight men and women don’t really see me as an equal. It could be longer, and there are/were other points I could have made in it to further illustrate the point, but essays are really out of my comfort zone (like short stories) and so I need to toil over them a bit more and build up my confidence.
I’m also thinking I can publish short stories there, too, if I am so inclined.
Hmm, this got a little more interesting as my brain woke up, didn’t it? It’s looking gloomy outside this morning now, so I think we are definitely getting rain today. Yay!
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow. Maybe later–one never can be entirely sure. I am tricky that way.
Wednesday and it’s Pay the Bills Day again! Woo-hoo! I didn’t sleep through the night–getting up a couple of times, but I feel rested and fine this morning. Go figure. I hit a wall again yesterday afternoon, and was very tired when I got home last night. I did have my Sparky time, collapsing into my easy chair and getting caught up on the news; he expects this time now, because I’ve trained him to expect that after I get home and he gets fed–just like he tries to wake me up every morning at six on the days I don’t have to get up. Friday I have to go to Quest to get labs drawn at seven in the morning, and I also have a department meeting that morning as well, so I’ll roll out of bed and stumble, bleary-eyed, to Quest, then come back home and swill coffee and get cleaned up to head into the office (since I am already there, I am just going to do my hours at the office rather than coming back home to do work-at-home duties.
We started watching The Decameron last night before giving up after the second episode. It’s a great idea and I love that they made a show about one of the great classics of history, but it just doesn’t really deliver completely. There were some great moments, and it might get better, and I also see why they made it; a bubonic plague show, after the pandemic? But it just wasn’t engaging in the way I would have preferred, so we watched an episode of Evil, which we’d been watching before the Olympics and had forgotten about. But it’s kind of a fun show–a religious X-Files, basically–and it’s engaging.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own work–probably because I’m not really doing any of it at the moment–and why I write it and what can I do about the dumpster fire the world is turning into. I’ve mentioned here several times how much I wished we had a Louisiana John D. MacDonald type writer, addressing the exploitation of Florida and the environmental damage that exploitation hath wrought on the state (Condominium is a great book about greedy developers and corrupt politicians), and originally I always was thinking someone else would be better to do it than me. But…that’s really laziness on my part, because studying the ecological disaster Louisiana has become (with no bottom to the disaster in sight, especially given what we have in Baton Rouge now) was a lot of work. I’ve always wanted to address the situation in Cancer Alley1, which is a stain on the nation. Those communities are mostly black and completely poor, so you can imagine how much our politicians–including those representing those parishes–care about them. It is a disgrace.
And that’s not even taking into consideration the erosion of the wetlands, making Louisiana at even higher risk of disaster during hurricane season (which we are in right now).
And given what we are dealing with in terms of political leadership these days (Project 2025 is already here), someone needs to start talking about this stuff.
Why not me? Although I suppose it would mean resubscribing to the MAGA Times-Picayune again, which totally sucks. Heavy heaving sigh. Can anyone be a local crime writer without reading the local paper? Probably not, so I might as well bite the damned bullet and get back on that train at some point. I hate having to compromise my principles. But I also don’t have to enjoy it, do it? And with football season on the horizon, sigh. Their coverage of LSU, Tulane2, and the Saints is really the best. Sigh. I’ll just donate the same amount to the Harris campaign.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; stranger things have happened.
“Cancer Alley” is the eighty-two mile section of the Mississippi River between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, with a ridiculous amount of petrochemical plants and refineries in the poorer parishes, where the rate of cancer is insanely high and everyone knows it’s the factories poisoning everyone, but no one ever does anything about it. It is Louisiana’s shame, frankly. ↩︎
Bring back that lovin’ feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone….
One of the worst things about being a writer with a very vivid imagination is that I often think I’ve written more of a short story than I have, and inevitably am a little shocked when I open the most recent draft of the story and what I remember writing isn’t there…and then it hits me that I either thought the story through until that point, or I scribbled ideas for it in my journal…so that gradually morphed into oh I never did write that scene/story/ending. I then sigh in disgust at past Greg for not actually writing it into the story itself and then try to remember what I can of it as I try transcribing it. The loss of my short term memory also plays a relatively large role in this madness, too. Can you guess why I am mentioning that this morning? Yep, this was the case when I looked up two short stories to add to my collection; I was trying to decide which stories I have unfinished that just needed a revision and I thought I was there with several more stories than I clearly was when I looked at them last night.
