Category: history

Me Against The Music

Saturday in the Lost Apartment, let’s goooooo!!!!!

I slept really well last night and feel good this morning. I had decided already–yesterday morning–that I was going to not do any writing after work yesterday and to take today off as well, and it feels nice. Finishing projects is always lovely, because once you’ve finished them the release of pressure is pretty marvelous. I also had a ZOOM meeting with my Scotty editor yesterday to get the book back on track, and I felt pretty good after that as well. It’s interesting how pressure and stress can affect your brain and your thinking when you are juggling things. But I have no doubt I can get the book done in time for it’s November release (moved back from September) and the release of that particular pressure valve was marvelous. I’m actually looking forward to diving back into the book again headfirst. Today I have a ZOOM thing for Queer Crime Writers at one, and so I am planning on heading out on errands around eleven; so I have time to also make groceries and get back home in time for the ZOOM meeting. After that I am going to probably finish reading Lori Roy’s marvelous Let Me Die in His Footsteps at last, and then I get to choose my next read, which is kind of exciting. I also have to prepare to interview Margot Douaihy for Saints and Sinners’ Pride Month celebration, which I want to do a very good job on because she’s amazing and so is her book.

I also need to take today away from the computer a bit so I can figure out what loose ends are dangling out there that I need to tie up. Not to mention what a mess the Lost Apartment is. I did get caught up on the dishes last night, and the laundry. The kitchen isn’t the mess it was developing into but could use some touching up, which I should try to do today or tomorrow morning. I also need to start brainstorming on some other things that I want to do. I’d like to take the rest of this year (once this one is finished) actually finishing things I’ve not been able to get done and thus off my plate: the short story collection, the novellas, and two in-progress books that I already have started. That’s what I would like to spend the rest of the year doing, frankly; getting that stuff off my plate and out of my hands into the world, so I can start 2024 with a fresh slate and figure out what I want to write that year. Of course, things always change; an opportunity you can’t pass up can come along at any minute, throwing off your plans and schedule (this happens to me a lot more than one might think); I also have some short stories to write and other short stories that need finishing. I’d like to get some more short stories out there in the world, so if anyone reading this is doing an anthology and needs a crime story (preferably queer) let me know because I can always find something for you. It is very rare that I pass up an opportunity to get a story in an anthology or publication of some sort.

It’s really nice to be busy, you know? I complain about it all the time–my freakish productivity and the pressure to keep it up–but I do like accomplishing things. I do need to be kinder to myself and perhaps not be quite so hard on myself as I am used to being; it’s nice to be able to sit around and take stock of your life and your career without it being deemed arrogant. And when I look at things from an outside perspective–someone whose thinking isn’t cluttered up with all my neuroses and self-loathing–it does look kind of impressive. I think I’ve been nominated for a Lammy fourteen or fifteen times? I don’t have the most nominations–that would be Michael Thomas Ford, Ellen Hart, and Lawrence Schimel, and not in that order–but hey, I’m in the top five of most nominations, which isn’t bad. This year’s three Anthony nominations brings me to a total of seven nods there from the Bouchercon membership, which is a lovely pat on the back for a queer author most of them hadn’t heard of even five years ago. I can add Agatha and Lefty finalist to the other awards I’ve gotten a single nomination for–the Shirley Jackson and the Macavity. I won some young adult independent press medals, too, along the way, which was lovely. (I am very happy Sleeping Angel and Lake Thirteen won those medals; I was very proud of both books, frankly.) Forty-three novels, twenty-two anthologies, over fifty short stories, two short story collections, and two novellas–and countless articles, interviews, book reviews and blog posts.

Not bad for someone told by his first creative writing teacher in college he would never be a published author.

There have been plenty of slings and arrows along the way, of course; things that happened so long ago that no one today who knows me and my work may even know about–the Virginia incident, Paul’s bashing, my service with the National Stonewall Democrats–so the rollercoaster of my life has certainly had its highs and lows. It’s been an interesting life, I guess; I’ve certainly met and knew a lot of interesting people and celebrities and authors. I’ve also learned over the years that there’s nothing wrong with ambition; I always am so busy and behind on everything that I forget that sometimes it’s nice to take a break, step away from everything, evaluate the situation as it is currently and make plans on where to go and what to do next. I’m feeling very content this morning, which is a very pleasant (and unusual) thing for me to feel; this brief reflection on my career and where it is now has, for once, brought a sense of satisfaction and pleasure instead of you still have so much more to accomplish! It’s not like I’m going to rest on my accomplishments, take my ball and go home, of course–but it’s very nice to think if my career ended now–for whatever reason–I could walk away from it and be proud.

I’ll never stop writing, of course. I will write until the day I die or can’t sit at the computer or hold a laptop or iPad; as long as I can still scribble in a journal I’ll be writing. I love creating, I love writing, I love telling stories. I love exploring character. I love taking a situation and thinking okay, what has to happen for this to happen, and where is the true starting place for the story? Who are these people and how did they come to be involved in this?

But it is nice every once in a while to stop, take a step back, and see things as they really are, or at least trying to take a look and see what other people see since they aren’t wrapped up in my neuroses.

And there’s nothing wrong with being proud of yourself, which I am. It feels weird, but I am proud of myself. I’m proud of my career and what all I’ve accomplished since moving to New Orleans in 1996.

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader–take the day off and rest–and I’ll be back later.

