Category: goals

How to Bring a Blush to the Snow

Monday, and the 3rd of July. It is back to the office with me today, but of course tomorrow is a day off with pay so this week is going to be weird and off-kilter too. Yay? But this week I have page proofs to go over, errands to run, and a life to get back on track. I feel rather disoriented from being gone for an entire week for a change, which was weird. I did wind up feeling much better yesterday as the day progressed; we made a Costco run in the midst of that dreadful heat advisory (felt like 114) and I also did a lot of laundry. I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded; it isn’t full yet. I am going to try to stay efficient this week, and hope that efficiency–doing the dishes when I get home from work every night, keeping up with the laundry, putting things away rather than let them pile up–is maintained as we move sluggishly through the rest of this blazing hot summer.

We started watching a true crime documentary series last night called The Suspect, and got two episodes in (out of four total). The show is from CBC, and is about a murder and trial in St. John, Nova Scotia. It’s always interesting to watch these shows and see how the police and prosecution actually operate as opposed to the way they do in fiction. It’s actually kind of terrifying, really, and of course, it gave me an idea for a book to go with this great title I came up with in the car the other day.

I’ve also been thinking about my writing and what I want to do with it and where I want to go. I really am not in a place where I should be coming up with new concepts and structures and characters for a new novel when there are already so many in progress around here that I need to finish at some point, not to mention the short stories, too. Heavy heaving sigh.

But I slept so deeply and well last night. I woke up a few times, always afraid that’s the end of the sleep for the night, but I was literally out like the power after a hurricane. And I had no resistance to getting up to the alarm, either. I feel rested, which is wonderful. I wish I could figure out a way to get sleep like that while I am traveling, but I also think I over-caffeinate when I travel, too. I don’t nearly follow my necessary daily routines when I am traveling; I don’t drink nearly as much water and, like I previously said, over-caffeinate. This inevitably results in me becoming dehydrated, and when I am dehydrated I generally don’t get hungry, either, and I often wind up skipping meals and so forth, which means my blood sugar drops precipitously as well. In other words, I need to retrain what I do when I am traveling and/or on the road and take care of myself better than I usually do while away.

I feel terrific this morning and my mood has also significantly improved. I don’t think I’ve completely rehydrated yet, either; but I feel so much better today than I did yesterday that it’s almost like I’m an entirely new person. This is always lovely, frankly. There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep; I just wish I could unlock the secret to getting good rest every night, but no such luck.

We also watched Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed, which was okay. If you’ve never read a biography of Hudson, or seen any previous documentaries about his life, there’s nothing much new here. I’ve learned a lot about Rock Hudson doing research for Chlorine–if you’re writing a novel about a closeted gay actor in the 1950’s, who better to read about than Rock?–so this documentary was nothing new for me. It was well done, and I liked that they interviewed his surviving gay exes or gay friends (for the record, I’ve also researched Tab Hunter–whom I met a few times–and Montgomery Clift, Anthony Perkins, and several others. I find that I really like doing research, to be honest. The whole time I was gone at Dad’s I was reading and learning more about Alabama history, which I think will make my future Alabama novels much better than they would have been, and also inspired more ideas for Alabama books.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the rest of the day. It’s been so long since I’ve been at work…anyway, have a great pre-holiday Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again later.

Blue Bell Knoll

I’m home, and exhausted.

I drove back this morning from Kentucky. The drive isn’t hideous (other than the hell that Chattanooga always is, either direction, no matter the time of day or day of the week or time of the year); it’s actually quite a lovely drive. The mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee are stunningly beautiful. There’s a brief jog into Georgia’s northwest mountains before I connect to I-59 south and cross the Alabama state line, returning to the central time zone at the same instant (being on Eastern time seriously fucks with my body clock, and it’s getting worse). Alabama is–well, Alabama is beautiful. I will always feel that tug and tie to the state of my birth, where my people are from, where my mother and ancestors are buried. It isn’t easy sometimes to love the land of my birth; it’s complicated, as so many things that don’t need to be actually are. I think I am probably going to write about Alabama again, because I find myself wrestling with that complicated, sometimes agonizing tie, trying to understand and unravel and perhaps finally find some kind of peace rather than just mournful acceptance.

It also always interests me how little traffic there is through Mississippi. Maybe a bit in Meridian, but nothing more than a slight irritation, ever. Once I pass Meridian, I am in the home stretch and start to get antsy, anxious and tired and ready to just be home. I start watching the mileage markers alongside the highway; and I always feel a bit of a little thrill the first time the milage to New Orleans is on a sign; that means soon and the countdown is in its final stages. It always surprises me a little how quickly I can get home once I reach Slidell, though I start getting antsy to get through Bayou Sauvage and start relaxing again because I am almost to the East and then the high rise; and when I reach the top of that I see the CBD and the Superdome and I release a lot of tension I didn’t even realize I was holding in my shoulders. It’s always lovely to come home–even if getting out of the car in front of the house was oppressive. My God, it was lovely in Kentucky; I’d forgotten what a heat advisory in New Orleans feels like–which always makes me laugh: how can I always forget? For fuck’s sake, I write about it all the fucking time.

It was an interesting week. I don’t think I’ve had an entire week off from work since we went to Italy (willing to freely admit that might be incorrect; my memory banks are currently fried and I am beginning to suspect they aren’t going to repair themselves). It was incredibly hot in Alabama, Lord, was it hot in Alabama. But…I also don’t spend a lot of time outside in the summer in New Orleans, to be fair, and I spent a lot of time outdoors whilst in Alabama. Monday was Mom and Dad’s anniversary, so that’s why I took the trip. I met Dad in Jasper, where we stayed, on Sunday; we went to the grave on Monday and drove around the county, visiting other graves of ancestors. We also went to the county courthouse at 2:00, which was when they were married…and then we departed for Kentucky. There was a horrific thunderstorm Sunday night in Jasper; there was an even worse one in Kentucky–a derecho–and so a lot of trees and tree limbs came down, and of course my parents’ house had lost power on Sunday night, and it hadn’t been restored by the time we got there on Monday night. It came back on Tuesday night, but my sense of days and dates and so forth was already screwed up by then, and I’d lost track of everything. I spent a lot of time with Dad, which was great and I am very happy I was able to do this with him so he didn’t have to do it alone; and it was great spending time with him up north.

