My flight was a bit delayed yesterday–weather between New Orleans and Fort Lauderdale–and then got stuck in a lengthy cab ride in horrific DC traffic (which is why I never drove that miserable year we lived here), but over all it was pleasant. The flight wasn’t full, I had a row to myself, and the screaming infants on the other side of the aisle weren’t too obnoxious, and I got to read Ellen Byron’s Wined and Died in New Orleans, which I’ve been calling the wrong name for quite some time now, which is more than a little embarrassing (it’s because I’ve always wanted to write something called To Live and Die in La.–which is a play on the title of a crime film from the 1980’s I remember nothing of other than the title song was recorded by Wang Chung and I kind of liked it; and I think–could be wrong–Willem Dafoe was in the cast (I don’t care enough to look it up; you can access the Google just as easily as I can). Other than that, I don’t really remember a whole lot of it.
But I did make it to the hotel, got my registration packet, and then started running into friends–first up were Barb Goffman and Dina Willner; always a treat when the first people you run into are lovely people you enjoy–and then that first night became a bit of a blur; I wound up having dinner with Julie Hennrikus and Sherry Harris, then ran into Ellen Byron (see above) and then I wound up sitting in the bar with her, Vicky Delaney, Leslie Karst, and a couple of other lovely people whose names I do not recall. Then, very tired, I repaired back up to my room and actually slept decently (for a hotel; it would have been a ‘meh’ sleep night if I were at home). The bed is actually very comfortable, the room itself is nicely sized, but cannot comment on the shower yet, as I’ve not had one but no worries–it’ll be happening very soon.
It just feels very good to be around book people again. I kind of need that, you know? Writing is such a weird profession, in that you spend most of the your time isolated from your colleagues (co-workers, really) and even if you like near other writers…everyone is busy. We all have jobs on top of our writing, we all have families and homes to keep up and errands to do and the everyday minutiae that has to be done every day…and then you have to carve out time from all of that to do your own writing. I try to be very jealous of my writing time and always try to protect it, which was always an issue before. And yes, there are many times when I’ll find something else–anything else–to do other than write, I really don’t understand it, but almost everything I love to do is something I have to make myself do. I have to make myself go to the gym. I have to force myself to write…although that usually happens when the other option is so odious that writing is preferable. But once I get started–when I finally get started–I love it. Just like the gym. I always feel so good afterwards (that endorphin rush is so marvelous)…which reminds me, I want to start taking walks every day when I get home from work, even if it’s just around the block or down to the park and back, I should spend more time outside, really.
I should do a lot more things.
But I already feel invigorated and inspired, which is really the primary benefit (for me) of coming to these things. Even yesterday on the flight I was putting Ellen’s book aside from time to time so I could scribble an idea into my journal. That’s very cool. I think this morning I’ll probably take a shower and then spend some time editing the new Scotty because I may not get another chance to work at all and I am running (as always) out of time,
So on that note, Constant Reader, I will bid you adieu. My panel tomorrow morning is early, and I have to leave for the airport relatively early on Sunday morning, too, so…this may be the last you hear from me until Monday. Can you go two days without me, Constant Reader? Chin up! You can do it. And besides, you know me. I’ll probably post something anyway.
I honestly believe that a lot of our problems in this country are a direct result of an attempt to enforce some national prudery standard that relentlessly tries to shame any and every one of us for the perfectly natural and normal human functions of our body. We are seeing this again in this modern age, as the Morality Police (who are all-too-frequently hiding some horrific skeletons in their own closets) try to get books banned, discussions about sex and sexuality and gender stifled and silenced, and entire segments of the population erased from public view and hidden away again because it makes them, well, uncomfortable.
Well, semi-automatic weapons, religion, and bigotry make me uncomfortable, but that doesn’t matter, apparently, as I am (to borrow a phrase from John Irving and The World According to Garp) a “sexual suspect.”
Ironically, I distinctly remember what television was like back when it was heavily censored and what was considered wholesome family entertainment was aired. It didn’t mean sex wasn’t talked about, it just meant that it had to be implication rather than outright said–which led to incredibly stupid phrases to stand in for sexual contact, or sexual intercourse, that were completely transparent and frankly, kind of stupid. That was the kind of television I grew up with, where everything was plastic and phony and created a false sense of what the country was really like (where, for example, are Mayberry’s Black people?), and some people watch those old shows and think, oh, what a better and simpler time we lived in then! We must get back to that world of innocence!
Which, of course, is complete and utter horseshit. Television of the 50s and 60s most certainly were not reflections of culture and society as a whole, no matter how much someone might want that to be the truth…it was not.
When I was a child, I hated the stupid, coy euphemisms screenwriters employed to mention sexual activity and escape the censors; “hanky-panky” is perhaps one of the worst. “Making love” is another one that puts my teeth on edge; “making whoopie” still another, and perhaps the worst offenderof all was ‘vo-dee-oh-doe’ from LaVerne & Shirley. Even when I was a kid that kind of “nudge-nudge wink-wink” kind of thing annoyed me; I can remember thinking, many times, “just say fuck, for Christ’s sake.” “Making love” is one that was really popular on soaps, and it’s always said tearfully; it also made me want to slap the speaker (and of course the movie Let’s Make Love really should be Let’s Fuck). The fact that we don’t have a common, easy to use word to substitute for fucking that delicate sensibilities won’t consider profane is part of the problem in this country, frankly. Oh, no! Sex is dirty, we can’t talk about that! We can’t come up with a non-offensive word for it because just thinking about sex upsets some people. God forbid we actually have a realistic, honest conversation about sex and sexuality. I hate to break it to you prudes, but sex is normal and healthy. The fact that our culture has tried so desperately to appease the prudes by turning sex and sexuality into something we’re just not supposed to talk about has put braces on our brains, and anchored fear and loathing to our sexuality; if our mightiest God in this country is Money, the second mightiest is SHAME. Having your body react to stimulation by getting aroused? SHAME ON YOU.