Die Another Day

At some point, with all the book -bans and censorship that’s going on, I am going to have to recap and go over my own experience with being banned; but that will require logic, rational thought and revisiting my blog entries from that period to refresh my memory. Yesterday I got political on here for the first time in a long time, and you know–it kind of felt good to get that out of my system and into the public sphere. I do feel very complicit for not speaking out sooner, but…I’ve always worried, more so after turning fifty, that my opinions might cause trouble for others I am associated with; I work at a non-profit for one, and of course, I had a very long volunteer service ‘career’ with Mystery Writers of America. It was probably at least nine years of service all told; and I didn’t want anyone claiming I was speaking for MWA (particularly when I was serving as Executive Vice President) when I was expressing myself personally; nor did I want anything I might say or do to reflect poorly on the organization–or have my words used against it in any way. As EVP, I was one of only two people authorized to speak for the organization publicly; and that last year after pandemic restrictions were lifted I traveled a lot, representing the organization at several conferences and events. And even though I personally knew where the lines were drawn and what was and wasn’t separate, I couldn’t count on other people to keep or recognize those same distinctions…and I was far too busy with everything to willingly risk more things to have to deal with by opening my mouth on here. That’s part of the reason I dialed that all back–along with the “preaching to the choir” element–but yesterday morning I realized you don’t have to be careful about what you say publicly anymore and it was incredibly liberating. So yes, I will sometimes be taking on things that I feel strongly about and not keeping my mouth shut the way I have for so long. (In my narcissistic hubris, I also sort of blame myself for the state of the world right now because I kept my mouth shut for so long.) Besides, if you read this blog or my books (hopefully both), it should be readily apparent that politically I am basically a Jacobin–albeit one who understands how our government runs and functions and how it is supposed to work…which some people serving in Washington don’t seem to know, which is odd. Surely the ones in my age group had to take Government or Civics in high school? I don’t see how they could have passed it, but here we are.

So be prepared, Constant Reader. There’s a lengthy tome coming on the Virginia Incident.

But I finished editing the manuscript I was working on (not one of my own) last evening and sent it back to the author, and I can breathe. I have a ZOOM call scheduled with my editor, so we can talk out all the issues and scheduling for Mississippi River Mischief, which I am actually itching to get back to work on. I think I’ll take today and tomorrow as free days from writing, and then I will jump back into the book on Sunday. I want to do it the way I always do my editing and revisions; by chapter as opposed to entire manuscript, which is what I had been doing and I think this change of work habits, on top of the depression and everything else, made it impossible for me to get the book finished. I don’t think I’ll get it done by the end of May, but surely I can get it finished by mid-June, and then can move back to Chlorine–which will also require me going over and revising the opening chapters again so I can get the voice down again. I am also going to go back to my chapter-per-week project I was working on before my life blew up late last year, and I feel marvelous about everything. I feel very excited about this, and about getting back to writing again. This hasn’t been the best year for me thus far, really, and I also need to stop thinking oh I need to understand why I feel like this or trying to deconstruct everything in some kind of pseudo-psychological processing. My mother died after a slow, lengthy decline, at an extremely difficult time for me professionally. I need to stop feeling guilty about grieving, or being unable to do anything because of depression. Of course I am experiencing some depression; I’d have to be inhuman not to feel anything. And like with all previous traumas, I am learning to navigate grief as I go–although maybe I should read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking–and like all previous traumas, it creates a bipolar existence where one day you are fine and the next you’re back in the pit of despair. Sometimes the day will start out great and will flip as it goes on. I have nothing wise or profound to say about loss or grief; although there is something to be said about the numb emotional deadening the HIV/AIDS crisis brought in its wake. I would never want to be that zombie-like ever again, drifting through the days waiting to hear someone else is in the hospital, someone else has died, and there’s another funeral in a few days–but I also have to start recognizing, at this great advanced age, that I’ve never processed or dealt with that time either. (It’s a Sin was a strong reminder of that very thing. I was also thinking Longtime Companion deserves a revisit; it’s always been hard to watch for me, but the beach scene at the end always makes me sob. I’ve also been thinking about the literature of the plague; has anyone ever compiled a list of the classic HIV/AIDS writings? There’s a thesis for a grad student.)

Last night I slept like a log; the sleep of the righteous for finally finishing that editing job. I feel great this morning–rested and relaxed. I do have some work at home duties to accomplish today, and the kitchen is a complete disaster area. I have decided that I am going to finish reading Lori Roy’s Let Me Die in His Footsteps (which is fucking brilliant in every way), as well as reread the openings of the Scotty books this weekend, to see if I can get his voice back into my brain–I feel like that’s the big problem in Mississippi River Mischief–I haven’t nailed the voice and tone in any of the drafts yet, so I need to re-familiarize myself with Scotty’s voice and his wicked, wicked ways. I am actually excited about getting reacquainted with him. This is our ninth outing together, and I always wonder with each one if this is the last or not. I think there’s at least two more Scottys within the reaches of my brain–Hurricane Party Hustle and Quarter Quarantine Quadrille for sure–but you never know what is going to happen next and what may come along your road to write from out of nowhere. I’d like to get both Chlorine and Muscles finished this year, as well as the novellas, and maybe a short story collection by the end of the year. I have also been thinking that one thing that is missing from the annals of New Orleans (or Louisiana, for that matter) crime fiction is the environmental novel. John D. MacDonald deplored what politicians and greedy developers were doing to the tropical paradise of Florida, and slipped that social commentary into almost every Travis McGee novel and many of his stand alones (Barrier Island comes to mind). Louisiana has been in an environmental crisis for decades, and yet no one ever writes about the eroding coastline, the greed of the oil companies and the politicians they buy and pay for every year; Cancer Alley along the river between Baton Rouge and New Orleans being a hotbed of toxic waste; and of there was the Bayou Corne sinkhole a few years ago. I don’t know that I have the knowledge or the time to do the necessary research to write such things, but it’s something someone needs to write. And you know what I always say–if you think someone should write it, that someone should be you.

For me, though, the problem with research is how do you stop from going down wormholes and wasting days? Where do you draw the line, and when do you know you’ve done enough? As Constant Reader knows, I can never get enough of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries of European history; I can spend days in wormholes of research about politics and wars and the powerful; it was an interesting time–when white Europeans began their colonization of the world, when Christianity had it’s huge splintering that led to war after war after war, the Hapsburgs continuing to expand their empire by marrying it, and on and on and on. Remarkable female leaders proliferated in the sixteenth century more than perhaps any other century before or since; which makes the sixteenth a bit more interesting than the seventeenth. The seventeenth interests me because it was the century when the world empires continued to grow and oppress natives around the globe, but it was also the time of the rise of the modern state, when the political games became more about state power rather than faith or old inheritance claims–when politics became more about the country than the King’s whims. I also go down New Orleans and Louisiana history wormholes a lot, too. I will never have the time to write everything I want to write, or research history enough to write about it. I really, for example, want to write about the German Coast rebellion of the enslaved; I want to write about Freniere, Louisiana being wiped off the map; and I want to write more historical stories set in New Orleans.