I got my love of history from my dad, which is something I am forever grateful for, and so of course we talked a lot about history, not just the family stuff but the county and Alabama in general. I read a couple of history books while I was up there–more on those later–and Dad gave me some terrific ones about Alabama, which of course started triggering my fallow creativity. I did a lot of creative thinking while I was up there, and of course, as I said, I was also wrestling with my complicated heritage and complicated feelings about it. I may not agree with many of my father’s takes on history–particularly US History and the Civil War–but I enjoy listening respectfully to his (wrong) opinions, and of course, it got me to thinking about my complicated heritage and how I feel about it, which naturally made me want to write some more about it. I have an idea germinating, but I am going to do some more research and reading before I even start spitballing ideas (and titles) for the next Alabama book.

Talking to my dad about my mother and the rest of the family also made me realize some things about myself. Mom hated conflict and avoided it at all costs and she also suffered from anxiety. I hate conflict and avoid it at (almost) all costs, and I also suffer from crippling anxiety sometimes; I am always anxious, but sometimes…it’s horrible, really. The Xanax helps somewhat, but not always. I even have anxiety about having anxiety. So of course, the perfect job for someone with anxiety is being a writer, which is almost non-stop anxiety triggers.

I listened to Carol Goodman’s The Widow’s House on the way up, and her The Seduction of Water on the way back. I haven’t finished the second–about an hour or so left–which I will probably finish listening to while I do chores. There will, of course, be more on them later. I also missed the second game of the College World Series final on my way up to Jasper, and you can imagine my horror, Constant Reader, to see that after winning the first game against Florida, my Tigers got spanked in the second 24-4. This would ordinarily have made me a bit tense about the final, winner takes all game; but was also delighted to arrive in Kentucky to see that LSU pounded Florida 18-4 to bring home LSU’s seventh national championship on baseball (GEAUX TIGERS!!!).

I started writing this last night, hoping to post it before I went to bed, but I just got overwhelmingly exhausted, so I went to bed…and was unable to fall asleep. Yay. SO I finally got tired of just laying there and got up and finished this, am doing some laundry, and have a load of dishes soaking in soapy water in the sink. I have a lot of errands to do today (well, it may only be 4:53 am, but it is Sunday), chores around the house, and so I figured I should get up and get going on the day rather than just staying in bed, hoping to get a nap or something before sunrise. Yet here I am. Sigh. But I only have to get through Monday at the office (and run errands on the way home) and then have the 4th off. It’s going to be a very somber 4th for me this year, as the Supreme Court decided, in their bigoted bought and paid for opinion, that I am a second class citizen that “Christians” can essentially spit on.

How fucking Christ-like. There will be more on that later, as well.

And on that note, I am going to go fold some clothes and get some things done. I’ll be back later, no doubt.

Lazy Calm

Monday morning and in Jasper, Alabama. Today is my parents’ anniversary, and the first since we lost Mom earlier this year. Dad and I are going to the grave to put flowers on it, and then we’re going to convoy up to Kentucky. There’s no plan, really, other than having breakfast here and then checking out and so forth. The firsts are always the hardest; both of their birthdays, which are only a day apart, will be rough come October; him being alone on his and then her not being here for hers. Their birthdays are weekdays, so I don’t know if I can make it up here for that–unless he decides to do it on a weekend, but he’s also retired, so his time is his own. I do worry about him, though. It’s very easy to put myself into his place by imagining the horror of losing Paul. I mean, I’ve already had to confront that hideous possibility several times already, but even so it’s not going to be easy. The selfish part of me kind of hopes I go first, to be honest…but I would prefer not to; because I don’t want Paul to go through what my dad is going through right now. I’d rather shoulder that grief and burden then put him through it, if that makes sense? My life would be empty and bleak and there wouldn’t be anymore joy in it, but I’d rather I deal with that than him.

I hate even thinking in terms of “who goes first,” really. Kind of hard not to have thoughts about our mortality when having to go through this sort of thing.

The drive was lovely, but there was a lot more traffic than I am accustomed to; but then I never drive north on a Sunday, either; it’s usually mid-week or not on the weekend. We’ll probably get to Nashville just in time for rush hour (hurray!), and then the rest of the drive up, but at least the drive was broken up a bit. I was able to get Whataburger in Tuscaloosa (seriously, the simple pleasures mean everything to me), and then drove on up through the countryside. Alabama is so beautiful; everything is in bloom and everything is green. I had wondered about kudzu the last time I came up here; I’ve seen a lot of it on this trip so maybe May was too early for it to get leafy and green? The mystery of kudzu is just another one of those things I’ll probably always be interested in and never completely understand.

I’m also thinking about writing about Alabama again.

On the drive, I kept thinking about stories that are in progress–particularly one, which I wrote first in 1983 and have been sitting on ever since–and I was even thinking about my next book to start writing (yes, I have others that have to be finished but…) and I want to write another Gothic. I was listening to Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Widow’s House (and yes, absolutely loving it) which got me to thinking about Gothics again, and a New Orleans ghost story I’ve been wanting to tell, set on Camp Place in my neighborhood and roughly titled Voices in an Empty Room. I’ve had the idea forever, and I love that title–does it get more Gothic than that title?–and I was also thinking about another short story I’ve rewritten and revised and haven’t been able to sell anywhere; I may do another draft and try again, but it will probably just end up in my next short story collection. One of the things I love about being an avid reader as well as a writer is that great craftsmanship in novels is something that always inspires me to be better myself. Carol Goodman does that whenever I read/listen to one of her books; many authors do, frankly. I often am amazed that they consider me a colleague, let alone speak to me. I always feel like a rank amateur when I am reading a master like Carol.