One of the ghastly things for me about being a writer is thinking I’ve written something when I actually haven’t. I was tired yesterday when I got home from work; I hit the wall at some point in the afternoon, so I succumbed to Sparky’s demands and let him cuddle with me in the easy chair when I got home from work. Paul worked at home yesterday, so when he came down we watch John Oliver and then finished Dirty Pop, the Lou Pearlman documentary. It did feel weird not having the Olympics to watch, but this is that fallow two weeks or so between the Olympics and college football getting started. Has the NFL preseason started? I am terrible about that, but since I no longer (refuse to) pay for the Times-Picayune (a ringing endorsement for the red candidate from their editorial board was the final nail in that coffin once and for all) it’s harder to remember about the Saints. I shouldn’t be surprised; the billionaire who bought the paper also is a dyed-in-the-wool Republican who ran for governor back in the day. Maybe I am wrong, but I don’t remember the paper being slanted so heavily to the right back in the day. Anyway, there’s certainly no excuse for me to not get a lot done this weekend other than laziness….and laziness isn’t necessarily a bad thing, either; I think it’s your body telling your mind to rest. I also have a four day weekend this weekend for my birthday, so that should be really nice. I suppose I should make a to-do list of projects to work on for those four day–definitely taking books to the library sale will be number one on the list.
I did sleep really well and got up pretty easily this morning. I’m still in that I could fall asleep again if I went back to bed stage, but the body is starting to awaken and my mind is feeling sharp. I hope I don’t get tired this afternoon the way I did yesterday, but I don’t really have any control over that. It didn’t, in fact, rain yesterday as was promised; it’s possible again today as well and we’re hitting a heat index of 112. Yay. It didn’t seem so bad yesterday as I drove home, picking up the mail on the way. I’m still listening to the podcast My Dad Wrote a Porno, which makes me laugh multiple times in the car; it’s attempt at being sexy and provocative laughably bad, and their reactions to Belinda Blinked are hilarious. There’s many seasons of this, so I should be set for listening in the car for quite some time. I just haven’t been in the mood to listen to music lately while driving, which is unusual. I’m just tired of all my playlists and albums on Spotify, and I’m so disconnected from what is popular music that I have no idea what everyone is listening to these days, and odds are I wouldn’t care for it if I did. (The first time I heard something popular and thought what the fuck is wrong with kids today was when I was in my thirties…so yes, I’ve been a cranky old man shaking his fists at the clouds for thirty years)
One of the things I have been doing in the evenings is paging through a book I read several years ago called Weimar Culture: The Outside as Insider by Peter Gay (I’ve had Weimar Germany on my mind since about 2015 or so) and it got me to start thinking about my work as art, and its place in the overall world of queer art and literature. I don’t think students of queer literature in the future will be reading and/or studying any of my work, by any means; I think the only thing I have going for me is being prolific and producing a lot of work. I think there are many queer crime writers whose work would be seen as more influential and of more literary and artistic value than mine–Michael Nava, J. M. Redmann, Ellen Hart, Kelly J. Ford, Lev Rosen, Christa Faust, Margot Douahy and John Copenhaver, just off the top of my head, are far more likely to make up the reading list for a Queer Crime Lit class. We really do have some amazing queer crime writers out there currently and some pretty amazing ones in the past. I was thinking about writing about queer crime and its giants, but as a queer crime writer myself the possibilities for giving offense are simply too great for me to even attempt such a thing. I also haven’t read every queer or queer-oriented crime novel, either, so it would hardly be definitive, like Michael Bronski’s Pulp Friction. Besides, I’m hardly an academic; that kind of writing isn’t really my style. I admire it, wish it was a voice and style I could slip into comfortably, but it’s really not.
I would, at some point, like to engage in scholarship. Maybe after I retire. Maybe I could take an on-line class on literature and/or one on writing essays. So many potentialities, so many possibilities…kind of nice.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader and one never knows; I may be back later.