And I want to write a romance. I had that on my list of projects for this year, but then everything blew up in my face and my control over the year slipped right out of my fingers. But even though it’s mid to late May, it’s not too late to salvage the rest of the year from the wreckage of the first five months.

And on that note, I’m heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I will check in which you again later or tomorrow.

American Life

Friday Eve! Or Thursday, in actuality. But we’ve made it this far, with just today and tomorrow to get through before sleeping in on the weekend! Huzzah! I slept decently last night–not deeply, not that wonderful “I’ve turned into a log” coma-type sleep, but it was good enough that I don’t feel tired this morning, and I actually was awake before the alarm. It’s ridiculous how much more awake I feel when I don’t get up to an alarm–and how much less resentful I feel.

I also woke up to an email that the Nancy Drew action figure I pledged to support through Kickstarter reached it’s funding goal. I got the one from the cover of The Secret of the Old Clock, where she is wearing a green outfit, is holding a screwdriver, and looks (according to That Bitch Ford) about forty years old. Given that Nancy will be a hundred this decade, forty’s not a bad look on her.

Yesterday was a pretty good day. I got home, worked for a few hours, and then repaired to the chair to rewatch this week’s Ted Lasso (which was marvelous) and then we finished off Shrinking, which is one of the funniest shows to come along in a long while. I talked about this the other day, and the quality and high level of writing and acting continue through the final episode, which was also one of the greatest (and most unexpected) literal cliff-hangers I’ve seen in a long while.

I have been watching, with growing alarm and disgust, the recent right-wing war on anything non-Christian (which is hysterical, because nothing they believe is Christianity: you shall know them by their acts) and especially everything not straight and not white. Who knew straight white people were so fucking fragile? (Everyone non-white and non-straight) They also have incredibly weak faith in their Lord and Savior; because anything that might challenge that belief has to be eradicated, made not available, and swept under the rug and hidden from view because it makes them uncomfortable. What I would like to say to all of these people is mind your own fucking business. The hypocrisy of beating the drums and warning people about how they’re aren’t haters “just worried about the children! Won’t someone think of the children?” (Yet they are also the same people who believe everyone should be armed to the teeth and that school shootings are A-Okay with them because you know, ‘slippery slope’ and all that. Of course, they use the First Amendment for toilet paper but hey, newsflash! The Founding Fathers considered everything in the first more important than the second, otherwise GUNS would have been the First Fucking Amendment, wouldn’t it? No, they deliberately made it the second because the rights and privileges granted in the first were more important.)

The other day, a friend in the Queer Crime Writers’ group I belong to posted a screenshot of the age restriction requirement on the home page of a small but highly regarded lesbian press, where you actually had to plug in your birthdate in order to gain access. This was done to reduce potential liability in such states as Texas and Florida that have been passing unconstitutional, flagrantly Fascistic laws–laws that are deeply unpopular, but merely designed to advance the presidential aspirations of their deeply unlikable governor, who has the charisma of Ted Cruz and the charm of Matt Gaetz; nothing turns out the bigots like a fear that other people might be as equal in the eyes of the law as they are. This was horrific–but small queer presses don’t have the money or resources to fight these draconian, restrictive laws; one complaint from some skeevy parent in Florida whose pastor is probably molesting their children but oh no queer books! is what they see as the real problem. The demonization of trans people–directly tied into their stupid notion that transwomen and drag queens are the same thing (repeat after me: not all transwomen do drag–is the exact same thing as the crusades against gays and lesbians (not that far back), and is the same song, different verse. And why not go back to the scare tactics that have always worked? The piece of shit “libs of TikTok” woman is nothing more than a more modern, less talented Anita Bryant (she was a bigoted bitch, but I will give her credit for her singing talent; she actually had a successful career as a singer and spokesperson for the Florida Orange Growers–Florida again; it’s always Florida–until her bigotry destroyed her career. I have no sympathy for her, so don’t even try it. She deserved worse than divorce, bankruptcy, and public scorn.); the insidiousness of straight white women leading homophobic movements (see Maggie Gallagher) is predicated on motherhood; they are just mothers worried for their children! Won’t someone think of the children? (Unless it’s school shootings and legislation that might make a difference–doing nothing clearly isn’t working–in which case, who fucking cares about the kids? GUNS! MAH FREEDUM!)

These are indeed scary times, in which the complacent Left has allowed the rise of Fascism on the right, and even now isn’t doing enough to fight back against it; when small presses that have been doing the heavy lifting for queer books when we are not in fashion at the big houses could be fined and/or punished by a state for the crime of selling books on their website. (The irony of this happening to Bywater Books–who later took it down–whose DNA goes back to Naiad Press which was based in fucking Florida, is something you couldn’t put into a book. (In times like these, I miss Barbara Grier. Barbara would have ripped off deSantis’ head and shit down his neck.) This brings up several legal questions–which should be left to the lawyers–but it seems to me these laws and restrictions are not only censorship but also violate interstate commerce laws as well as the full faith and credit article in the Constitution.

It’s so tiring to be constantly having to explain to people why you deserve to be treated like a human being.

It occurred to me last night before I went to bed that I need to use this little platform better than I have been. I am sure anyone who reads my blog probably is on the same page as me politically; I can’t imagine this being a safe space for a bigot. But I’ve not been talking much about politics here, not in a long time at any rate, because I’ve always been of the mindset that it would just be preaching to the choir. Anyone who knows anything about me, or has read my books, should know where I stand politically. That I oppose bigotry and prejudice of any kind. That I believe that all Americans should be equal in the eyes of the law; that it’s the government’s job to intervene when something in the public sphere reaches crisis stage–whether it’s recovery from a weather event, health care, or violence. In a capitalist system, the government has to step in when the system fails to correct it.

But now we have a Supreme Court that seems determined to roll back the clock to the “good ole days” when non-white non-straight non-cisgender people were invisible–and it was socially acceptable to mistreat them if they weren’t.

For the record, your freedom ends before it infringes on mine.

Age restrictions and requiring adult permission to check out books dealing with queer or racial issues in this country essentially renders all that work–regardless of its intended audience–as pornography.

Queer characters are automatically pornography, because that’s all the “christians” think about when they think about queer people–dicks in asses, tongues in vaginas–which is frankly kind of creepy and revolting. I don’t look at straight people and wonder, does she like to do reverse cowgirl? Does he like it when she pegs him? because it’s none of my fucking business. I’m sorry you people are so frightened by sexuality and the mere thought of sex–but maybe try not thinking about it for a minute or two? My sex life is none of your business just as yours is none of mine. There is nothing more invasive that government intervention into your sex life.