As for the grieving, it’s still hard for me to talk about Mom without getting upset or getting teary-eyed and my voice cracking. I try very hard to hold it together in front of Dad–not in a toxic masculinity sense of “men don’t cry” but more in the sense that he’ll lose it completely if I do; he’s never going to get over this. It’s funny, but I never have ever felt completely comfortable crying in front of my parents. Maybe it’s a holdover from childhood? I cry easily, actually; television shows and movies and books make me cry all the time. I don’t like crying in front of anyone, really; maybe that is a toxic masculinity thing after all? I’ve always wept privately, away from people and by myself. Maybe it’s a vulnerability thing? I don’t like showing my vulnerability–primarily because whenever I have, those I thought were safe enough to let in, eventually went on to exploit it and I have always regretted it.

I’ve always been a magnet for shitty people, seriously. (That isn’t to say I don’t have marvelous, wonderful friends now; the kind I used to dream about having when I was younger.) Maybe, for whatever reason, there’s something about me that makes people be shitty to me? This is a distinct possibility; I am terrible with verbal and physical cues and often misread situations and say or do something inappropriate or unintentionally offensive; if I had a dollar for every person I’ve accidentally offended, I could retire now. I never want to offend anyone–even people I don’t much care about or like (racists and misogynists and homophobes, on the other hand, oh, yes, make no mistake–I am definitely determinedly trying to offend the fuck out of all of you trash). I don’t ever want to make anyone feel bad, for any reason. Even when someone deserves it, I always feel terrible and guilty about making them feel bad later when I’ve calmed down. I know I have a temper, and a bad one at that, so I am constantly trying to not lose it. Knowing that I have a terrible time grasping what is obvious to everyone else and being bad at reading social cues, I am often asking myself do I have a right to be angry about this or am I being unreasonable? Because I also know that when I AM angry, I am completely unreasonable, and I don’t like that because it’s not fair, for one thing, and for another, I prefer to be rational and logical.

It’s a constant struggle, but I do try.

Multifoiled

Sunday morning and I am driving to Alabama later on. Woo-hoo!

I finished the revisions of the manuscript yesterday, and sent it off to the editor and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I do think it’s a good book, and should there be a second one, I think it will be even better than this one, to be honest with you. I feel like I’ve been operating for a very long time under some sort of dark cloud, which makes things that should be incredibly obvious and apparent mysterious and unknowable instead. It was also an enormous relief to get it finished. I think I caught everything I needed to catch, and added what needed to be added. There might still be some tweaks and/or additions that need to be made, but I think it’s pretty solid right now and that’s a load off my mind, especially with a trip on the horizon tomorrow and not knowing how available I will be over the next week to make changes and/or get things done. I am actually departing on this trip with an actual clear conscience; there’s nothing really hanging over my head. Sure, I’ll have the edits for the Scotty at some point and the proofs/copy edits for this one, but I feel like I have finally gotten out from under everything and can breathe at long last.

Whew.

Then after that I went into my easy chair and collapsed, ready to watch the finals of the College World Series. LSU defeated Florida in eleven innings, thanks to another home run in the eleventh, and what an exciting and thrilling and nerve-wracking game it was. Props to Florida, they played some amazing defense, stranding a lot of LSU runners on base. After the pitchers’ duel with Wake Forest the other night, all the hits and men on base seemed almost weird, like I was watching a different type of game altogether. But then Cade Beloso blasted one out of the park in that eleventh inning (Tommy White, aka Tommy Tanks, heroically knocked one out to pull the Tigers back to 3-3, causing the game to go extra innings) and Paul and I were cheering and screaming. LSU fans also blasted through the Rocco’s College World Series Jello Shot Challenge, going over thirty thousand before they drank Rocco’s out of jello shots. LSU fans, notorious for traveling and drinking bars dry, has done it again! We did it in Atlanta for the college football playoffs in 2019; we may have done it in Dallas for the women’s final four in basketball this year; I know there’s another place it happened.

Never start a land war in Asia, or challenge LSU fans to a drinking contest. Period.

I am going to be listening to Carol Goodman in the car; the book is The Drowning Tree, which I am looking forward to, and I packed Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman, Eli Cranor’s Ozark Dogs, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents My Favorites in Suspense to read to take with me; I doubt that I’ll have much time to read, but you never know. Dad and I are going to a minor league baseball game on Wednesday night in Lexington, and he’s made noises in the past about taking me sight-seeing when I come up sometime–so I imagine we’ll go visit the Kentucky Derby museum and the Cassius Clay home (we tried doing this once before when I was there for Thanksgiving, but everything was closed for the holidays or for COVID). I also have to pack and I need to run by the grocery store to lay in supplies; after I finished with the edits yesterday I wasn’t really in the mood to go out into the heat. I also need to clean out the refrigerator before I go; Paul won’t make salads, and even if he did make one, he wouldn’t slice up an onion or cut up a cucumber or use cherry tomatoes, so I may as well toss all of that. When I get back, that Sunday we’re going to have to make a Costco run as well as me making a grocery run. At least that week I only have to go in on Monday before the holiday for the 4th on Tuesday, and then three more days to finish off the week before the next weekend. It felt weird yesterday to be actually caught up on everything at long last; I’ve felt like I was drowning for the last three or four years, and finally now I can come up for air. The books still need work–I am waiting for the edits on Mississippi River Mischief, and of course will have to proof the new one as well–but I am caught up and that albatross (or albatrosses) have been removed from around my neck at long last.