And here we are on a glorious Saturday morning, feeling rested and relaxed and pretty good this morning. My coffee is tasting most excellent, and my kitchen is already clean this morning. I had a good day yesterday. I did my at-home work and then ran some errands before coming home to do some cleaning around here. This morning I am up relatively early and feeling good. I got all the laundry done, and am about to clear out the kitchen sink again before going to work on the floors. I do have to leave the house today later; I have to get charcoal and some other things, and might as well pick up the mail while I am out. Next weekend I am taking Monday and Tuesday off for my birthday, which will be very lovely and cool. And now that my deductible is paid off for my insurance, I can get all this other health stuff (dermatologist, arthritis doctor, bone density test) taken care of before the end of the year. I also need to see an eye doctor and get new glasses.
Obviously, I need a to-do list.
And it was super-great to see Algerian boxer Imane Khelif win the gold medal after all the incorrect and disgusting hate directed at her because the Chatelaine of Castle TERF decided that Imane wasn’t woman enough for her to compete in women’s sports, and so the evil Sith Lady decided to humiliate and embarrass an athlete on the world stage just because she could and she felt she wasn’t getting enough attention. How…Trumpian of Joanne/Robert! And refusing to admit she was wrong because of course she can never be. After all, she is a wealthy woman, and as we all know, billionaires are never wrong. It really is amazing how much people think making a lot of money somehow gives you some kind of moral authority to comment on things that do not affect or impact you at all. At least more people around the world can now see just how awful she actually has become–or has hidden her true horrible self successfully for so long and has become so narcissistic that she believes her own beliefs should be adapted without challenge. It’s also Elon Musk-like, as well.
At least the Olympics accomplished two things: they gave me a lot of trash to block on social media, and also got me to finally delete my Twitter account. I do not miss it in the least.
Today is the Red Dress Run, so the city (especially the Quarter) will be filled with people in red dresses, day drinking. I don’t do the Red Dress Run, obviously–it started up after I stopped going out every weekend and stopped drinking fo the most part–because it’s simply too hot and if I was out drinking in the heat in the morning and early afternoon it would take me about a week to recover from it all. Not cute.
It’s really amazing what a good mood I woke up to this morning. It would be awesome to wake up feeling like this every Saturday morning, believe me. I’m definitely going to work on the kitchen this morning, and I am going to spend some time reading this morning as well. I started reading a short story at my doctor’s office last week, and I need to finish reading that as well as get back into the book I’m reading (I’m not mentioning the title because I don’t want it to sound like the book isn’t good; it’s entirely on my malfunctioning brain that I’ve not finished it yet; I need to prime the reading pump a bit today to get it going again). I also no longer have this sense of impending doom that’s been hanging over my head since the rude awakening I got about my country and fellow citizens in 2016; thank you, Harris-Walz presidential ticket! And not having that dark cloud in my brain–the sense of hopelessness and mistrust of the heterosexual majority in this country–has been marvelous. It’s not over, and we’re going to have to work really hard to make sure that darkness doesn’t win here. The UK and France are doing a great job of taking down their fascist movements; may we follow the world trend towards freedom and equality. It’s nice to feel hope again, you know?
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines for a while today. I am hoping that today will continue on this high note, and I hope that it does for you as well, Constant Reader. I may be back later; I am working on several other entries that will go up on Substack and possibly here, too. I guess we’ll just have to see how the day goes, and how much cuddle time Sparky will demand.
Friday and working at home. I have a team meeting at ten on-line this morning along with other various work-at-home duties; I also have errands to run later on when everything is finished. I feel rested this morning, despite getting up so damned early (Sparky was very insistent this morning), and so while I swill my coffee and wake up, I can hopefully do some things around here, too, before I get to work. The kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as it usually is on Friday mornings, so I don’t have to start there this weekend to straighten up the house, which is very exciting. I’m going to try very hard this weekend not to succumb to the temptations of doing little to nothing. The boil water advisory was lifted yesterday, and today’s heat index will max out at 109. I was able to come straight home after work yesterday, which was really nice, and I spent the evening getting caught up on the day’s news before switching over to the Olympics. I always hate when they come to an end, and they really are uplifting and fun to watch; inspiring. (I bet there will be a lot of Olympic romances published next year.)
I do have that figure skating short story…it’s kind of noirish. Maybe I should revisit it?
The next Olympics will be in Los Angeles, just like in 1984. I lived in California then, and to this day I regret not applying to work at the games. But…it was a different time and a different world, too.