When I was growing up–and granted, things have gotten a little better since then–even masturbation was considered something shameful that no one would ever admit to; nothing like learning repression when you’re going through puberty. It was an insult to call someone a jack off; you mocked boys by talking about them jacking off…which was something I did pretty regularly, so even more SHAME. And when you take into consideration the fact that even as young and sheltered as I was, that I knew my sexuality–my physical and intellectual and emotional attraction to other men–was wrong and something else to be ashamed of; not only was I masturbating but I was thinking about men while I was doing it: DOUBLE WHAMMY.
It took me years to shake off that prudish conditioning, and it wasn’t until I stopped feeling shame about sex and my sexuality that I finally started to actually live my life, rather than having a life that just happened to me. Fear and shame had made me passive; afraid that being myself and living the kind of life I wanted to would cost me friends, family and employment; afraid that embracing having sex with other men (and exploring every element of what that meant) would lead to an infection that could kill me; afraid afraid afraid.
I often say that I refuse to live in fear, but that I am also sensible; I always am acutely aware of my surroundings and everyone around me–while that may have developed from being gay and knowing that made me a target, I think it’s prudent and smart to always be aware, regardless of who and what and where you are.
Given my prudish upbringing and conditioning, as well as the shame and fear I lived with for so long, it is kind of interesting that I started write erotica in my late thirties. Writing erotica for me was an education in many different ways. I learned a lot about myself while writing it, for one thing; for another, I taught myself how to write short stories by writing erotica (beginning, middle, end is never as apparent or obvious as in an erotic short story), and I was also able to work through a lot of my own issues with shame by writing erotica. The first erotica story I ever wrote, “The Wrestling Match,” was a liberating experience for me; I found myself blushing with embarrassment as I wrote it, which was an interesting (to me) phenomenon. Why was I so embarrassed to write about desire, lust, and sex?
Because years of conditioning to associate shame with desire and sexuality had taken firm root in my mind. It was an interesting experience–and the next time I wrote an erotic story, tit was an entirely different situation; there was no shame or embarrassment. Apparently, all it took was writing that first story to work through it…it was also interesting, because around that same time I was trying to get caught up with all the queer fiction and nonfiction I hadn’t known existed for such an extended period of time, and reading has always been how I learned about anything. I was reading Dorothy Allison’s essay collection Trash (which should be required reading, really), and Dorothy’s point that if we spoke honestly and openly about sex and sexuality (and other aspects of human life that for whatever reason we’ve been conditioned to think we can’t talk about) a lot of the stigma and shame most people feel would be eliminated. As long as your fantasies don’t involve hurting anyone or children–if everyone involved is able to give informed and full consent–there’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. But we’ve been conditioned in western civilization since Catholicism conquered the Roman Empire to consider anything of the body to be sinful and shameful; things of the mind and spirit are what we are supposed to focus on while denying the earthy sinfulness of our sexual desire. (This also goes for other bodily functions, like waste and gas) This is particularly true when it comes to kink. We’ve been conditioned in this country to think anything besides missionary position between a man and a woman is something so beyond that it must be shamed, and reacted to with revulsion. Why? As long as no one is being hurt and everyone is on board, I don’t care if you like being spanked, or lashed with cat o’nine tails; or if you like to wear leather and get a thrill from it. My own kinks primarily are focused around the domination/submission play of wrestling; I’ve written about that extensively enough to not feel the need to go into it again here (but check out my erotic pro wrestling novel, Going Down for the Count, available at any bookseller on-line!).
We don’t have honest conversations about sexuality and desire in this country. Writing an erotic short story was incredibly freeing for me; it broke the bonds of shame that indoctrination had built up in my brain. It may not be the case for everyone else, but it’s always interesting to me that people never question themselves when it comes to their own prudery, lusts and desires. (The way they depict it on the hilarious animated comedy series about puberty, Big Mouth, is particularly genius: the Shame Monster.) If you feel shame about your sexuality and your desires, shouldn’t you examine that? Where did it come from? Why do you feel this shame, and what is its root cause?
I do spend a lot of time gazing at my own navel and trying to figure out where all of my phobias and fears and so forth come from, so it’s always interesting to me when people don’t and seem to have no interest in self-examination. Maybe it’s just another form of my own narcissism and self-absorption; that could easily be the case. I sometimes wonder if the reason others don’t reflect on themselves and self-evaluate is because they are somehow more comfortable in their own skins than I am in mine. It’s certainly possible.
But the only way we can stop a lot of the bigotry and hatred in this country is to start being open and honest about sex, sexuality, and desire. To stop shaming people for being interested in sex, and exploring their fantasies and desires. Almost all of our prejudices are rooted in this fear of sex and sexuality; white supremacy is, in some ways, about protecting the “purity” of their blood and “womanhood” from the sexual predation of non-whites. (That was really what the trial in To Kill a Mockingbird was about; but interestingly enough Harper Lee, in illustrating Southern white bigotry through a rape trial, was also unintentionally sending a very strong message to her readers about class structures in the South; but that’s a subject for another time. White people really love that book….)
Banning books and discussion of sexuality and gender doesn’t make those things go away; instead, it just makes them even more enticing as forbidden, things that are dirty and we aren’t supposed to talk about.
Then again, if we are going to talk about these things, people also need to listen–and the ones who need it most? Never are the ones listening in the first place.
Monday morning of Malice week. Ugh, all the little things one has to do to get ready for traveling. Make a list of what to pack, take inventory of the kitchen to make sure Paul has what he needs while I’m gone, and so on and so forth. Heavy heaving sigh. But my flight Thursday isn’t super early; eleven-ish, if I recall correctly, which means I don’t have to be at the airport until around nine, which isn’t bad. I’m going to take some books with me to read for pleasure at the airports and while in flight; I will be editing when I can in my room periodically trying to get this revision finished by the end of the month. The weekend wasn’t nearly as productive as it could have been–there was another wave of depression and grief to be gotten through this weekend, unfortunately–but I did make some progress, which I am taking as a win. I did also make a to-do list for the week; that should help in some ways.
