Category: horror

Pur

Wednesday Pay-the-Bill day, and I have the day off because I have a doctor’s appointment smack dab in the middle of the day, so…no choice but to take the day off. I don’t mind, despite the disruption of routine it causes. I have errands I can get done, and I can also take Megan Abbott with me to the appointment to read while I (inevitably) wait.

Coming home from work wasn’t as rough yesterday as it was Monday. I did pause once I shut the front door to wait and see if Scooter would come downstairs before remembering, which made a bit sad. It really doesn’t feel like home without a cat in it. And of course, our next cat may not be anything like Scooter. Scooter was a completely different cat from Skittle, after all–Skittle wasn’t nearly as affectionate, but he was but only when he wanted to be and for as long as he felt like it, while Scooter was constant. I’m torn between a kitten and one that’s already full grown; primarily because everyone wants kittens and it’s harder to adopt out full grown cats. Kittens are awfully cute; Skittle was a kitten when we got him. But our stairs are pretty steep for a kitten to navigate, and it also means we’d have to be a lot more careful with the front door. Scooter had no interest in going outside whatsoever; the front door could be wide open and he was having none of it. He was so disinterested in the outside he wouldn’t even stare out the windows–unless he heard Paul talking outside on his phone. That always intrigued him, and was the only time I ever worried about him going outside–if Paul was out there, Scooter would want to join him. But as a general rule, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about outside. (I’m with you, Scooter, I’d never go outside again if I could get away with it!)

I wasn’t tired yesterday either. I slept really well on Monday night–I’ve slept well ever since I finally adapted back to my life and reality after my vacation and the 4th holiday fucked with me–and we had a relatively easy day at the office. Between clients I did some more deep diving into Alabama history; I don’t know why it never occurred to me until this week that if I was going to write a short story built around an urban legend, why try Louisiana when I have all that history and lore and legends about my home state? I found a particularly gory and grotesque Civil War revenge story–based in fact–which might do the trick. One of the things that has been interesting me lately is the concept of the interior civil war inside the state of Alabama in the north hill country; Union sympathizers who didn’t believe in secession and refused to fight for the Confederacy, and some even served in the Union army. The Alabama Home Guard was particularly brutal; they were the ones who committed the atrocities that triggered the vengeance story, and that something I think I can work with. I know there’s a legend that one of my aunt-by-marriage’s ancestors served in the Union Army and when he snuck home for a visit, the Home Guard caught him and skinned him alive. Gruesome and horrible, but the back country in the South’s entire history is gruesome and horrible. There are a lot more stories to be told about the part of the country from whence I came…

I slept well again last night, too. I was able to sleep in a bit later because I took the day off for doctor appointments–I need to talk to my doctor about my arm and my toe again, heavy sigh–but since the appointment was in the middle of the day, I didn’t see any point in either going in before and returning after so took the entire day off. It’s a nice break to the week, really. We watched this week’s episode of Last Call, and then went back to The Crowded Room–mostly because we didn’t have anything else to watch last night. The first five or so episodes of the show moved really slow and you couldn’t really be sure what was going on. I figured out it was dissociative identity disorder that was plaguing the poor sad character being played (brilliantly) by Tom Holland; but the episodes we watched last night moved the story along, tied it all together, and were riveting. Paul and I agreed it was an odd storytelling choice; risking losing the interest of the viewers who might not continue because it was moving so slow and made so little sense. We wouldn’t have gone back had there been anything else for us to watch–but the performance by Tom Holland! My word, he’s quite the talent. I knew he could act–I’ve seen him give incredibly strong performances in two films, Cherry and the other one, The Devil All The Time, which was, in my opinion, terribly underrated as a film. I suspect Holland will win an Oscar at some point–if people can stop seeing him as Spider-Man.