Talk about slippery slopes*! Straight people also do oral and anal. Straight people are also into kink, threeways, orgies, leather, BDSM, you name it. And if we the people allow the government to legislate our sex lives…don’t you think it’s entirely possible they’ll come for yours someday? Why not outlaw oral and anal sex (sodomy laws are still on the books in some states, including Louisiana…those laws are never enforced on straight people, quelle surprise). Why not virginity laws? Or a virginity tax you only have to pay once you’ve had sex? If this sounds insane or crazy to you, please bear in mind that this is precisely what Florida, Texas, and Tennessee, among umpteen others, are trying to do.

It was nice, though, actually feeling like a full-fledged American citizen there for a few years. I should have known it would be a fleeting feeling.

*Of course, the only slippery slope the right cares about has to do with the Second Amendment, or as I like to call it, the Eleventh Commandment.

Nothing Fails

Wednesday and we’ve made it to the midpoint of the week. Huzzah? Perhaps. I didn’t sleep all that great last night–I am expected to crash really hard this afternoon–but oddly enough I feel rested and okay and alert this morning, and I am still on my first cup of coffee. Who knew? Last night when I got home from work i buckled down and worked for a bit; I am still behind on everything but I am hoping I can get this manuscript I am editing today finished and back to the author, and then I can sort of maybe get back to my own. My publisher has pushed the publication date back, which is lovely yet not something I am terribly proud of–I feel like I allowed my personal situation to interfere with work, which is something I’ve not done since the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina–but while I was able to work during a pandemic, personal grief managed to derail me so fa this year; but it’s also not fair to blame it all on grief because I was already way behind on everything when Mom actually died. But I am thinking this is really a great thing. The revision, when I was able to do it, was going pretty well; but I wasn’t working the way I usually do which is partly why it was taking me so long to get it done, and I think with a new, later deadline, I can go back to the first chapter and start over again; and do it the way I always do and get it finished.

Paul had a board meeting last night so was later getting home than usual, so I wound up staying up later than I usually do so we could watch this week’s episode of Ted Lasso, which, while having sad moments, was overall a joy to watch. I hate that the season is winding down–which means the series is winding down as well–but I am hoping for at least one spin-off. I love all the characters on this show, even the minor ones; so much characterization and care has been taken with the creation and development of every character on the show, and that has always been its strength. (I still can’t believe that Jamie Tartt has become one of my favorite characters of not just the show but of all time. So many people in the cast deserve Emmys…I hope the producers are smart enough to toss some of them into the Guest Actor categories; certainly the young man playing Colin deserves some recognition for his moving and nuanced portrayal of a closeted soccer player; I also hope he finally introduces his boyfriend to the team as his boyfriend; maybe the series finale?)

I also got some potentially good news that I have to be vague about this morning; there’s no guarantee that the new opportunity that may have opened up for me will come to fruition, but it’s always nice to have something nice happen? Especially in this business, where it seems like you never know where things are going to and nothing is confirmed until the ink dries on the contract, so…yeah, have to be vague if nothing comes of it. But even if nothing does come of it, it was deeply satisfying for the potential to drop into my inbox yesterday. I am very lucky, I must admit; it’s very hard for me to ever feel bitter (or at least, never for very long) about my career because it’s always been charmed, almost from the day I sold my first short story back in 1999; opportunities keep coming my way and it’s been an absolutely lovely joyride. It’s also funny, because I was talking to someone recently about how the good things in my career have usually happened during dark personal times; so I never seem to get to enjoy the good things when they occur. Maybe it’s some kind of karmic balance I need to keep; ma’at, as the Egyptians used to call it–most of the time everything is even, but when things swing too far to the bad in the personal, the professional side of things always seems to pick up for some reason? I don’t know, and it could all turn out to be nothing, but it’s nice, nevertheless. It’s always nice when people are interested in more work for you. And being the socially awkward/insecure person that I am, it’s always a huge relief when someone you’ve worked with asks you for more work; I always worry that I’ve been a pain in the ass to work with…and I don’t want to be one of those people.

My blog post about the origin story of my The Horror photo turned out to be popular? Who knew? I didn’t think it was that interesting of a story, but everyone seemed to enjoy reading about it. It was just something I dashed off during my lunch break yesterday because I was feeling tired but had to wait for my Lean Cuisine (Swedish meatballs, for the record) to cool, and I thought why not write about how that picture came to be taken? Why not indeed?

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

Photograph

So….the other day on Twitter my friend Jeff asked about the backstory of this picture:

It’s really not a great story, or at least, not to me. It was one of those things where everything aligned and fell into place perfectly to take what–to me–is one of the funniest pictures of me ever taken; one that I have been able to use on social media repeatedly, for any number of responses to any number of tweets and situations, because it works for so many different things: surprise, shock, horror (it’s actually saved as ‘the horror’ on all my computers and devices, so I can access it from anywhere), and on and on. It works for everything, seriously.

It’s also kind of amusing how much people on social media love this picture. One friend replied to it once with yes….whenever this picture shows up I know it’s a good tweet. I even think some people try to prompt me to use it, and when I don’t, will go as far as to tweet insert Greg’s shocked face picture here, and of course, I always oblige.

This picture comes from the years after Hurricane Katrina, if not the year immediately after. I think, this was from 2007 or 2008. The city was still recovering, but we were also getting some time and distance from the trauma. There were so few people in the city in that year–people returning all the time, new people moving in for the first time–that we all clung very tightly to the friends who were actually here. Going out on the weekends no longer seemed like an indulgence I might be getting to the point of aging out of; instead, it became a necessary ritual to go down to the Quarter gay bars and hang out with friends because we were all sharing the traumas and rollercoaster rides that New Orleans was after the disaster. It felt important to keep renewing those bonds every weekend. The day job was still operating at a shell of what it was before; but a lot of us were working out of the Frenchmen Street office and those of us who did, meeting up for Drag Bingo and tea dance on Sundays (we called it “going to gay church”) had become pretty much de rigeur. I didn’t care so much about Drag Bingo, so often drifted between friends at Lafitte’s and co-workers at Drag Bingo up the street at Oz (I never missed the napkin toss for “Love Is In The Air,” though).