We watched A Knock at the Cabin last night, which I enjoyed; a lot more than I usually enjoy an M. Night Shyamalan movie. I had also enjoyed the book on which it was based, The Cabin at the End of the World by Paul Tremblay, who is one of our best horror writers today; I’ve enjoyed everything of his I’ve read thus far. The film follows the book very closely; it’s one of those claustrophobic horror stories where some city folk take a vacation in the country at a remote cabin–but remote and country are very much staples of horror; someone really should do a look at the trope of “city folk in the country” horror–and things of course go very south. The film is very well cast; Jonathan Groff and Ben Aldridge play Eric and Andrew, a gay couple who’ve adopted a young Asian girl they’ve named Wen and they make an adorable little family group. The location of the cabin is idyllic and tranquil and beautiful; the perfect spot for some city folk who want to get away from the every day and rest and relax. Wen collects grasshoppers in a jar because she wants to study them; the movie opens with her catching grasshoppers and then catching a glimpse of a very big man coming through the woods to talk to her. This is Leonard, played very well by Dave Bautista, who is the leader of a group of four people who have seen visions and have concluded that in order to stop the apocalyptic end of the world, they must come to this cabin and present the family with a horrible choice: they have to sacrifice one of their own in order to stop the end of the world. Are they crazy? They sound like it, as they try to reason with the family…but what if they aren’t? The movie’s ending is different than the book’s–there was no way they could film the book’s ending, really–but I do prefer the book’s ending than the film’s; it seemed like the inevitable outcome, and made the most sense. It’s a good movie, I do recommend it, but one thing I’ve always been curious about since reading the book and was only heightened by viewing the film: why a gay family? I gave Tremblay props when I read the book, because they were very real and didn’t seem forced or stereotypical at all; I thought it should stand as an excellent example of someone who is not gay writing gay characters. The politics of the representation–gays in peril–is one I am not going to give any time to; sure, the gay family was in danger almost from the minute the credits rolled, and it was nice having a gay couple to root for in a horror film. Horror by its very nature is disturbing and tragic; you cannot have gay representation in horror and then not expect the gay people to go through some things, you know? And having gay characters also adds another dimension to the home invasion situation–are they crazy, are they telling the truth, or did they target a gay family purposely? There’s an essay to be written about the book and the movie from a sociopolitical and sociocultural perspective, but I don’t know that I am the right person to write such a thing; I’m not an academic, after all, and have very little desire to ever be an academic.,.although that sometimes can explain my insecurities about thinking deep and heavy thoughts and wanting to write deep and heavy essays picking apart and deconstructing gay representation in modern fiction, with an emphasis on horror and crime.
I also read some academic treatises this weekend, one about being gay and the gay rights movement’s intersectionality and how it got away from that in the beginning only to circle back around to it in the present day, and the other about the television show Dark Shadows, which probably had more influence on me, my writing, and my preferences when it comes to reading, film, and television than anything else I’ve watched or read in my life. I know I used to watch classic black and white films with my grandmother (she was a big fan of the gay icons, ironically: Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, and Katharine Hepburn; she also liked horror and noir, and she was a fan of Dark Shadows, as was our babysitter down the street, Mrs. Harris), so pretty much my course was set when I was a little boy–gay writer was my future. I should write more about Dark Shadows–I was actually thinking last night that I should write a memoir of being a writer; my influences and how they shaped my creativity and what I actually write–not that anyone would be interested in reading such a thing, of course; which is partly why I don’t write more personal essays. Just as I’ve never really been interested in writing a writing manual, or one of those Greg Herren teaches you how to write a novel things. I always feel like a fraud when I talk about writing; never does my Imposter Syndrome strike as hard as it does when I am talking about writing or teaching a workshop. I don’t know.
It’s back into the office with me today. It’s a light day for me; mostly busy work, like data entry, filing, resupplying testing rooms, that sort of thing. It’s always nice to ease back into the week with an easy day in the office. It’s also weird to know that I am leaving on Thursday morning; the trip doesn’t seem real to me yet even though I’ve already made plans to meet up with people while I am there. Looks like I’m going to have to take a Lyft or an Uber from the airport once there, which is fine. And then of course when I get home I have to make up for lost time with the manuscript. Heavy heaving sigh. It wasn’t a good weekend for working, really; I kept spiraling and had to finally, on both days, remind myself that my mental health was more important than a deadline and so focused on positivity and and worked when I was able to get things done. The house isn’t nearly in the kind of shape I would like for it to be in when I am leaving for a weekend (two in a row; the next weekend I am off to Alabama) but seriously–when is it ever? I just need to make sure everything is in order before I go away on Thursday morning. Heavy heaving sigh.
And my books that I’ll be taking to read with me are going to be That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street, Wined and Died in La,, Let Me Die in His Footsteps, and Monday’s Lie. I am not going to get through all of these, of course; I may even cut it down to two–like I won’t be buying books in the book room, please–and I will also be working on the revision while I am there, too. (I so wanted to be finished before I leave…)
And on that note, I am going to get cleaned up and head into the office. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.
It’s a bright and sunny morning in the Lost Apartment today and I feel rested. I slept deeply and well, only waking once to deal with a hungry caterwauling animal before going back to bed for some more sleep. It’s funny how eight can feel like sinfully slothful sleeping in when your body has gotten sort of used to being untimely ripped from the clutches of Morpheus at six.