I came to the conclusion last night that part of the problem I am/was having with writing Never Kiss a Stranger was that old one-two punch of writer’s brain: fear that I’d fuck up telling the story, and fear that it won’t be the book that I want it to be. Which is absurd on its face; and haven’t I felt that way about every book I’ve written more than once during the process of creating the story? Maybe it’s different for the big names, but I am never fearless when I am writing something. I’ve never heard any of my friends who are writers I deeply admire and respect ever feel a lack of confidence in their work, or in their ability to tell the story they want to tell. I think that is definitely something I need to work on, and I don’t feel afraid about writing the book now, so hopefully that is progress. I think taking this Olympic break from writing was perhaps one of the smartest things I’ve done as an adult. I am itching to get back to it, I let my mind rest and heal, and my body had settled into my routine at long last. Likewise, I have to get back to reading every day, so I can get caught up on my reading, at least from this year. I am so far behind on so many of my friends’ and favorite authors’ books; but at least I know that I have some great books to read through the end of the year. And yes, I think I am going to do some reading this weekend.
I kind of feel good about things. I like that I am establishing boundaries, and enforcing them. I like that I am digging out of the hole and rut and everything else of the last few years. I like my life now that I have time to kick back and enjoy it, and relax without guilt. I like my job, I love writing, I am finally getting the apartment into a nice, comfortable living space by clearing out the clutter so no one will have to after I depart this world. I am back learning how to cook new recipes, and having quite a good time doing so. The heat is tiring, of course, and that also affects how I get things done after I get home, but the summer will be ending fairly soon and then I can get back into the swing of some other things, like regular workouts and things of that nature. I am making progress on my debt, which is also pretty great.
So, on that cheerful and hopeful note, I am going to head into the spice mines. You go on and have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later on.
Wednesday morning and we’ve made it to the middle of the week. Yesterday was somewhat better than the day before–I felt rested, but my brain was still off-track a bit, and a little scattered. That may be because I forgot to take my medications before I left for work yesterday, and that always makes my brain chemistry a bit more foggy than it needed to be. But in other great news, yesterday I was able to get a prescription fight I’ve been having with my insurance company won yesterday; they finally authorized a daily med I’ve not taken since January, and this time the approval from my insurance is good through 2029–and who knows if I will live that long? But that hassle is finally over, and I am very pleased to say that now I know how to deal with my insurance, it’s not going to be a problem anymore. There are a couple of more things I need to take care of with my insurance, and then I can just settle in with it and everything should be smooth sailing from now on.
We’re in a boil water advisory here in New Orleans today; almost the entire east bank is in this. Yay. Will make showering interesting this morning, and I had already rinsed my mouth out this morning and cleaned my teeth, etc. So…if the water is unsafe I’ve already ingested some. Hopefully I will make it through to the weekend. The heat index will be about 110, so that’s not quite as bad as it has been. Yay? I get to come home straight from work tonight, which is lovely; I have a ZOOM meeting at six and I need to seriously clean up my kitchen; it’s an absolute disaster area and since it’s the only place I can do it…sigh. Maybe I can hide everything out of camera range? This is what happens when you get lazy once you get home from work. But just walking from the car to the apartment door is draining; the hazy lazy heat and humidity just sucks energy right out of you, and I hate that feeling of sweat about to breakthrough my scalp and try to get in before it starts and soaks me completely. I took a shower when I got home last night because I felt so miserable, but the rest of the evening was pretty nice as I caught up on the news and let Sparky sleep in my lap (he’s a very bad influence that way; just like Scooter, and I can never resist their feline wiles).