And that is where this picture was taken; on some long -forgotten Sunday at Drag Bingo. I had literally just walked into Oz, having left Paul and some other friends at Lafitte’s to go check in with my work friends. As I recall, Josh, the Evil Mark, and some of the others had gathered at that corner of the square first floor bar, and Josh pulled out his camera and said, “let me take your picture, Greggy.” So I looked at him and smiled…

…and just as he was pressing the button on the camera, the Evil Mark showed yet again why I nicknamed him that by saying, “Why? He’ll just look old.”

I turned my head and that was the face I made–which is why I wasn’t looking directly at the camera. It can never be duplicated because it wasn’t posed; it was a candid, honest reaction to someone giving me a good burn from out of nowhere. I didn’t even see the picture until much later, because it was pre-iPhones and people still were using digital cameras. He posted it later that night on Facebook, tagged me with a vile slander (his caption was Greg just saw something, and it wasn’t true) which I corrected; but I also downloaded the picture because it made me laugh. I don’t remember when precisely I started using it as a reaction shot on Facebook or Twitter, but it always makes people laugh.

And I do like making people laugh, so here we are.

Every so often I stop posting it because I figure people are getting tired of it. It had been a hot minute since I’d used it–to the point where I didn’t even think to use it until someone (Jeff) mentioned it again the other day. What’s really funny is when people use it on ME, which has happened. The first time I probably made the same face, because it had never occurred to me that someone would do that and use it on ME. It still doesn’t happen often, but it always makes me laugh when it does. I do remember one day I was going to use a GIF to respond to a tweet and thought oh, you should post The Horror and so I did, amusing myself endlessly. I didn’t expect it to take on a life of its own and become kind of a social media “cult classic.”

I really should have used it for my author picture.

Nothing Really Matters

Sunday morning and I am starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel. Not much–and of course it’s probably the head light of a speeding bullet train–but some light, nonetheless. I dove deeply into a manuscript I am editing yesterday, and need to get more of it done today. I also have to make groceries as well as find time to see a friend in from out of town, and it’s also Mother’s Day; everywhere I turn today it’s Mother’s Day this and Mother’s Day that. So far I’ve not had a breakdown of any kind, so that’s a good thing, but there’s also no telling how much or how rough it’s going to weigh on me once reality sets in? Who knows, maybe it never will. I’ve always thought of these days as manufactured holidays to sell cards, flowers and chocolates; I was going to send my sister flowers but decided it was weird and might upset her so I didn’t. Navigating this within the family is weird. We all have to find our own ways with these sorts of things, and there’s no road map or instructions to follow because everyone is different and everyone grieves differently. I don’t think I’ll ever not be aware of the loss, no matter how busy I get or how focused I can be on things; the compartmentalization that I have used consistently since childhood probably won’t work as well here, or at least it hasn’t so far. It’s also weird because I think I’ll be doing better and then I’ll have a bad day that I can’t snap out of with any success. Last night wasn’t good, for example; I lost the whole evening and don’t even remember what I was doing or what I did. I kept falling asleep while watching documentaries (Paul was working upstairs and then went out to meet a friend for a drink, leaving me to my own devices and I just wound up going to bed relatively early. I did sleep really well, though, which was quite marvelous. I feel very rested and relaxed today; no idea how long that’s going to last, but hopefully long enough for me to get a lot accomplished and done today around everything else I have to get done before returning to the office tomorrow.

But just looking around at the kitchen/office, it looks like I did indeed get things done yesterday, I just don’t remember doing them. There’s a load of dishes in the dishwasher that needs putting away and I also need to check everything to see what all is needed from the grocery store today. It’ll be nice to get out of the house, even into the heat and humidity which has returned in all of its hideous nastiness; but getting things out of the way is always a pleasure and then I can look forward to easier weekends in the future, right? I’ve been lethargic too much this year already, methinks. Even as I typed that I thought you’re being too hard on yourself again which is one of those things I was talking about earlier in this post; I don’t know how I am supposed to be. Should I be pushing myself to get things done and working hard, or should I be gentle and easy with myself because I am not myself and pushing myself, bring rough on myself, could be more damaging than giving into in to the sadness, the depression, the lethargy that comes with mourning. Reminding myself how much harder this is on Dad than it is on me doesn’t help, either, because then I start worrying about him and being almost eight hundred miles away and…you see how it all begins to spiral? So when the spiraling starts I have to medicate, and medicate means the easy chair and something mindless and distracting that doesn’t require too much focus, hence documentaries and such on the television. I watched a really fascinating one last night about the American-Philippines war; in which during the Spanish-American War we sent the Navy to seize the Philippines, which were in the midst of their own struggle to free themselves from the Spanish. They were looking for independence; we were looking for empire and territory; so once we defeated and drove out the Spanish we took over, and the revolutionaries continued fighting for freedom against the United States, which didn’t come until 1946. (Barbara Tuchman titled her section about the Vietnam War in her March of Folly “America Loses Herself in Vietnam”; but I think we actually originally lost ourselves–along with our ideals, morals, and principles–in the Philippines.)

It might be fun to set a book–a thriller, with international intrigue and so forth–in Manila in 1940. (It also makes me think of the television series rip-off of Indiana Jones, Tales of the Gold Monkey, which I loved loved loved back in the day, and am still bitter that it only lasted one season.)

Yes, Greg, what you need is more book ideas.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. May your Mother’s Day be lovely, Constant Reader, and give your mom a big hug (or at least give her a call) for me, okay?

Flowers on the Wall

I love Carol Goodman’s work.

I don’t remember which of her books I read first; I am thinking it was The Sea of Lost Girls, but that may be wrong (probably is; my memory is for shit these days) but I DO know I first met her in person at the HarperCollins cocktail party at Bouchercon in St. Petersburg, and she’s just as marvelous as a person as she is a writer. Since then I’ve delved into her canon of brilliant books–have yet to come across one that is even slightly disappointing–and each one makes my fandom flame burn even more brightly.