Yesterday wasn’t a good day, which caught me by surprise but I rolled with it. Grief can sucker-punch you when you aren’t expecting it, and last night was one of those nights. Days, really; the sucker-punch came while I was working but managed to hold off on the emotional crash until I finished my day job duties. I managed to get the laundry and dishes done, but not much of anything else the rest of the day once my day went off the rails. We did finally watch this week’s Ted Lasso last night together, and it was even better the second time; I think that’s what had been missing the previous episodes–that sense of, to be corny and play into the episode some, “everything’s going be all right.” The Jamie-Roy scenes were particularly lovely, and I’m hoping that Rebecca’s encounter with the boat man has made her regain some of that sense of self she really needs to get back. And of course, the Trent-Colin scenes were particularly lovely. We then watched the season finale of The Mandalorian, which was the best episode of the season, and then started our way through P-Valley again before retiring for a good night’s rest. This morning I feel good and balanced; I am going to have to run errands today, which will make today’s working on the book interrupted and a bit messed up. I am way behind on this, and really can’t allow myself to get sidetracked and/or distracted at all, because I have other things I need to be working on that I am not working on and that cannot be allowed to continue. The ability to juggle and keep many plates spinning at the same time has kind of slipped these days; I don’t know if it’s a skill set I’ve lost for good or if it’s a temporary thing; I hope it’s a temporary thing, quite frankly.
If it is, I’m going to have to rethink a lot of things about how I get shit done. Yikes. Adaptability is always important…even if I am fucking sick and tired of having to adapt all the time. Heavy heaving sigh.
I still haven’t selected my next book to read. The choices are Ellen Byron’s Wined and Died in LA; Lori Roy’s Let Me Die in His Footsteps; Jamie Mason’s Monday’s Lie; and Chris Clarkson’s That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street. I am leaning toward the Clarkson simply because it’s not a crime novel, and I feel like I need to take a little break from crime fiction for awhile. That Summer Night is a young adult romance novel, and it’s probably the only one I know of set in New Orleans (I know that can’t be right, but right now on my second cup of coffee I simply can’t think of another one–I know there was a really bad one about a ghost from Lafayette Cemetery #1 that i read about a decade ago whose name I cannot recall, and it did make me think writing y/a set in New Orleans was probably not the best idea, even though I had an idea for one or two because of course I always do), and I really liked Chris when we were on the panel together at Saints and Sinners…plus it’s a New Orleans book. I am really making an effort to get through the TBR pile before adding more to it–although I will always be adding more to it–and I think 2023 is a good year to do that. Now if I can only stay motivated….
It’s weird to think that I’ll be leaving town on Thursday, too. I definitely need to make a to-do list and start working my way through it. At this time next Saturday I’ll be signing in the book room at Malice Domestic, dealing with exhaustion, and trying to find some downtime to get work on the book done. I am flying home on Sunday, so I also took Monday off so I can recalibrate and get caught up on things like groceries and so forth. It’s almost May, Christ. I need to get this fucking book revised and out of my hair so I can move on to writing something the fuck else.
I also saw this morning that Alex Segura won the LA Times Book Award for Best Mystery/Thriller for Secret Identity, an award which I whole-heartedly endorse. It was one of my favorite books of last year, and Alex also happens to be one of my favorite people in this business. Yay! I love when this sort of thing happens to wonderful people who write wonderful books. Yay!
And on that, I should probably head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. If not, tomorrow.
For me, one of the great joys and pleasures of being an author and being part of the business is getting to meet and discover new-to-me talents. I am very quirky when it comes to reading; I do things like always leave one book by an author unread so I know I still have one more book of theirs to read–there are a couple of authors I am caught up on completely and waiting for another title is agony (looking at you, Laura Lippman and Megan Abbott and John Copenhaver).
I had heard of Scorched Grace before this past Saints and Sinners; Paul had asked me if I knew the author and explained everything about her and her debut novel several months before the event. I was of course completely fascinated; how can you not be fascinated by “her main character is a chain-smoking tattooed lesbian former punk rocker who is now a nun”? I immediately ordered a copy–isn’t that cover amazing?–and then at Saints and Sinners, I heard Margot read from it, and then attended a panel she was on and was terribly impressed. I decided it absolutely had to be my next read. It took me a lot longer to read than it should have–particularly since I was enjoying it so much–which has more to do with other obligations and pure exhaustion so shouldn’t be used as a gauge of the book’s quality.
Because this book deserves your full attention.
The devil isn’t in the details. Evil thrives in blind spots. In absence, negative space, like the haze of a sleight-of-hand trick. The details are God’s work. My job is keeping those details in order.
It took me four and a half hours to do the laundry and clean the stained glass, and my whole body felt wrecked. Every tendon strained. Even swallowing hurt. So, when my Sisters glided into the staff lounge for the meeting, folders and papers pressed against their black tunics, I slipped into the alley for some divine reflection–a smoke break. It was Sunday, dusk.
Vice on the sabbath, I know. Not my finest moment. But carpe diem.
An hour to myself was all I needed. An aura of menace taunted me all day. The air was thick and gritty, like it wanted to bare-knuckle fight. Sticky heat, typical in New Orleans, but worse that day. The sun, the swollen red of a mosquito bite. Slow simmer belying the violence of the boil. I couldn’t sit through another reprimand.
Sister Holiday is easily one of the most compelling, and interesting, main characters to come along in crime fiction in quite some time. And while there is a good and involving mystery at the core of this novel–who is setting the fires at the convent school? Who killed the maintenance worker? Was the fire set to cover up the murder or are they part and parcel of the same thing?–the absolute strength and power of this book comes from the narrative voice of this peculiar, not your average not-taken-her-vows-yet nun. She’s fascinating, and the voice is so strong and powerful: cynical yet innocent, bitter yet hopeful, Christian yet not. Her back story, which we learn through her progression of following clues and interviewing suspects and trying to put all the shifty pieces together, is enough in and of itself to keep the reader involved and turning the page.