I finished reading that Hilda Lawrence novella yesterday too, and it was really quite good. The premise of the story is a classic from that era (Cornell Woolrich also wrote a brilliant story with a similar premise, whose name I am blanking on right now), and it was interesting how it was constructed; I’m not sure you could publish a story structured the way this one was (“Composition for Four Hands” is the name of the story), because the point of view was constantly changing, but those POV changes made the story seem even more interesting that it already was. The premise of the story is wealthy Mrs. Manson has been invalided–we never are really told what precisely is wrong with her–but she cannot speak and she cannot move….and she’s certain someone in the house is trying to kill her, and she can’t communicate with anyone. While she is certain, she also cannot entirely remember what happened to her–but she knows it wasn’t an accident, which is what everyone else believes, and while she is lying there helpless, trying to figure out who she can trust while trying to figure out a way to communicate–yes, it’s very suspenseful and terrifying and so well-written you can absolutely empathize and put yourself into Mrs. Manson’s dreadful position. It’s fun to read old crime stories of suspense and mystery, to get a feel for the old styles of writing and story construction, plus it gives me a better feel for writing. I try not to “edit” when I read–it’s not as easy to turn off editor mode as one might think–because ultimately I read for pleasure first and foremost; any other edification that comes from reading is merely lagniappe for me.

And on that note, I’d best be signing off here and heading into the spice mines and start getting ready for the trip. I need to pack still, and of course I have to do some cleaning and make groceries. I don’t know how much I am going to be able to post once I get on the road and on this trip; I’ll probably never finish the pride posts I started, but hey, one also never knows. Stranger things have happened, after all. So maybe I’ll be around, maybe I won’t. If not, have a lovely week, Constant Reader, and I’ll talk more with you later.

Sugar Hiccup

Saturday morning and lots to do before hitting the road tomorrow. The lovely thing is it isn’t that much of a drive, about five and a half hours, and there’s a Whataburger in Tuscaloosa. Yay! I have The Drowning Tree by the amazing Carol Goodman queued up on my Audible app and ready to go once I hit the road. I have to make a grocery run today for Paul, and was thinking about dropping books off at the library sale, but I don’t know. It’s hot and the grocery thing is going to be exhausting enough as it is, and I have a lot to get done today. I was exhausted yesterday after work. The escape room thing was quite fun, and then we had lunch at Olive on Carondelet, a Middle Eastern place (sobs with joy! I got to have a gyro) and then I came home to work. The walk home was exhausting in the heat, and of course, I actually drifted off to sleep in my easy chair a bit. I got some more Alfred Hitchcock Presents books in the mail as well, and I started reading this delightfully creepy story I haven’t quite figured out yet, but the suspense and the build is sensational. We also watched the International Male catalog documentary (more on that later), and then I finished doing the laundry before going to bed, exhausted and ready to sleep for an eternity.

Despite the hideous heat yesterday, it actually wasn’t terribly humid and there was also a lovely cool breeze so the walk didn’t seem that dreadful, or at least not while I was doing it. The sun was merciless, though, and it was in the mid-nineties.I also marveled as I walked home a different way than usual–I took Camp Street to Prytania, rather than St. Charles–and I again marveled that not only do I live in New Orleans, but how quickly things change. I was also puzzling out some knots and final corrections I need to make to this manuscript before turning it in tomorrow–a walk is always lovely for things like that; even in the heat, and I need to remember that more often, quite frankly. I was also thinking, as I walked, about how I am always worried about repeating myself, or writing the same book again. It’s easy enough to do when you forget what you’ve already written and published, as I am wont to do at this stage. My editor’s notes were kind of amusing, in some ways, because one thing that he was pointing out was something that I always do–and something that I’ve noticed in the other two active manuscripts on hand–which is a tendency to name the characters with alliterative names. (For example, in the pro wrestling noir everyone, it seems, has a first name that begins with T) I also have a tendency to write hangover scenes, and car crashes. Now that I have this permanent brain fog or whatever it is that’s going on in my head since last summer, it’s even harder for me to remember past books that I’ve written; so I think I am going to have to start blogging about past books I’ve published so that I can remember them. I’ve done some of these posts before in the past, because I like to try to remember what was going on while I was writing the book; what I was trying to do with the book; how long had I had the idea for the book and where did it come from; what changed from the original idea during the process of writing it and what other influences got involved after getting started; and so on. I also like to think about the voice and the tone, how did I do with the setting and scene? What was I going for with the main character, and why? Facebook reminded me yesterday that at some point in the past twelve years the box o’books for The Orion Mask arrived on this date–and I just walked past the house that inspired a part of the book recently, and I was amazed yet again at how much detail I’d gotten wrong.

So, I decided to rent the documentary All Man: The International Male Story last night, for a multitude of reasons. Now that I’m in my sixties my former indifference to nostalgia has lessened (and I do tend to worry that I look back through rose-colored glasses, making the past seem better and more idyllic than it was; I have to always remember yes, but you were also a neurotic mess then, too), and so yes, there was a bit of a curiosity involved with my wanting to watch. I think I only ever bought one thing ever from International Male–a red pirate blouse, a fluffy shirt, if you will, and I got it to go as a pirate for Halloween–but I always got the catalogue, and I often liked their clothes…but was also always very consciously aware that to wear those clothes, you also had to look like their models; the lesson that beautiful people can wear anything and look good I’d learned early in life. I also had no fashion sense because I never was able to develop one–because men’s clothes were hideous, and there weren’t many options when I was growing up. I’ve also have a very mild case of color blindness with certain shades of certain colors–I can’t tell dark blue from black, for example–and I am never entirely sure what colors go with other ones. I do know that red, black and white all work together, so usually my dressier clothes are some combination or variation of those colors. But for the most part, I don’t care about what I wear and I don’t know what’s in style or not. I’m never sure if the clothes I am wearing match and/or look good on me, and I’ve stopped worrying about it. When I was younger, I used to deplore the fact that men’s clothes were so dull and boring. I love hats, for example, but men don’t really wear any hats other than baseball or cowboy anymore. I have some lovely hats, but never have any place to wear them. I have a marvelous fedora I bought in New York many years ago, but I never go anywhere here that I could wear it; it would be perfect for something like the Anthony Awards or something, but it has it’s own special box and that’s another item to take on the plane…so it just sits in its box in the closet. But I used to love the International Male catalogue, because the clothes, to me, looked kind of fun and cool. I’ve never been a cool or fun gay, and I’ve never been a fashion gay. But the International Male catalogues allowed me to escape into a world where I could wear something off one of its pages in a place that was exotic and exciting and fun. (I’ve also always kind of wanted a pith helmet. I had one in college and I loved it) So, it was interesting to watch how the business came to be, and how it really did kind of help change the way men dress and the way we look at men in more sexualized way now than we did when I was a kid. (I’m trying to remember things that resonated with me before I came out finally; that’s my current nostalgia kick) I do recommend it; it’s very well done and it’s kind of a nice story. The catalogue impacted a lot of gay teens in rural places in the 80’s and 90’s, and it should be remembered for that reason alone.