And then in Minneapolis, over lunch with a few friends at that wonderful Irish pub near the hotel, I discovered the clincher: she is also a Dark Shadows fan. She even joked, “I’ve realized that most of my books are really about Barnabas Collins and Maggie Evans”–which made me think even more deeply about how much of an influence the show was on my own writing (Bury Me in Shadows owes a HUGE debt to the show). She has a new book coming out this summer, which is very exciting–I have that weird thing about never wanting to have read everyone’s entire backlist, so there’s always one more book for them to read without me having to wait to get my hands on it–and during my trip to Alabama for the First Sunday in May I listened to The Ghost Orchid, which was so good that when I got home that Sunday night, I grabbed my headphones and listened to the final thirty minutes of the book while unpacking and doing things around the apartment.

I came to Bosco for the quiet.

That’s what it’s famous for.

The silence reigns each day between the hours of nine and five by order of a hundred0year-old decree made by a woman who lies dead beneath the rosebushes–a silence guarded by four hundred acres of wind sifting through white pines with a sound like a mother saying hush. The silence stretches into the still, warm afternoon until it melts into the darkest spot of the garden where spiders spin their tunnel-shaped webs in the box-hedge maze. Just before dusk the wind, released from the pines, blows into the dry pipes of the marble fountain, swirls into the grotto, and creeps up the hill., into the gaping mouths of the satyrs, caressing the breasts of the sphinxes, snaking up the central fountain allée, and onto the terrace, where it exhales its resin- and copper-tinged breath out onto the glasses and crystal decanters laid out on the balustrade.

Even when we come down to drinks on the terrace there’s always a moment, while the ice settles in the silver bowls and we brush the yellow pine needles off the rattan chairs, when it seems like the silence will never be broken. When it seems that the silence might continue to accumulate–like the golden pine needles that pad the paths through the box-hedge maze and the crumbling marble steps and choke the mouths of the satyrs and fill the pipes of the fountain–and finally be too deep to disturb.

Then someone laughs and clinks his glass against another’s, and says…

“Cheers. Here’s to Aurora Latham and Bosco.”

“Here, here,” we all chime into the evening, sending the echoes of our voices rolling down the terraces lawn like brightly colored croquet balls from some long-ago lawn party.

“God, I’ve never gotten so much work done,” Bethesda Graham says, as if testing the air’s capacity to hold a longer sentence or two.

Carol Goodman’s books are, above and beyond anything else you might want to say about them, incredibly literate and smart. She reminds me of Mary Stewart in that way; Stewart’s novels, often dismissed as “romantic suspense” (don’t even get me started on that misogyny), were smart, clever and incredibly literate, with Shakespearean references and quotes and allusions to classical literature. Goodman’s works are also the same; Goodman’s background in classics scholarship is utilized in every one of her books but not in a way that feels intrusive or showing off. It’s all integrated into the story and not only moves the story forward but deepens and enriches the characters as well as the plot, which is not easy to do. Her books are often built around some sort of academic/intellectual backdrop, from boarding schools to small colleges to actual archaeological digs (The Night Villa is absolutely exquisite; superb in every way), and her heroines, aren’t pushovers (as in most “romantic suspense”) but strong and smart and driven, if haunted by their own insecurities and past failures. Goodman is also not afraid to cross the line over into supernatural occurances, either; the previous one I’d read had a touch of the woo-woo, as does The Ghost Orchid, but it’s not intrusive and it actually plays out so honestly and realistically that you don’t question it.

The main character of the book is a young woman named Ellis Brooks. Ellis is a young author-to-be who is working on a novel based on what is called “the Blackwell Affair.” She had already written and published a short story based on an old pamphlet she found; the book research makes her a natural to be chosen for a residency at Bosco, an old estate in upstate New York that has become an artist’s colony, sort of like Breadloaf, but for a much more extended stay and for fewer artists. “The Blackwell Affair” actually took place at Bosco, when the original mistress of the estate, Aurora Latham, brought an experienced medium named Corinth Blackwell to Bosco to hold seances to try to reach the spirits of her dead children–any number of whom were either stillbirths or died shortly after being born; she had four children who lived but lost three of them to a diphtheria outbreak the year before. Corinth Blackwell and the only surviving Latham child disappeared one night after a seance; hence “the Blackwell Affair.” As Ellis does her research and gets to know her fellow artists better, she becomes more and more aware that the past at Bosco doesn’t rest, and the untold stories of the past must be unearthed before everyone at Bosco can be safe.

Goodman is also a master of the dueling timeline; one in the past and one in the present, and weaves the stories together so intricately that I marveled at the mastery, as the present day characters wonder about something and then we get the answer in the past. There are so many secrets, so many lies, so many spirits; but as always with the best ghost stories, the past is finally laid to rest when the truth is exposed.

I loved this book, and it reminded me not only of Dark Shadows (knowing she’s a fan I’ll always see it in her work now) but also of Barbara Michaels’ best along with Mary Stewart. Can’t wait to dig into another Goodman novel!

Drowned World/Substitute for Love

Saturday morning in the Lost Apartment and I finally slept well last night, and I even slept in for an extra two hours this morning. I could have easily (and gladly) stayed in bed for even longer, but I have too much to get done this weekend to allow myself to slovenly lay in bed for the entire morning, so once Scooter’s outrage about not being fed at six a.m. manifested itself into non-stop yowling, I got up and fed him. I feel very rested today, which is lovely. I was tired and dragging all day yesterday, and when I finished work I had things to get done. Paul and I ran out to Costco for a restocking (I hate that sometimes they have stuff and sometimes they don’t; they didn’t have several key things I always get when I go) and then I picked up the mail and a prescription. I need to get gas this weekend as well as make groceries, and the tires need to be aired up as well (the low pressure light came on in Alabama last weekend, but only one tire was low and it wasn’t officially low; it was simply lower than the other three tires), and there’s all kinds of other things I need to get done this weekend. I am editing a manuscript which needs to get finished this weekend; I’d like to do a little more work on my own manuscript; and I would absolutely love to finish reading Lori Roy’s brilliant Let Me Die in His Footsteps this weekend as well. It’s seem rather daunting when it’s put that way, but I am confident that not only can I get all of it completed but without driving myself insane, either.

Always a plus!