And the language! My word, the power of Douahy’s language choices, sentence and paragraph structure! Here are some examples I marked:
Revenge is a stupid way to feel in control. Like all drugs, it doesn’t last, but it sure is fun in the moment. (p. 75)
Most boys couldn’t be trusted. Testosterone poisoning, Moose was fond of saying about guys and their bluster. I imagined the cartoon poison flowing through boy veins whenever my brother said that. (p. 79)
There is a sublime wholeness in holding one another, fitting into other bodies. We eat the body of Christ. We drink the blood. So many years later, Nina’s taste still laced my mouth–champagne, sweat, graphite licked off a thumb. (p.106)
New Orleans was ornate in every way, especially in its punishment. Like wispy fiberglass, the city doesn’t feel like it is of this world. (p. 107)
Everything in New Orleans is overdue, overgrown, dripping. The oak trees decked with boas of Spanish moss. Frogs creaked and peeped until the moon set. Morning glory vines strangled pink roofs and wisteria tentacles swayed in the cross breeze. A row of traditional, one-level shotgun homes: bright orange window frames, mint-green wooden shutters, and bright white columns A cat meowed on a nearby porch. (p. 123)
We are all like stained glass, beautiful and complicated and fragile as fuck. We all need care. And some of us don’t get what we deserve. (p. 233)
What a glorious read this was. I look forward to the next in the (planned) trilogy; and will probably revisit this one, too. Get a copy now.
Thursday and my last day in the office for the week, with no health fair to drop in for tomorrow morning. I can just sleep late and can relax with no worries about getting to the office. Our schedule is full today, for the first time since pre-pandemic, so it’s going to be a day where I probably won’t have time to breathe much.
Paul worked late last night writing a grant, so I did go ahead and watch this week’s Ted Lasso without him, and yes, I will definitely be happy to watch it again. I usually watch each episode twice anyway, and what a delight this episode was. I know there’s some grumbling out there about this season, and I will admit so far this season hasn’t been quite up to the high standard the first two seasons set–it is still quite excellent–but this week’s episode? Chef’s kiss, perfection, no notes. (If you haven’t already seen it, stop reading right now and skip to the next paragraph.) The sequence where Jamie teaches Roy to ride a bike, set to “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head”? (People who’ve never seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid might miss the reference, but it made me smile.) Absolute perfection. It never ceases to astonish me that Jamie Tartt has become one of my absolute favorite characters on the show; his journey from self-absorbed narcissist to a kind, caring and considerate person has been one of the best character arcs I’ve ever seen done on television. Then add in Trent and Colin’s scenes, where Trent comes out to him and tells him he already knows about Colin? That conversation was filmed in front of the Homomonument in Amsterdam that commemorates the queer people killed in the Holocaust or those who were later prosecuted and persecuted for the crime of being themselves, which made it all the more touching and moving. Colin’s whole thing about two separate lives, wanting to just be himself, being able to kiss his fella after a win like the other guys kiss their girls, and live his life and not be a spokesperson? Oh, darling Colin, that’s really what we all want, and it broke my heart just a little as I realized, once again, that no matter how far we’ve come, we still haven’t made it to home base. It was so heartfelt and real, I got tears in my eyes. And then Higgins and Will at the jazz club; Rebecca and her boat man; and of course the vast silliness of the team trying to decide what to do for their free night in Amsterdam, while Ted shrooms? Absolute perfection, from the very first scene to the last. It warmed my soul and when the closing credits rolled, I felt satisfied and happy. I am really going to miss this show when it comes to an end. Thank you to the writers, because that scene with Trent and Colin easily could have become maudlin and melodramatic; instead, it was honest and real and a little heartbreaking. The writers of the episode deserve an Emmy for that scene alone.
I did get some work done on the book last night. I was tired when I got home–I guess I should be getting used to that by now; getting up early means flagging energy later in the day, which does make sense–but I slogged through some of it, anyway. I feel pretty good and lively this morning, though; but we have a full schedule which means I will be exhausted by the end of the day. Paul’s grant gets turned in today, so he should be home this evening, so I’ll get to revisit this magical episode of Ted Lasso before we dive in and get caught up on both Yellowjackets and The Mandalorian. I also managed to put away the clean dishes from the dishwasher and then reloaded it; so that will need to be unloaded tonight and reloaded again; we’ve gone through a lot of dishes this week for some reason. Go figure. Tomorrow is a work-at-home day, which will be lovely. I keep hoping that someday I’ll get caught up on the housework, but it never seems to happen. I really need to focus on revising the manuscript this weekend, too–it’s horrifying how far behind on it I actually am. I really wanted to be lazy this weekend, but that’s clearly not going to be an option. I need to get up every morning, do some cleaning and organizing, and then open up the manuscript and dive in headfirst. It sometimes feels like I’ve been working on this book for-fucking-ever; and I long for the day when it is finished, once and for all. It’s also supposed to rain tomorrow, which should make for a very cozy at home day.
I guess I still feel a little off-balance, more than anything else. I don’t really feel like I’ve been able to find my center in a very long time, and as such, my life has felt off-kilter for about three or four years now. I remember joking when the pandemic first shut down the world in March 2020 that “LSU had a perfect football season and broke the world,” but in a very real sense, that’s kind of what happened–they weren’t connected, simply sequential–and even that Carnival in 2020 felt wrong somehow; people got killed at the parades by falling under floats; the Hard Rock Hotel construction site had collapsed, closing down several streets around and including Canal; and of course, racism and homophobia have been running rampant during these times. It’s been a very tiring period, frankly, and getting older during it hasn’t helped matters much. So many changes, so many adjustments, so much exhaustion. I do sometimes think I am getting too old for this life. Slings and arrows, slings and arrows, slings and arrows.