I did swing by the post office, and my preordered books had arrived, which was lovely. Again, too many good books piling up in my TBR pile, and I really need to stop bringing more books into the house before I get rid of some more, or at least read more of the ones on hand. The new Donna Andrews looks delightful, and I know Gabino’s new one is going to be very well written and very dark in tone and theme and style; he’s really very original and a one of a kind, which isn’t easy to do (trust me, I know all too well how hard it is to be original and a one of a kind, and I have not even remotely succeeded on the level he has with his work), and that’s probably one I will sit down with and read all the way through in one sitting–which means taking it on my next trip. If I can wait that long…
I’ve also been thinking a lot about my book and my writing lately; the enforced “no writing during the Olympics” is kind of making me want the Olympics to end! Given how much I love the Olympics, that is saying a lot. Football season is also on its way, which is always a fun time of the year for me. But ever since I started looking back, I’m starting to understand things more, things about myself and lessons I missed along the way because I was so busy moving forward. It isn’t painful to look back, really; my childhood and my teens were a long time ago, and I am trying to stop telling myself lies and/or gaslighting myself. I always say I won’t write a memoir because I don’t trust my memory and would be an unreliable narrator (which I have considered as a title for said memoir)…but the truth is no two people remember anything in the same way. Our memories of events and situations and things are all colored by our own experiences, confirmation biases, and values. I suppose, though, that those kinds of mistakes and remembering things through my perspective is always going to be different from other people’s…and let’s face it, nobody from back then is going to read anything I write anyway.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely middle of the week, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. You never know with me–I’m tricky that way.
Tuesday morning and for whatever reason, I feel much more rested and awake this morning than I did yesterday. I felt off all day yesterday, partly because I was sleepy still for most of the morning, and never felt like I ever completely woke up. This morning I feel like a new person, which is very cool. I like when I feel rested.
So yeah, I felt off most of the day yesterday. I started getting my work done and got most of it done–I’m still behind–and ran my errands after work. It didn’t rain on me on the way home, which was a lovely change, and so I got the mail (and a copy of Jericho Brown’s The Tradition). I also started reading, of all things, The Iliad last night. I’ve never read it or the Aeneid or the Odyssey–lyric poetry–even though I was very aware of the story and everything about it. (I had a Trojan War/Greek mythology era in my childhood.) I was actually enjoying myself as I read it while glancing up at the Olympics (I am really going to miss the Olympics when they are over.) So I did manage to get some reading done last night, which was incredibly cool. Maybe this weekend I’ll spend some time reading poetry and trying to learn about it. I was thinking about that last night as I drove around town, that the extra time I have now can be spent either relaxing or studying poetry or teaching myself something. I am going to definitely schedule in some German on Duolingo; and of course I want to keep studying Louisiana and Alabama history.1
I should have cleaned the kitchen when I got home last night. Sigh. I’ll have to do it tonight, and get the house a bit under control. It won’t take long–wouldn’t have taken long yesterday, either, but I gave in to Sparky’s cuddle needs and so I came down to a dirty kitchen again this morning. And before I knew it, the Olympics were on and I was sucked into the excitement of sport again. It was great seeing Louisiana’s own Mondo Duplantis win the pole vault and set a new world record competing for Sweden, the floor exercise was amazing–I can’t believe they didn’t air the medal ceremony, well done, NBC. The pictures of Simone Biles and Jordan Chiles bowing to gold medalist Rebeca Andrade was epic, and went viral, so why would viewers want to see it? I love the Olympics, and getting Snoop to go as our official ambassador was genius, but so much of the coverage in prime time–when they’ve had all day to stitch together the show–isn’t good. (Although my favorite was the woman griping about ‘why do they have a quarterback commenting on gymnastics?’ to get the reply “John Roethlisberger was a four time all around US champion and Olympian. You’re thinking about Ben Roethlisberger who quarterbacks the Steelers.’ I laughed for a good few minutes there, because her post had actually confused me and I didn’t know what she was talking about…for good reason.)
It’s funny because yesterday I was talking about not getting more books, only to get up to notifications that the new Gabino Iglesias and the new Donna Andrews are on their way to me now, which is marvelous. Maybe spending some time with The Iliad last night has reopened the flood gates to reading again….I guess we’ll find out this weekend, or maybe even tonight.
You know what’s really funny? This forced “Olympics break” from writing was the smartest thing I could have ever done. Sometimes you just need to trick your brain. By going from I should write every day and then feeling like a loser who can’t take part in his passion anymore, to I am not going to write for two weeks has absolutely worked. All I’ve really wanted to do these last ten days or so (however long it’s been) is actually write. I allow myself to hand write in my journal, but actually typing out fiction or non-fiction, and immersing myself in it? Not allowed. Maybe, just maybe, this means when the Olympics are over I’ll be eager to get back into the swing of writing every day.
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, and I may be back later; stranger things have happened.