My first exposure to crime fiction short stories came in the Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies. My grandmother used to get the Dell paperbacks, and the stories always had a delightful little twist of some sort, always macabre. I’ve always remembered those anthologies, and recently went on an eBay binge of buying copies. Two more arrived yesterday, Alfred Hitchcock Presents My Favorites in Suspense and Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories That Go Bump in the Night. I started reading a long story in My Favorites in Suspense, “Composition for Four Hands” by Hilda Lawrence, and it’s really quite good; the suspense and tension builds with every paragraph, and I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on in the story–but we have a bedridden woman who cannot speak, and she suspects some of the other people in the story might be wanting to kill her, but we don’t know who and we don’t know why; nor do we know yet how she ended up in this condition. The writing style is quite Gothic in tone, which of course I love, and I am hoping to finish reading the story this morning. I have quite a lot to get done today, but I did sleep marvelously and I feel very alive, rested and alert this morning. Good thing as I do have so much to do. I want to also watch the LSU game this evening (GEAUX TIGERS!) but will be on the road during the game tomorrow, alas.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Saturday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow morning, if not later.

In Our Angelhood

LSU is in the finals of the College World Series! Woo-hoo! GEAUX TIGERS! And what a great game that was last night, for real. A pitcher’s duel with no runs until the bottom of the 11th; when Dylan Crews hit a base hit and Wake Forest brought in a relief pitcher—whose only pitch was a home run! Tigers win, 2-0! Apparently that pitcher had also said in a press conference “who can beat us?” Well, there’s your irony, bud–your answer was LSU! And yes, the Tiger fans are on track to double the old Rocco’s Bar jello shot challenge record. (It amazes me that this has made the news all over the country; the fact Louisianans love to drink is one of the reasons I’ve always loved it here, even though I really don’t drink much anymore myself. )

Today is a work-at-home Friday, but we have a team building exercise today and our team’s supervisor is taking us out to lunch afterwards. I have some errands to run at some point today, and am really looking forward to getting back home into the cool. Yesterday when I got off work and walked out to the car I thought, hey it’s still kind of unseasonably cool, I would have thought it would be miserable again already and when I started the car and looked at the dashboard, it was ninety-seven degrees! Amazing what a difference lower humidity can make to how hot it feels around here. I slept marvelously last night–I think I was emotionally worn out after the rollercoaster ride that was the LSU game last night (there was also one of the most amazing defensive plays I’ve ever see in baseball, when Tre Morgan saved the game by making a play to home base that tagged the runner at home with seconds to spare; it was as big a play as the home run that won it) and so had an easy time of falling asleep. I have to make a list of what all I need to get done before I leave on Sunday morning for Alabama.

But I feel rested this morning, and I am very glad. I’ll probably take a Lyft to the escape room (that’s what we’re doing for team building; I’ve never done one before so I am intrigued to experience something new) and then another one home; ordinarily I would just walk or take the streetcar, but it’s sooooo miserably hot that I don’t want the heat to leech all my energy and will out of me because I have things to do today. I got some more good work done on the book yesterday, and I am hoping to be able to get it finished either tonight or tomorrow. Once it’s done and I am back from Kentucky, I’ll probably go ahead and share the cover and post about the book, how it came to be and all of that. I’m going to need to get the apartment cleaned up some, the refrigerator cleaned out, and I need to make a grocery list for the week so I can get supplies put in for Paul before I leave–although he’ll probably just get salads from Rouse’s or Subway–and I also have some books to drop off at the library sale on Saturday.

Mmmm, my coffee tastes marvelous this morning. It always seems to taste better when I’ve slept well. I also think I am over whatever that bug is that I was dealing with earlier in the week. I took some DayQuil yesterday which alleviated the symptoms and once it wore off, the symptoms didn’t come back. I still am a bit congested so I’m not completely over it, but I feel a thousand times better than I did, which is a relief. There’s nothing worse than a long drive when you don’t feel well, you know. I also watched the American Pain documentary, about the horrible twin brothers who ran the country biggest pill mills and helped create the current opioid crisis (it’s also lovely that the one who has done his time and been released takes absolutely no responsibility for what he did–because their addiction is their own fault since he didn’t make them take the Oxy; they chose to do that themselves. Sure, bud, their doctors got them hooked and you made profits off their suffering, but you do you, sociopath. What a monster–both brothers are just utter and complete pieces of shit. Their case is also an example of how different justice is for white boys from an upper middle class family than it is for non-whites or whites from a lower social strata–they’d been getting in trouble with the law since they were kids and never got more than a slap on the wrist; there were never any consequences for their behavior so they turned into sociopaths. You just know if they were Black or from a trailer park they would have been sent to jail in their late teens and the key thrown away. But because they were rich white boys…no one wanted to ruin their futures.