However, the irony that the United Kingdom and the United States, the two countries that led the world in the war against fascism in the 1940’s, are currently sliding headfirst into fascism needs to be noted regularly. As I say to Paul all the time when the latest insanity breaking news flashing across our phones and TV screens, “I’m glad I’m old and don’t have any children to worry about.”
Anyway, I am going to bring this to a close now. Not quite as fiery as yesterday’s post, of course–I was in quite the mood when I wrote yesterday’s, but it still stands as truth–but that isn’t going to happen every day anyway. I’m so tired of being outraged and aggravated, you know?
And I do sometimes wonder how different my life would be had I not been born into a homophobic society and culture.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines, Will check in with you again tomorrow, Constant Reader. Have a lovely Thursday!
Give me faith, give me joy, my boy, I will always cherish you!
In case you didn’t notice, I am working my way through Madonna’s lengthy discography for my entry titles, and it’s actually kind of fun revisiting old Madonna music. She’s been a force in pop culture for nearly forty years now, which is a pretty amazing run when you think about it–not quite the Cher/Bette Midler mark yet, but still, pretty amazing. My first Madonna song (that I remember hearing, or taking notice of) was “Borderline,” and I bought that first album. And while I liked it a lot, I figured Madonna wasn’t going to be around for very long; artists who focused on dance music, especially white women, tended to not stick around the business for very long. But then came the Like a Virgin album (which is my least favorite of hers, in all honesty), and she turned into a phenomenon that wasn’t going away any time soon. “Cherish” I remember primarily because it was a light pop confection, nothing too deep but fun to listen to and bop along with, but the video, shot by Herb Ritts with all the hot mermen? (for the record, my two favorite Madonna albums as Like a Prayer and Ray of Light, neither of which should come as a big surprise)
Michael Denneny passed away over the weekend. I never had the occasion to meet him, but he was a hugely important figure in the development of queer art and literature back in the day, not the least for founding Christopher Street magazine. He was also important in the 1990’s, with his Stonewall Inn imprint at St. Martin’s, which eventually shuttered around the turn of the century. It’s possible I may have met him back in the days when I worked for Lambda; it’s very likely, in fact, but my memories have grown faded to sepia with time and there’s a lot I don’t remember from back then (it’s always mortifying when someone reminds me of us meeting back then and I don’t recall anything about it; there’s usually an amusing story that goes with it that makes it even more mortifying that I don’t remember). But hat’s off to you, Michael; you discovered and published a lot of authors who brought me hours of reading joy. Thank you for your life’s work.
I didn’t sleep well last night, which was something I was worried about happening. I woke up every hour or so, never really felt like I went in a deep sleep at all, and feel fried and tired today. Yay. But its okay, I can deal, and hopefully I’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight and feel great tomorrow. Heavy heaving sigh.
We finished season one of P-Valley and started season two–but weren’t too crazy about the second season. They are dealing with the pandemic, and I have to confess it never occurred to me what strippers would do during a pandemic; I did wonder, while watching, why none of them had an Onlyfans? Especially since one of them is attracting a large following on Instagram? Paul and I agreed to give the second season a second chance, but unless there’s a dramatic pick-up on the story, we’ll probably stop watching and may come back to it at another time. Which then begs the question what will we watch in the meantime? I have some things on my list, so maybe we can check out some of them tonight. And of course, if we don’t like something we can always stop watching it.
I did finish reading Margot Douaihy’s Scorched Grace yesterday, and it was quite a ride. The voice, the tone, the word choices and sentence structures…all of it unique and if not, then a fresh new way of doing something shopworn. Sister Holiday is a fascinating character with an equally fascinating back story; we glimpsed some of it in this first book (of three), and I like the idea of a hardboiled cozy with a lesbian chain-smoking nun as the main character. The book certainly subverts your expectations, and there’s a hypnotic quality to the writing, that pulls you in and makes you keep turning the page. I started marking pages that had sentences I really liked for when I do a post focusing on said book; I want to let the book sit in my head for a while before I devote an entire entry to it. It’s one of the best books I’ve read this year so far–and this year I’ve read some truly phenomenal books already and it’s only mid-April, with even more exciting books dropping throughout the course of the rest of this year.
And I really need to get more progress done on the book. The problem is not sleeping well during the week (see last night) and being too tired when I get home from work to do any more work on it. But tonight, after I get home from running errands on the way from work, I am hoping that I can start pulling some of the strings of the story without unraveling the entire thing. One can hope, at any rate, right?
And on that note I am heading into the spice mines. I thought about calling out for the day but would rather go in and gut it out. You have a great Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning.
Saturday morning. I was incorrect about the department meeting; it’s later this month (when I’ll be in Bethesda, actually) so I went to the health fair, was told I should increase my exercise (duh, since I do none now) and other than that, I appear to be perfectly healthy–or at least per my vitals and blood work, at any rate.
How fortunate they weren’t testing for mental stability, eh?
But it was a lovely day to work-at-home. It was still cold overnight, but the high yesterday hovered in the high seventies, topping out at a solid, spring-like eighty degrees at one point in the afternoon, which was also nice. I filed and cleaned when taking breaks from work; laundered the bed linens, finished off the dishes, and straightened the rugs as well as sweeping and vacuuming. We got caught up on Yellowjackets and The Mandalorian, and while I was waiting for Paul to come home from the gym, I rewatched this week’s Ted Lasso with the captions on so I could catch things I missed on first viewing (something I do with every episode, as I did with Schitt’s Creek), and I have to say I enjoyed it a lot more on the second viewing than I did on the first. I am very curious to see where the show is going and how it’s going to end–but unlike everyone else, I’ve decided to not theorize about it or jump to conclusions predicated on my interpretation of what I’ve seen; instead I just want to enjoy the ride and trust the writers to do their jobs, which they’ve done superbly on every step of the journey thus far.