I’ve always been weird, even when I was a little boy. I was different from other kids. I didn’t want to play outside, I wanted to read or play with my toys and make up stories. My parents were always urging me to go outside to play, so I’d just take a book and go sit on the back stairs of that little apartment on Komensky in Chicago. When I started school, I remember it being a bit of a shock to me. There were other kids in our neighborhood, but I didn’t really play with them much; they were mostly girls and friends of my sister’s, and while she let me tag along a lot (a running theme of her unfortunate childhood–always being saddled with her weird younger brother), I preferred my solitude and a book. School was strange for me; thrust into a world where I was surrounded by kids I didn’t know, and I didn’t understand how they all seemed to know each other and be friends already. I stayed by myself for the most part until someone asked me to join a game or something, and entertained myself for the most part. No one picked on me, no one said anything hateful to me or called me names, and for the most part I got on with my classmates. I got up in the morning, went to school, went to Mrs. Harris our babysitter’s house for lunch, back to school and then finally home. We only lived a block away from my elementary school, which made life ever so much easier for my parents; they didn’t have to worry about us coming and going to school safely. We only had to cross two streets to get there–down one block and across to the other side–and there were crossing guards. I knew instinctively that somehow I was different from the other kids; no one liked to read as much as me1, and only as an adult did I find other people who read as much, if not more so, than I do.
But reading–and watching television and movies–began defining “normal” to me; and I couldn’t understand in my childish brain (so advanced in so many ways but lacking in just as many) why the real world was so different from the fictional realities I lost myself in while consuming media. Riverdale in Archie comics seemed like such a nice place, but that was definitely not my high school experience. Whenever I took a chance on reading something age-appropriate (ah, those Scholastic book fairs!) I generally didn’t like it unless it was a mystery. I read so many of the kids’ series books for many different reasons; ironically liking the two most popular (Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys) the least (Ken Holt, Judy Bolton, and the Three Investigators were much better).
It was when we moved to the suburbs that I began to realize that I was not only different but I was weird. I was a boy who didn’t care that much about sports, didn’t want to play them, and there was all kinds of stuff messing with my brain. Sixth grade wasn’t too bad, but that was also the first time that other kids began to wonder about my masculinity, but the worst it got was being taunted by other boys as a “sissy,” and then the next day the group of boys in the neighborhood I met through school acted like nothing had happened the day before–which was when I first learned that you couldn’t really trust other people; they would be your friend one day and cruel the next; and then back to being your friend again. (That group did turn on me completely in junior high school one day; it was weirdly coordinated with other kids at school who weren’t in our neighborhood.)
I hated being shamed more than anything else, for something I couldn’t control. It was in junior high also that I began to understand my sexuality at the same time so many kids began understanding mine and laughing and mocking me for it. I was always in fear of violence, and the kids in my middle-class mostly white desegregation-refugee suburb weren’t above ganging up on one person and beating them. (The suburbs, where we moved for “more stability” and “to have our own house” was far more dangerous for me than living in the city.) I ignored it all, but inside I burned with shame and embarrassment because I also knew the other kids were right about me; I did like boys, and how on earth did I ever learn, in a world that in which homosexuality was erased from public view, what men did together sexually? How did I know? I don’t remember reading about it anywhere, and whenever a gay person appeared in any media it was very negative. But there we were.
The irony lies in the fact that I never really cared that much about having friends or being popular–but media convinced me otherwise; that it was important to be liked and popular and have lots of friends. So I would always allow myself to try to imagine what that would be like. So, I kind of made myself miserable as a teenager, more so than I should have been, because it had been made very clear to me that no one could ever find out. I felt like a pariah, and I also felt like the few actual friends I had weren’t really my friends, because if they knew I was gay they wouldn’t like me anymore. It wasn’t even that I really wanted to be popular, but I thought if I was, the cruelty would go away and no one would question my sexuality.
High school and college was more of the same, really. Lonely and wishing I had friends, forgetting that I didn’t need any. I even joined a fraternity, but even that wasn’t enough; some of the brothers were homophobic trash who loved making fun of me and laughing at me behind my back–which is where I also learned the valuable lesson that men are bigger gossips and much crueler about it than women. Such fraternal love, right? But it was in the fraternity that the seeds of not giving a fuck were beginning to be sown. It was a very bad decade, and it was the last decade of darkness controlling my life.
I was tired of being afraid all the time, you know?