Look how that turned out. Disgusting.

And on that note, I am going to make more coffee and head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you later.

The Tinderbox of a Heart

Yesterday I was very tired. I’ve not been sleeping well this week, but at least on Tuesday I felt rested; yesterday I just felt tired, physically and intellectually. I did get some work done last night on the book, and today I feel very rested; I slept wonderfully last night, which was absolutely marvelous, quite frankly, and am very glad for it. Today is the last day in the office for me until a week from Monday–this is the weekend I’m going north to see Dad (I may not be around on here at all once I leave on Sunday) which is yet another reason why I need to get this revision finished. I feel confident that I can get it done before I go on this trip; I keep thinking that I’m almost done…

I haven’t started reading the new Megan Abbott; I’d hoped to spend some time with her new book last night but I was fried when I finished working on the book and just collapsed into my chair to provide a cat bed for Scooter. It was very cool yesterday morning when I left for the office, but the inferno had returned by the time I got off work. A small but welcome respite from the summer’s heat (Facebook memories reminded me that we’d been in a heat advisory at this time of year several times over the past few years–proving yet again the long COVID of last year did affect my memory. I saw an article I meant to read yesterday that said even mild cases of COVID caused a type of brain damage, or brain rewiring of a sort, which needs to be studied. I know my memory changed during the pandemic, but I also turned sixty during it, too. Was it the long COVID experience I had that rewired/altered my brain, or was that an after-effect of the trauma imposed by the shutdown and everything that followed in its wake? I can’t remember if I was having memory issues before I got sick last summer; but if that was indeed the case, it got much worse after I recovered…and was really bad while I was sick. It’s so hard to tell, so hard to remember, you know?

A case in point about my memory has been these last two manuscripts I’ve been working on since last fall. For one thing, it took me a lot longer than usual to write and revise both of them (I must also provide the caveat that the end of the last year and the beginning of this one was a very difficult time, all things considered) but as I am revising this manuscript I am continually amazed at how little I remember of it, let alone remember writing it. Again, this is very alarming, but at the same time I can also honestly say I’ve never stacked books like this before while writing them; going from one to another and then back and forth again repeatedly; I don’t remember much of the Scotty book, to be honest, either–but I remember more of it than I do this one. It’s a good manuscript, though; I like the characters and I like the story, and it seems like they want me to write a sequel to it, which is also kind of cool; I already have a title for the next one and an idea, amorphous yet still an idea, for what the story would be. After I get back from Kentucky, I’ll tell you a bit more about this project; I realize I’ve been very mysterious about it, but there’s not any reason for it other than my own superstition and fear of jinxing things by talking about them–which is just another symptom of my own neuroses, of course.

There are two tropical systems trying to form in the Atlantic right now. One looks like it’s going to head up the Atlantic coast, or will never come near land and just head north before dissipating; the other looks like it’s heading for the Caribbean Sea and the Yucatan. Yay for hurricane season, he typed sarcastically. I was also thinking last night about future Scotty books; I think I am going to cap that series at ten. I think Mississippi River Mischief is the ninth Scotty, which would only give me one more title for the series. No, scratch that; I will make no promises or any commitments regarding the future of that series, and will leave it the way I always have in the past: if I get an idea for one, I will write another one.

What I have been thinking about lately is that I want to write books I feel passionate about; I want to tell stories and write books that will have some kind of impact, or require a lot of emotional and intellectual work on my part, if that makes any sense. Last night Scott Heim tweeted an excerpt from the opening of Jim Grimsley’s beautiful novel Winter Birds, and I remembered again how much I love Jim Grimsley’s writing and his authorial voice (I inevitably default, when it comes to Jim, to Comfort and Joy, which is one of my favorite Christmas stories of all time; but his other work is also lyrical and poetic and beautiful, too). It also made me think about my own writing and my own authorial voice. Do I have a distinctive authorial voice? Can someone read my work without knowing its mine and be able to tell that it’s mine? I know that I can write beautifully and poetically when it suits the story; I know I can do a voice that can sound haunting and sad. I try to always do different things when I write out of series; I want to write different types of stories and use different kinds of authorial voices and write in different styles. I think my best work inevitably tends to be Gothic in voice and style; those are certainly the favorites of my own works that I’ve written (Timothy, Bury Me in Shadows, Lake Thirteen, Sorceress, The Orion Mask), and whenever I write about Alabama, I seem to lapse into this very lovely, literate-sounding voice. I’m not quite sure why that is, but it’s been mostly in short stories; I do want to write more about Alabama and my complicated relationship with my home state. I am passionate about writing both Chlorine and Muscles, which are on deck for me; I am wavering about whether to leave “Never Kiss a Stranger” as a novella or whether to expand it out into a novel; I can see it working either way. I don’t want any of the novellas to turn into novels, frankly; I don’t have the time necessary left to me to write everything that I want to write in the first place. But am I trying to force novels into novellas because that’s how I decided to write them, or are they better off as novellas? These are the things that make you want to load your pockets with heavy stones and walk into the river.

And LSU did beat Wake Forest yesterday, forcing a third game to determine who plays Florida in the finals of the College World Series. GEAUX TIGERS!

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

In the Gold Dust Rush

Hoping to get another “adult content” warning on Twitter with today’s post picture. I’ve been getting them a lot lately; trying to figure out what precisely sets off the prudish bigoted algorithm? I’ve certainly enjoyed being told by Twitter services that derogatory slurs aren’t a violation of their new Musk-like terms of service. Twitter was always a shitshow, but while it did raise my blood pressure on occasion for the most part I enjoyed engaging with friends on there; but since the Muscadine takeover, it’s not even fun to use for the sake of simple entertainment. I am really curious how people think he’s some kind of genius businessman. Dudes, he inherited a fucking emerald mine. GENIUS.

Honestly.