I slept really well last night and feel very rested this morning. I have to get the mail today and I should make a small grocery run while I am out, but ugh, how I hate the grocery store lately. It saps my strength and will and makes me want to curl up with Scooter and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist anymore out there. There’s not much we really need, to be completely honest; but I need to know what I want to make for dinner this weekend and what I am going to be taking for lunch next week. Decisions, decisions–but it feels good to be rested and clear-headed this morning. I don’t know that I feel particularly inspired this morning, but that’s okay. Once I finish this, I am taking my coffee and repairing to my easy chair to read Scorched Grace, which I hope to finish this weekend.
Anne Perry, a very successful author, died this week. She had an unfortunate past, having committed the crime that Peter Jackson’s film Beautiful Creatures was based on (also known as the film that gave us Kate Winslet and Melanie Lynskey) as a teenager, and served her time. I didn’t know Ms. Perry, nor have I ever read any of her work. This wasn’t out of any sense of oh I can’t possible be supportive of her! She killed someone! but more because they weren’t the kind of stories I particularly enjoy. I did ride in an elevator with her once at a Bouchercon, and she was polite, reservedly friendly (understandable), and seemed kind. I’ve been thinking lately that I’d like to read more historical crime fiction, particularly around the first World War (looking at you, Charles Todd!), but that TBR stack is already way too deep and tall and wide. However, Ms. Perry’s death has, of course, brought all that about her teenaged crime back into the news and onto social media to be rehashed and discussed and, well, frankly beaten into the ground. Ms. Perry’s situation also is key to a broader discussion about criminal justice, and our criminal justice system and how it operates. (Ms. Perry’s crime was committed in Australia, I believe.) I see a lot of people talking about how they don’t believe in redemption, and how they could never bring themselves to support someone who’d done something so terrible, etc. etc. etc. And it’s very true; we as a society tend to look askance at people who’ve served time in prison–and tend to judge them harshly.
How can you believe in a criminal justice system if you don’t believe in the potential of human redemption? I’m not an expert on any of this stuff, let me make that very clear at this point. I am merely examining this from a layman’s perspective and coming from a logical place to try to dissect all of this with nuance and rationality; what can I say, I took Geometry in high school and was on the debate team. I don’t think you can believe in our criminal justice system if you don’t believe in redemption, which seems kind of Old Testament to me; once a criminal always a criminal is what that boils down to, and if there is never even the slightest possibility that someone can be redeemed, what is the point of jailing them? Punishment? That seems kind of draconian and not very humanist, frankly. The odds are stacked against convicts as it is when they are released; as most of us will always keep an eye at them in askance, just waiting for them to commit another crime to prove that they belong in jail and should never be released. I understand the sex-offender registry–women and children are vulnerable and should be aware someone who may be a predator is living in their area now–but at the same time, it feels….punitive. Sex crimes are horrible, to be sure, but if they are so horrible and the offender is statistically going to commit the same kind of crime again–why let them out in the first place? Getting one of those flyers back when we lived on Camp Street is what inspired me to write my short story “Neighborhood Alert,” which is one of my favorite stories that I’ve done, and tried to use the story to illustrate the potential consequences that can come from such alerts.
I also think it’s interesting that people are so unforgiving in real life while they will read–and root for–characters like Tom Ripley or Hannibal Lector or Dexter. But that’s fiction, they say in response, to which I say so you would be repulsed by them if they were real, but you root for them in fiction? Make it make sense to me.
Ultimately, she did her time for her crime, and then spent the rest of her life writing crime novels successfully. Enough people either didn’t know about her past, or didn’t care enough to make them give up the pleasure of reading her work. As I said, I’ve not read her work but it’s not out of any sense of moral outrage or superiority, but because they aren’t the kind of books I ordinarily read–although now I kind of want to read one, to see how good she was. If you don’t want to read her, or didn’t, because of her past that’s your choice and your decision. But please don’t think for one moment you have the right to tell me what I can or cannot read, or what I can or cannot enjoy–because then you are no better than right-wingers trying to ban books and close libraries, and that is something I will not, do not, and cannot, support on any level.
I also kind of believe that redemption is possible, but not unless there is atonement and a desire to change. If I didn’t believe that, well, I don’t know how I could live with myself. This is a question I explored in my nasty little story “This Thing of Darkness”–can you atone for something terrible you did as a teenager? Especially if you are never punished for the crime itself? How do you live with yourself with such a thing on your conscience? (This is also the theme for one of my favorite books of all times, Thomas Thompson’s Celebrity)
And on that note, I am making another cup of coffee and heading to the chair with Margot Douaily. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back here again tomorrow, as always.
Wednesday and it’s Pay the Bills day again! Woo-hoo!
I didn’t sleep all that great Monday night, so felt a little tired all day. Mentally I was fine, but it was another one of those oh you’re body feels tired and wants to curl up and go back to sleep–which was what I’d avoided all day Monday only to have the night be restless for me. It’s okay, of course; there are always worse things that could have happened (like not sleeping at all) but it wasn’t exactly terribly motivating, you know? I got all my day job work caught up, which was great, but had a ZOOM meeting last night at six pm after I got home, so didn’t get a whole lot done other than that. But I did get all my tax stuff turned over to my accountant–we may need to file an extension, which is fine; this is all my fault for blanking on my income taxes–which was a lovely and much needed thing.
That was a very close call, frankly.
I slept much better last night. I feel very rested this morning, both physically and mentally, so here’s hoping for high productivity day, shall we? I stopped on my way home last night to pick up more ink for my printer–it’s weird how I go through the other colors much faster than black; I have two black cartridges I’ve not used yet from having to replace the colored ink; yesterday I discovered I can simply buy the colored ink separately without a black cartridge–which means it happens more frequently than i would have thought–that black and the other colors never run out at the same time. I suppose you can also buy them individually; I just always bought the more expensive all colors pack. Live and learn, things are getting a bit easier, wouldn’t you say?