I was thinking it might be fun–since our anniversary is tomorrow–to surprise Paul with a cat when he gets home from work tonight. But the more I think about it, the more I think that as fun as that would be, I think he’d want to be involved in the selection process. So, probably the best thing to do is talk to him about it tonight when he gets home from work, and maybe going out to the SPCA on the West Bank to see what kitties they have on hand for rescuing. I’ve looked at several websites for adoptable cats in the area, and of course want them all (Wendy Corsi Staub recently wrote a piece for CrimeSpree to promote her new book, Windfall, about winning the lottery; she asked a bunch of us what we would do should we win the huge lottery…and I should have said “buy a ranch so I could adopt all the cats in the world and give them a loving home,” because I would really love to do that), so probably its best to involve Paul in the process. Paul picked out Skittle, even though I found Scooter. I’m still missing Scooter–expecting him to come down the stairs at any moment, listening for him, and sitting in my easy chair after I get home from work just isn’t the same thing; I cannot justify sitting there doing nothing without the “cat sleeping in my lap” excuse.

I’ve got laundry going, and I need to finish the load of dishes in the sink so I can put them in the dishwasher and run it. I am going to try to get some things done around the house around the appointment, but we shall see how that goes. We’re in another heat advisory today–seriously–but this morning I am going to swill coffee, do some stuff around the kitchen, and maybe spend some time with Megan Abbott this morning. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again later.

Bluebeard

Monday morning and back into the office. I am kind of dreading it, to be honest; there was apparently some shake-ups and drama at the office on my work-at-home day while I was dealing with Scooter. Can’t wait to get into the office today and find out what’s up and what the future holds. Who knows? I may be coming home a lot earlier than expected and never going back.

I was very productive yesterday morning, all things considered. I slept in a bit, got up, and wrote the blog, worked on the dishes and laundry, cleaned up a bit, and found some computer files I was looking for. What’s truly strange–really really strange–is that my imagination is so powerful that I can remember writing entire short stories without actually having written them. A friend had mentioned the deadline for the 2024 Malice anthology, with an international theme to it, and I thought Oh, I have that ambiguous Central American–set Mayan ruins story I wrote a long time ago. I distinctly remember writing the entire story…only to look through all my electronic files to only find one with a few sentences, at best a paragraph, written. I pulled the file out of the file cabinet and sure, that’s all there was. I’d swear I’d written the entire thing…even looking through the old files from the 1980’s that had to be retyped, before remembering that I got the idea on a trip to the Yucatan….in about 1993. This means I remember writing something that I never did.

And people wonder why I think I’m not mentally stable?

I also pulled up a file for a potential next novel–the one I was thinking about before I left for the trip a few weeks ago, and even it isn’t what I remembered; primarily because all the changes I made were made in my head and not really made electronically. I originally wrote the first chapter with the story still set in the French Quarter; I moved it mentally to Camp Place in the Lower Garden District and made changes…in my head. Lord, where is my straitjacket? This isn’t the first time this has happened; where I’ve finished writing something in my. head but never got it typed up into the word document, to be bitterly crushed and disappointed later when pulling up the file. (This also happened with, among many others, “A Holler Full of Kudzu”.) I am certainly not sure that I’ll be able to get this story written, revised, and edited by the end of the month but….stranger things have happened.

I also read some more into Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman and am completely in her thrall. Jesus, reading her makes me want to just give up and never write another word. Well, that’s extreme, but authors who are on her level do make me want to push myself, to try harder, and to do better work. I read for a little while, a few more chapters, then got up from my chair (quite reluctantly) to do some more chores. I didn’t get nearly as much done this weekend as perhaps I would have liked to have, but it was also my first Scooter-free weekend and I kept getting sad. I imagine I’ll still do so on occasion for a while, but I am also going to resolutely start looking for a new cat to adopt this week. The house just doesn’t feel right without a cat. This morning when my alarm went off I actually went to fill his food and water bowls before remembering they weren’t there anymore. I was afraid that would happen today, to be honest; knowing reality wouldn’t kick in instantly when I rose the bed. Today is also the big meeting with the entire department. I don’t know what that is about, or what is going to happen, or what even to expect. Hell, I may be unemployed by noon, who knows? Not the kind of stress I needed for the weekend on top of everything else, but when it rains in my life the streets definitely flood. I at least slept well last night. We finished watching Fake Profile last night, which was a lot of fun, with a completely insane series finale. I don’t see how they could do a second season, but stranger things have happened with Spanish-language Netflix programming.