But it’s Wednesday and Pay the Bills Day again; always a joy and pleasure. But at least I can pay them, as I always like to remind myself when the horror of paying the bills rolls around every two weeks. I am hoping to get further caught up on paying the bills down (or off, what a precious dream that is!) this summer; I’m getting my teeth fixed in September and that’s not going to be free or cheap, and you don’t even want to know how much my hearing aids are going to cost. So, paying down the debt is very important because I am about to be taking on a lot more of it, alas. But I am happy to get my mouth taken care of, and hearing…well, it can wait a little longer because I am not entirely sure not being able to hear 100% is necessarily a bad thing anymore. I haven’t slept well this week, and feel tired and achy this morning. I still have this bug or whatever it is that Paul gave me over the weekend, but now that I’ve been awake awhile I am feeling somewhat better than I did when I first arose from the shallow depths of Morpheus this morning. I hate waking up and spending the first few moments out of bed coughing and gagging, but…I do feel better now. Just tired and achy a bit this morning. The COVID test yesterday was negative, thank you, baby Jesus, so whatever this is, probably has something to do with summer cold/heat wave/barometric pressure fucking with my sinuses.

LSU won again last night, beating Tennessee, but now in order to stay in the College World Series they have to beat Wake Forest twice, since they lost to them the other night. The score was 3-2, so it was close and LSU led most of the game, so there’s a chance they can do it. It’s really now just a matter of seeing who Florida is going to play for the championship, either LSU or Wake Forest. Gah.

I got some more work done yesterday on the book–I need to get a lot more done, as I am way behind now–but I am thinking I can iron these thorny problems out mostly today, and thus get it turned in. Obviously, I wanted to get it in already but being sick and not sleeping isn’t helping. Hopefully tonight I’ll be so exhausted that I’ll have a lovely nice deep sleep tonight. One can hope, anyway. We finished watching the 100 Years of Warner Brothers documentary last night–I still think cramming the first fifty or sixty years of the studio’s history into one episode (which didn’t even mention Joan Crawford!) was a mistake, but it was also produced in house for HBO MAX, so…it’s a fluffy promo piece. We then watched the third season premiere of The Righteous Gemstones, which was okay, and this week’s episode of Platonic, which is one of the funniest shows currently airing. I am really becoming a very big fan of Rose Byrne, who is excellent in everything she does and can play a wide range of characters and styles and is perfectly at home in any of them.

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

Five Ten Fiftyfold

Tuesday and back to the office with me today blog.

Yesterday was a bit of an off day for me; I didn’t feel good for most of the day. Paul’s been sick since Thursday–coughing, lots of congestion and post nasal drip–to how crappy I felt yesterday was at least not as bad as he was at his worst; and this morning I feel fine. Not sure if it was some twenty-four hour thing, but hope that feeling better lasts through the rest of the day. We had some amazing thunderstorms last night while I was sleeping; it’s kind of gray and icky looking outside right now. The forecast is the usual–hot, humid, chance of thunderstorm–so I’m hoping my sinuses remain under control for the rest of the day as well.

Yesterday morning I finished reading Chris Clarkson’s delightful That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street, which I really enjoyed, and have selected Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman as my next read. I’m not sure when I’m going to have the time to actually spend reading it thoroughly and enjoying it–probably will go with me to Kentucky as my “before I go to sleep” read. LSU lost a heartbreaker to Wake Forest yesterday 3-2, so now have to fight their way back out of the losers’ bracket if they want to win the College World Series. Hope springs eternal for an LSU fan–we did break the Jello Shot Record at Rocco’s yesterday–but I’m just delighted they made it to the World Series this year. GEAUX TIGERS!

I have some more work to do on this manuscript before I turn it in. This is the revising/fixing phase of the edits; where I have to do the more macro things. I had hoped to get this done yesterday but I wasn’t feeling well, and as such couldn’t really focus the way I needed to–I did try, of course–so tonight after I run my errands on the way home from work (there’s always something, really) I hope to sit down and bang out the rest of this to get it finished and out of my hair and out of my way. We started watching a documentary series about the history of Warner Brothers last night, which is always fun; I always like learning more about Hollywood history. The documentary didn’t really provide me with anything new or insightful about the history of the studio, other than further confirmation that Jack Warner was an asshole. There are two more parts, so that takes care of our television watching needs for this evening, at the very least. I figure with show episodes dropping this week and me being gone next week will help our shows build up back episodes to watch.

It’s also weird that it’s Tuesday already. I feel like I am going to be off this entire week because of it, then I’m out of the office for a week, and then I come back to the abbreviated 4th of July holiday week. As much as I love having extra time off, it’s always a weird week when the work week is truncated this way; I always feel kind of somehow off my game no matter what. But it’s a short week, I’m off next, and I need to get organized. I need a to-do list, most importantly, and to figure out where I’m at with everything. I always have this tendency to be as laser-focused as someone with (undiagnosed) ADHD can be; which means the book is the biggest priority and everything else is an incredible inconvenience that I don’t pay much attention to other than the occasional yeah yeah I know I need to work on you, but give me a minute.

Despite not feeling well yesterday–I also was feverish most of the day–I was able to get chores done around the house so it looks a little neater and a little less fraternity dorm room. I do want to drop books off for the library sale this coming weekend before leaving town, and I also want to get the car washed and cleaned out–chores for Saturday! Huzzah! I think we’re doing an escape room team bonding thing on Friday morning and then having lunch, then I can go home and do data entry–woo-hoo! It doesn’t get much more exciting than that, does it? And then of course Sunday it’s up to Alabama to meet Dad. I had a bad day one day last week about Mom; when the grief came back and I wasn’t able to reason or breathe or mind-clear my way out of it, so I just gave in and had a nice, good cry for a few minutes, and then I was able to get moving again. It’s been four months since we lost Mom, and I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever get used to but rather something I will gradually just be able to live with. I don’t think any of us can expect more than that, really.