I have all the background materials prepared so tonight will begin the official revision of the final draft of the new Scotty book. I have to admit, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about ending the Scotty series. What? I know, I know, I figured I’d be writing about Scotty until the day I die. But I am beginning to think the series is a bit played out; what else is there for him to do, explore, realize about himself and the world? I don’t know. The writing has been very difficult–not just for Scotty–ever since the pandemic started. Not that it’s over by any means–looks like there’s yet another new strain out there, at least I saw some news reports yesterday about it, at any rate. But I think and hope that once I get this one finished and out of my hair, going back to writing something new from scratch will be a lot more fun than writing has been since 2020.
We watched Yellowjackets last night–I really love Melanie Lynskey–and this week’s episode of Ted Lasso, which feels like it’s getting back to what it really is after an interesting start to this final season. I do love the show, just as I did Schitt’s Creek, but I’m not completely obsessed by it, the way some people on Twitter appear to be; they seem to have watched every episode shot by shot, frame by frame, and then indexed it all so they can refer to it with each new episode that drops? I mean, it’s cool–I used to be obsessed with television shows (soaps in particular) but maybe not to this extent? I think streaming makes these kinds of obsessions easier than it used to be; you used to have to record everything on a videotape, which would gradually wear out with repeated watchings and before that–well, I don’t know what people used to do before the Internet other than watched shows as they aired and took voluminous notes? I suspect people didn’t used to get as obsessed with television shows and films the way they do now because it wasn’t possible–although I suppose Star Trek was the first show to really get people obsessed. Not an expert on television history, I’m afraid, nor of its impact and influence on culture and our society as a whole.
It really is amazing how much better I feel this morning. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for you, isn’t it? I’m hoping I’m not tired when I run my errands after work tonight–I need to make some groceries and get the mail, then come home and do some chores (finishing the laundry, emptying the dishwasher in order to reload it again–before I can sit down and work on the book some more and then we need to find something new to watch; but I have found a bunch of shows that look interesting–crime stories, natch–so we can start giving those a try. I also want to prune down the books a bit more, and see if I can’t get some of this junk out of the living room. I’ve always preferred open space in my home, to give the illusion of it being a larger space, so of course the living room is completely cluttered and has stuff shoved into every crack, crevice, and space where something can possibly go, and I don’t like that feeling, frankly. (It’s also why I worry about moving into a bigger space–more space to fill with clutter and things.)
Heavy heaving sigh.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you tomorrow.
Monday after Easter Sunday, and I hope everyone had the kind of Sunday/holiday they needed to prepare them to head into this week full bore ahead.
The good news is that I reread Mississippi River Mischief yesterday and it most definitely is not the shitty mess I originally thought it was. It needs work, to be sure, but not nearly as much as I had feared, thank you Jesus, pass the ammunition, amen. The work isn’t going to be easy, either, but the framework can remain primarily intact with some reorganization and changing. (It didn’t help that I was rereading my manuscript after spending some time with Margot Douaihy’s brilliant debut, Scorched Grace, which is so good I am making notes of some of the sentences because they are so fucking smart; but I also wasn’t thinking rank amateur God how bad you suck at writing when there are people like Margot turning out such amazing work, which is saying something for me.) I also reread Festival of the Redeemer and Never Kiss a Stranger yesterday, and they aren’t bad, either. Maybe I don’t completely suck at this writing thing, who knows?
We spent most of yesterday bingeing The Last of Us, which is a really good show. I was reluctant for a long time–I’ve kind of had my fill of dystopian tales, although my fellow Americans don’t seem to feel the same way. But one can never go wrong with Pedro Pascal, and there was an episode where I said out loud, “this show is basically the same as The Mandalorian” and felt really smart. It’s very well done, though, and we’re obviously sucked heavily into it. The gay couple episode almost broke us both–so beautifully written and acted; so heart-wrenching and beautiful at the same time, maybe one of the most well done gay romance/love stories I’ve seen on either film or television–and I was sad last night when we had to turn it off because I had to go to bed. There are, of course, similarities to other dystopian stories like The Walking Dead and The Stand, but that’s only to be expected. I also was reminded of my own ideas for a dystopia, and reminded somewhat of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (I have not read McCarthy, and felt a disclaimer was needed; but everyone knows the story of The Road).
I’ve always found it interesting that dystopic fiction is so popular, and have always wondered what precisely that says about our culture and society. I think my first dystopic fiction was the Planet of the Apes film series (I also read Pierre Boulle’s book, which the first film was very loosely based on), and the next was Richard Matheson’s novel I Am Legend and the movie loosely based on it, The Omega Man (interesting that the former and the latter both starred Charlton Heston). (I am a big fan of Matheson’s, who isn’t as known as he should be in my opinion; I feel the same way about Robert Bloch as well.) I myself have had ideas for dystopic fiction, as I mentioned before; I have several ideas about that I would love to try to write some time, but I am not so good at fantasy and science fiction (or at least it’s outside of my comfort zone because I don’t know anything much about science and especially not physics); which is why they were futuristic ones set in North America after the fall of the United States (which is the kind of alternative future story I love).
So. Many. Ideas.
But, basically I came away from the weekend feeling like I can get everything under control again; whether that is true or not remains to be seen. But I do know that I need to get back to work on the book, and work hard for a while. I need to get my taxes done and I need to get my emails answered. I’m looking forward to finishing Scorched Grace, which is absolutely amazing, and there’s still some cleaning that needs to be done around here. I managed to get most of the filing done so my desk area doesn’t look like a tornado zone, which is always a plus; just a few more things to file and put away and it’ll be almost completely under control. And the way things are going, I should even have a couple more completed manuscripts by the end of the summer! Woo-hoo!
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. You have a great day, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.
Queer and Loathing in America 