We watched The Boston Strangler film on Hulu last night (after an episode of Somebody Somewhere, which I am really growing fond of), and it was quite good. It focused on the two women reporters who figured out there was an actual serial killer and did all the pursuing of the case, all the while tweaking the police who were falling down on the job and forcing them to actually do their work. I wasn’t old enough when the killings were actually happening, but my dad had a copy of Gerold Frank’s The Boston Strangler and I did read that, as well as watched the Tony Curtis film version of the story when it was released to the television networks after its theatrical run. I don’t really remember much of reading the book, other than one landlady who was certain one of her tenants was the Strangler, and the story kept coming back to her and her suspicions. That always stayed with me over the years (what if your tenant/neighbor was a serial killer and you started to suspect? which became my story “The Carriage House”–yes, Virginia, that story gestated in my head for nearly fifty years before I wrote it) and to this day I still remember how chilling that was and how much I worried for the landlady. (It’s also the plot of the ancient Hitchcock film The Lodger, in which the landlady suspected her tenant was Jack the Ripper.)

I was thinking yesterday about the entry I wrote yesterday morning and the way I was/have been feeling for quite some time, and I realized that I’ve been a very passive participant in life; I’ve been kind of letting it happen to me for a while now rather than living my life actively. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional, or a reaction to trauma; or maybe, perhaps, even both. The last few years have been rough on everyone; I don’t think we’ll ever know the full extent of the trauma we all experienced as a result of that paradigm shift back in March of 2020; the shutdown, the battles over what was responsible and what was irresponsible; the insanity of the anti-vaxxer movement and everything else that was just plain wrong over the last few years. I suppose for some of us the trauma goes back even further, to the 2016 election. But it’s kind of true. I think I was very active in my own life and the pursuance of goals before 2016, and ever since 2016 I’ve just been kind of coasting along, letting things happen instead of making them. As a general rule I don’t like coasting through life; it was the recognition that was what I was doing in my early thirties that led to the big changes in my life, which was followed by the achieving goals I had always dreamed about, since I was a little boy.

But roadblocks and speed bumps encountered aside, I think had I been able to look ahead twenty-one years when my first book was released to see where I am today, I’d have been pleased and thrilled and more than a little bit smug about what I’d accomplished. A character trait I’ve never wanted to have is arrogance, and I am always afraid of sounding arrogant when talking about myself and my career. I never want to sound arrogant or smug (well, unless I am dealing with haters, in which case I love giving rein to smug condescending arrogance), but over forty novels? Over twenty anthologies? Over fifty short stories? Fifteen Lambda nominations, and seven Anthonys in total? Nominations for the Macavity, the Shirley Jackson, the Lefty, and the Agatha? How could I not be satisfied and proud of myself?

As I was making room for the Costco purchases once we got home, I was putting some things up in the storage attic and needed to move a box, so I looked inside of it to see what it was. Clippings and things from my career, it turned out–once I carried the box down the ladder to the laundry room I could see I’d written Career Memorabilia on it in Sharpie–and inside was all kinds of things. Back issues of Lambda Book Report from the days when I was either its editor or did some writing for them (or when they were reviewing my work), and back issues of Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, too, along with Insightoutbook catalogues (what a serious blast from the past). Of course I had to bring that box down and keep it for sorting through and scanning purposes (I am serious about cleaning shit out of the storage attic this year), and hilariously found the September 2000 issue of Lambda Book Report, with Michael Thomas Ford on the cover. (Peering inside, I saw that Paul actually was the one who interviewed him!) Scanning all of this stuff will be a huge undertaking, and I do actually hate the thought of throwing it all out once it’s done; I don’t know if Lambda ever archived the back issues or not, so this may be all that’s left of it out there. Same with Insightoutbooks; it was very important and crucial to queer publishing between 2000 and when it went under sometime around 2009 or 2010 (that may be wrong; I also found an issue of LBR from 2008 or 2009, and I would have sworn under oath that LBR stopped publishing a print edition long before that. (You see why I no longer trust my memory? Mnemosyne no longer comes to my aid anymore these days, which is most unfortunate–and yes, the reason the goddess of memory comes to mind is because of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Ghost Orchid–more to come on that score.)

But I also did some cleaning up and filing around here while I was making dinner (ravioli) last night, so this morning the office doesn’t look as bad as it usually does on Saturday morning; the sink is filled with dirty dishes and there’s a load in the dishwasher to put away, but more of the things I generally wind up doing Saturday morning are already done, so there’s no excuse for me not to be highly productive today other than malaise and laziness.

And on that note, I am going to get these minor chores handled while I keep drinking coffee and my mind finishes awakenening.

Ray of Light

The cemetery where Mom rests is small. I remember it as being much bigger, of course, but everything there is smaller than I remember. But most of my memories of Alabama predate my adulthood, so things that seemed enormous to a child don’t seem quite so large to an adult.

I’ve written about it before, just as I’ve written plenty of stories (and even a book! Or two!) set in the county of my birth, where my people are from as we say in the South, and where my people are buried. Before Mom died, I hadn’t been to this cemetery since we laid my paternal grandfather to rest in those blurry years between the turn of the century and Hurricane Katrina. But I’ve written about this cemetery in an unpublished short story I originally wrote in 1983, called “Whim of the Wind” that opens When I was young and spending the summers in Alabama, the graveyard at White’s Chapel held a peculiar fascination for me. When I wrote those words, I was living in California and hadn’t been back to Alabama in at least two or three years; it would be another eight before I returned for my last visit pre-funerals. That story was loved and appreciated not only by my professor but by the class as well. I tried several times to get it published, but to no avail; there’s something missing from the story itself that makes it incomplete, but no editor whose ever read it has been able to put their finger on it. (I do recall having solved the problem after reading Art Taylor’s brilliant story “The Boy Detective and the Summer of 1974”, but of course didn’t write it down and don’t remember what it was. (I shall reread Art’s story at some point to see if it triggers my memory; it really is upsetting that I didn’t write it down–which I always do)

And yes, it’s called White’s Chapel. I always assumed it was called that because it was “whites only”; Dad told me over the weekend of the funeral that it was built by someone named White, which is how it got its name. Hurray for it not being racist in origin? Small victories. But when I was there that time, we drove around the county and through the little town/village which was really where all the Blacks in the county were forced to live, which is no longer the case but was when my parents were children. Lovely, right? I still don’t remember ever seeing any Black people during my childhood visits, which seems hardly possible, does it?