And on that note I am heading out in the thick heavy air of a hot summer day in June. I’ll catch you later, Constant Reader; hope you have a lovely day.

Glass Candle Grenades

Monday and a holiday; it’s lovely to have another day at home to work on these edits, which I am hoping against hope to complete today. Yesterday was lovely and relaxing; I worked on the micro edits–the lines/copy edit–which is always a long and tedious process. The macro edit, to me, is more fun if more creatively taxing. I’ll be digging into that a little later, when my mind is more awake and I have more caffeine in my system. It’ll be a weird and short work week for me, and then of course next week I am on vacation. I’ll be taking lots of books with me on that trip, although I’m not sure I’ll have much time to read. I’m not really sure what Dad and I will be doing in Kentucky. I know when I’ve been up there before he’s mentioned going sight-seeing; like to Cassius Clay’s home (the original, the one Muhammed Ali was named for at birth; he was Henry Clay’s brother and one of Kentucky’s leading abolitionists) or to the Kentucky Derby museum. Which is fine, I love history and while horse racing history isn’t something I’ve ever looked into much before, but you never know. I had thought about writing a mystery around the horse racing at the Fairgrounds…I knew a horse trainer back in the day–but never got around to it. I mean, Dick Francis kind of cornered the horse racing mystery market, did he not?

Of course, I’ll come home to another short week because of the 4th holiday, too–so it’s going to be three weeks before i do another full five day work-week. I slept decently last night–not great, but not bad, either–and so this morning feel a little bit dragging around, but that’s fine; coffee, a shower, and some time reading should get me over the hump. We abandoned City on Fire last night; we just had no enthusiasm for watching, and so moved on to The House of Hammer, which is about, of course, the twisted history of the Hammers through the lens of Armie Hammer, the actor, getting canceled for his abusive sexual preferences. It was interesting–I am always fascinated by twisted rich families that hate each other so passionately–but we need to find something meaty, like a good crime series, to dig into. It’s amazing how we can hve so many options yet can never find anything to watch, isn’t it?

I spent some time yesterday with Chris Clarkson’s adorable That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street, which is charming and fun and delightful to read, and may even be able to finish reading it today, with any luck and some strong motivation, at any rate. I think from that I will move on to either Megan Abbott or Eli Cranor; I can’t decide which of the plethora of great 2023 new releases to select from, to be honest. I know I’ll be listening to Carol Goodman in the car next weekend on the way up and I’m not sure who I’ll listen to on the way home.

A quick glance at Twitter has shown me that LSU fans have now surpassed eleven thousand shots in the Rocco’s College World Series Shot Competition, and are well on pace to break the record (just over eighteen thousand) set by Mississippi last year. Oh, how the bars and restaurants in Eauxmaha must love LSU fans! I mean, even if the shots are only a dollar, that’s over eleven grand in receipts on those shots alone, not counting everything else being sold there. LSU is playing Wake Forest tonight, and it will take a strong effort for the Tigers to pull off the win. If they do pull out a win, I’m thinking the shots record will fall tonight.

I also read an old short story yesterday that I remember from when I was a kid. Periodically, Mom let me join a book club. The first one I joined was the Mystery Guild, and those selections i received from the Mystery Guild really kind of shaped my future both as a reader and writer. I still remember the books–still have some of the original copies–and over the years, I’ve tried to replace the ones lost over time to cross-country moves. Recently I repurchased a copy of Alfred Hitchcock Presents a Month of Mystery on eBay, and there was a story in it I read as a kid that I never forgot; and I wanted to reread it. It was called “The Queen’s Jewel” and was written by Robert Golding (I’d forgotten the name of the author). I took the book down yesterday afternoon to reread the story, and it was amazing to me how much of it I still remembered, the details. The main character, Jane Farquhar, owns a small hotel of sorts with guest cabins in the brush in Africa. One of her ancestors was a server for the imprisoned Mary Queen of Scots, and before her execution she gave him the pendant of a ruby set in a heavy gold chain with four carat blue-white diamonds surrounding it. It is very valuable, and Jane’s father raised her to be prepared, always be prepared, because someone will eventually come to try to steal it from her in some way…and thus the story is about her defending herself against a criminal pretending to be an American cousin. The story holds up and works, but it opens with Jane discovering the body of her poisoned guard dog–which did make me wonder, would this story be published today? Opening with a dead dog?

I also didn’t know much about Robert Golding, so after reading the story I used the google to find out he was one of the many Ellery Queen ghostwriters (I only recently found out that many Ellery Queen novels were ghostwritten) and it turned out Golding wrote two of my favorite Ellery Queen novels, The Player on the Other Side and Calamity Town, which is one of my all-time favorite mystery novels; little wonder his short story connected so well with me. I don’t remember The Player on the Other Side other than that it was one of my favorites; but Calamity Town? I remember a lot of that novel, and it was primarily about the Wrights, the first family of Wrightsville–a location so popular that Queen kept returning there for more murder mysteries (The Murderer is a Fox was another great Wrightsville mystery). He also apparently wrote a lot of the juvenile Ellery Queen mysteries–published as Ellery Queen Jr.–which I also enjoyed as a kid; Ellery Queen Jr. and the Jim Hutton 1970’s television series Ellery Queen (which I loved) were what originally brought me to reading the adult Ellery Queens; the first I read was the one they actually filmed for the pilot, The Fourth Side of the Triangle, which was marvelous, and then I started buying his books or checking them out from the library. So thank you, Robert Golding, for being an influence on me and my writing without my knowing it. I’m really looking forward to reading some more of these old short stories. I got another Hitchcock (Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories to Be Read with the Door Locked) and an old MWA one, edited by Robert L. Fish, With Malice Toward All, which also looks rather fun.

And on that note, I think I am going to head into the spice mines and read for a bit while my brain continues to wake up before tackling the manuscript. Have a lovely holiday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in with you later.