I decided, when I was thirty, to leave that closet behind and get on with my life. It took another three years before I started the long reboot of my life, and when I found Paul I realized I don’t need anyone else, do I? I had long thought, for any variety of reasons, I would always be alone for the rest of my life, and once I’d accepted that (also, part of the shame PTSD went along with believing that I wasn’t deserving of someone’s love) I decided to embrace being weird and different from everyone else. The one piece that was still missing was being a writer…and once that really got started, I didn’t need anyone else. I had Paul, and I had my characters, and devoting myself to a writing career made things a lot easier. I mean, I still prefer being liked–who doesn’t–but if people don’t like me, it’s not my problem.
I’m weird that way. I think everyone who is a creative is weird. You have to be disconnected from the main fabric of society in some way to create; I don’t believe you have to suffer in order to create, either; but I’ve done my fair share of suffering over the years. I am always startled to hear how other people view me and my work; I prefer being liked, as I said, but it’s really not essential for me. It makes writing conferences a lot more fun to have friends to hang out with, but I always have my guard rails up.
Being weird, to me, is a good thing. It’s who I am and I don’t want to fight it anymore. I’m not going to worry if people like me or not; and I don’t owe any apologies to anyone. As Bette Davis once said, “other’s people’s opinions of me are none of my business.” I don’t mind being disliked; no one is liked by everyone and there certainly are a lot of people I wouldn’t cross the street for if they were on fire unless I’m carrying a can of gasoline (you know who you are, but you wouldn’t be reading this anyway because you’re sewage).
And people who dismiss me because I’m gay–or whatever surface reasons they may have–aren’t people I want to know in the first place because homophobes are never good people. Homophobia is usually the first step on the ladder to a soul full of bigotry and prejudice, and rarely if ever do homophobes stop with hating queer people.
Who wants to be normal? I saw that as a horrific existence when I was young, and part of my own misery for the first thirty years of my life was from being gaslit so constantly into what I knew would be a hellish adulthood that would most likely end in suicide.
One of the reasons that the MAGAts hate being called weird so much is because their entire identity is vested in being “normal”–it’s everyone else who is weird, strange, and different. But it’s not normal to want to check everyone’s genitals. It’s not normal to interfere in other people’s lives and tell them how they should live. It’s not normal to think you and your fellow believers are the only ones who have it right and everyone else is going to hell. It’s not normal to think skin tone makes a difference to intelligence, ability, and work ethic. It’s not normal to fetishize Israel because of your apocalyptic religious fantasies. It’s not normal to worship guns over other people’s lives. It’s not normal to see attacks on your faith when no one is even thinking about you. It’s not normal to want to regulate and track women’s menstrual cycles and fertility. It’s not normal to prioritize the unborn over the living. It’s not normal to hate your country unless your golden calf is elected. It’s not normal to claim to be religious but not follow the teachings of your holy book.
They’ve never been normal. Never. But they think they are, and it’s really all PTSD from NOT being popular in high school. They weren’t homecoming queens or cheerleaders or football players; and if they were, they peaked then and are still bitter that their personal glory days are far behind them. (Also: not normal.) Being called “weird” in a dismissive, you don’t matter way gets under their skin because they are not used to be questioned. They claimed to be the normal ones, the correct ones, the true American patriots–and we just let them without challenge. They aren’t used to being challenged, and when they are, it just causes them to melt down completely. They wore their hates and prejudices proudly–embracing being racists and homophobes and TERFs and misogynists3—but challenging their normality hits them hard because they know they aren’t really normal deep down inside.
The best way to deal with bullies? Withering scorn and contempt and outright mockery, as well as constant reminders that they aren’t normal and actually have sociopathic tendencies.
And it’s working. They have no response other than “no, you’re weird!” That doesn’t work on me because I am weird and I’ve embraced my individuality rather than being bullied into being like everyone else. I have no desire to go back to some fantasy halcyon past for straight cisgender white men, where everyone else is merely here to be used for their convenience. I’ve lived in that world and I have no desire to go back to it, in any way.
And wanting to? Is very fucking weird.
I also recently realized that the reason I loved to read and watch movies/television is because that was the only time I could get my brain to calm down and focus. So…my bad mental health as a child set me on the path to being a writer, which is also why getting the anxiety under control–which also has helped dramatically with mood swings–has me worried about being able to write again. But again–anxiety. ↩︎
Queer and Loathing in America 