I am both of Alabama and not of Alabama. Dad and I talked about that this weekend, too–I don’t think my sister feels the same tug from Alabama that I do. It’s weird for him to go back there, too–there’s hardly anyone left that he knows; even my aunt commented that she didn’t know a lot of people in the county anymore, and thats kind of sad. The land my grandmother’s house sat on has been sold and the house itself–uninhabitable for years–will be torn down and that part of my history, that part of my life story, will be gone forever. My grandfather’s house, where Dad grew up, is long gone and I think my eldest cousin’s son is going to build a house there. The small, battered old houses I remember from when I was a kid are also all gone; enormous McMansions of brick and mortar with columns and muli-car garages dot the landscape now, so it doesn’t seem as poor down there as it used to.

We started the day at the cemetery where my maternal grandparents rest alongside my youngest uncle, thrown from a rolling car when he was eighteen and the car rolled over him; I remember the funeral but never knowing much more than he died in a wreck (the driver was drunk; the other two riders escaped with minor injuries). There are lots of relatives and ancestors at Studdard’s Crossroads cemetery, which is also well off the paved county road on an incredibly narrow red dirt road. We stayed there for a few hours, and then headed over to see where my mother’s grandparents were buried; another where my other uncle is buried, and finished off at White’s Chapel, with Mom and my paternal two uncles (one died when he was two). It’s so beautiful there, and so different than what I remembered and have written about–which is actually a good thing; I completely fictionalized the present-day county predicated on my childhood memories–but yes the pine forests and the red dirt, the incredibly blue sky, and fall away drops alongside the roads (not near as steep and deep as I remembered).

I’m glad I went. Seeing Dad again, seeing that he’s okay, lifted an enormous weight from my shoulders–I was terribly worried and hated being almost eight hundred miles away–but also being able to talk to him about Mom, and their shared histories, as well as more family histories on both sides that I didn’t know, was a big help. I by no means think I am over the hump or well on the way to recovery; I know from my own bitter experience that you can have a good day after a trauma and thus think with relief, oh good now I can get on with everything only to have one of the dark days immediately after. It takes time to heal, and I am never going to stop missing my mother. I just have to get used to not having her anymore.

(I had originally intended to post this yesterday, but then I got the Anthony news and that kind of sidetracked the day for me.)

Human Nature

Wednesday!

I was tired yesterday. I slept okay Monday night, but not deeply and I did keep waking up so it was a restless night at best–and I sure as hell didn’t want to get up when the alarm went off yesterday morning. I was also behind at the day job when I got there, so had to play catch up a bit between clients. It was all good, but still a bit more stressful than I would prefer; I also kept thinking it was Monday all day which drove me a bit insane.

I also discovered that my insurance actually does not cover hearing aids for adults; I must have missed the part about having to be under eighteen when I looked it up. Which kind of sucks that in order to hear I have to pay for it out of my own pocket. The good news is I’ve made it this far without them, so I guess I can start trying to save up to pay for them somehow, or maybe I can get them financed or something. I’m not entirely sure, but it’s irritating. Our health care system has been fucked up since, well, the Reagan administration (quelle surprise; what modern day horror doesn’t date back to that bastard?), but the decline of the airline industry actually can be dated to Carter; he was the one who deregulated the airlines under the guise of increasing competition so fares would be more competitively priced. We see how well that worked out, haven’t we? American, United, Delta, Southwest and Jetblue are all that are left now from the glory days of air travel–Eastern, Pan Am, TWA, Continental, Northwest and many others having either folded or been taken over by another airline. Glad we have all these choices now, right? (Sorry, I was thinking about how the airline industry has declined over the course of my lifetime while at the airport the other day, and clearly it was still in my subconscious. I love Jimmy Carter, but this was a mistake.)

I slept better last night. I still woke up a couple of times but I feel very much more rested this morning than I did yesterday. I was tired when I got home from the office so immediately put the dishes away and started another load before the fatigue overtook me. I got caught upon Vanderpump Rules–more on that later–and when Paul got home from the gym we watched this week’s Ted Lasso, which was lovely and melancholy at the same time. (My God, how I love Jamie Tartt! Phil Dunster is killing it in the role this season, too. What an incredible character arc–and now we are seeing a lovely redemption for Nate, who disappointed me but we get to see our Nate again this season, which is so nice)

I did manage to work a little on the book yesterday, and it took me a little while to get reacclimated to the story and everything. I think I’ll be back on track with it again today and thru the rest of the week before I leave for Alabama on Saturday morning; and while the drive up there and back over the weekend will probably be tiring, I think I can see the end of the book coming. It might take me awhile to get there, but the end game is there and I need to really focus at some point to get it done. I may have to take a long weekend in mid-May to get there. Heavy heaving sigh. It’s always about time management for me, isn’t it, and being tired? How did I used to do this all the time? Oh yes, I was younger and hadn’t had COVID yet. *shakes fist at universe*

I need to stay away from Twitter more. I get so angry whenever I go there, and am always tempted to say something snarky or in kind to a troll–I don’t always succeed in deleting the tweet before hitting send, either–and while I am not worried about going viral or getting cancelled (if it happens, it happens, you know, and if I fuck up, I kind of deserve it), I am trying not to be that person. I don’t want to troll trolls on-line, nor do I want to get into tweet-fights with anyone. It’s all just a waste of time and energy that can be utilized better elsewhere (I do, however, reserve the right to troll anyone trolling a friend), and does no one any good. Twitter is the worst of us, really; originally intended for people to connect and interact with each other, it basically evolved into a place for people to complain. Oh, someone cut you off in traffic? Tweet angrily about it! You watched a show you didn’t enjoy? Tweet about it! And so on and so on. Twitter can be fun; I’ve certainly had fun there with friends and of course there’s always my “Greg meme” face, which can be used for surprise, shock, or horror (I actually have the picture saved on all devices for easy access and use as “the horror”); for some reason that always makes people laugh. It is a funny photo, and I will always be grateful that Josh Fegley snapped that shot so perfectly timed to get that expression on my face when the Evil Mark said, well, something evil while we were at Drag Bingo at Oz. I’ve tried repeating that photo without success; it was something in and of the moment, I guess.

Or I’m just older and my face sags so much I can’t replicate the expression. One or the other is the most likely, or probably both.

Heavy heaving sigh.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.