I also read a couple of short stories from one of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents books, Stories That Scared Even Me, and realized something about my own short stories; the stories in these Hitchcock anthologies aren’t necessarily what we would traditionally refer to as “crime stories,” but I don’t think they count as outright horror, either. The stories are what you would expect from the television series–as well as others like The Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, and Night Gallery–stories that are more macabre than anything else, really; some with a very bitter and dark sense of irony more than anything else. The two stories in this anthology that I read over the course of the weekend, “Fishhead” by Irvin S. Cobb and “Camera Obscura” by Basil Copper, were these kinds of stories (the latter perhaps being a bit problematic–the ‘moneylender’ in the story is, while not coming out and saying so, the worst stereotypes of anti-Semitic tropes, while not coming out and saying the character is Jewish); more macabre in outlook than either horror or crime. I’ve also never heard of either author–but back in those days someone with a strong imagination, excellent typing skills, and dedication could make a decent living writing only short stories…ah, for those good old days of the business, right? I’ll probably do a google search on them–and the others whose names I don’t recognize–at some point because I am nosy.

Looks like the heat advisory streak, going back to early June if not late May, might get broken today. Not as humid as usual, but still the high will be 93. It felt cool out there this morning when I took the trash out.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Happy Monday, everyone.

Summerhead

I’ve lost track of how many days in a row New Orleans has been under a heat advisory, but I’m beginning to think we’ve never not been in one. It’s always hot here in the summer time, and I can remember walking to Walgreens years ago and being completely drenched in sweat by the time I got home. When I taught aerobics in the summer time I showered three or four times a day (any wonder I developed psoriasis? Although it makes for an amusing question, I don’t believe that any more than I believe the moon landing was faked; I should probably find out what causes psoriasis at some point), and the city always swelters in the summer time. The summer heat here is unlike anywhere I’ve ever lived before; Tampa and Houston had a very similar type climate to New Orleans, but both of those cities somehow seemed to not ever get as brutally hot as it does here.

I’ve started looking at adoptable cats in the area, and as usual, I want them all. If I had a house as big as my parents’, I’d probably have at least four or five cats. I do love cats (even if I came to it late in life), and I really do want to write Daughters of Bast someday. I don’t know if that’s a story I can actually write and tell–since in order for it to work, the main character would need to be a descendant from a High Priestess of Bast, which means she wouldn’t be (at least not entirely) white. I know the “#ownvoices” movement has seemed to have lost some traction (concerns about who writes what is now taking–rightfully–a backseat to concerns about book bannings), but even if publishing has stopped being concerned that non-marginalized voices are writing about marginalized characters, the lesson was learned at least by me. And while Daughters of Bast is a great concept and idea (in my opinion), I’m not sure I have the right to write that story, but I do not see how I can without venturing into problematic territory. I will write something based in or around Egypt at some point though; Egypt has fascinated for far too long a period of my life (as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated by ancient Egypt, the pharaohs, the pyramids, and their culture) for me to never write about it….but then again, I’ve not written anything historical, have I? A short story here and there?

Yesterday was actually kind of lovely. I’d cry here and there, of course, when I’d have a reminder–sitting in my chair alone watching Youtube, I started to call for him to come sleep in my lap before remembering was one of those moments–and of course, it feels weird going to bed without him curling up inside my arm. I keep picking up things–toys he’d played with a couple of times before abandoning, water dish, plastic container of cat food–which make me sad, but it’s gradually grew into more of a resigned sadness by the end of the day rather than the emotional kick in the gut. We got caught up on Hijack, with Idris Elba on Apple Plus, which is really quite good; started watching Last Call on HBO, based on the Edgar Award winning true crime about a serial killer praying on gay men in New York; and then moved on to Fake Profile on Netflix, which is, as all Spanish language crime melodramas are, fricking fantastic. We’ll probably finish Fake Profile today, but am not sure what else. We also finished season one of Platonic yesterday, which was also terrific.

I did spend some time reading Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman; I only read the first chapter but its hallmark Abbott; the voice, especially, is just as haunting as always and I always marvel at how lyrically she puts sentences together. Her writing style is so evocative; it’s amazing to me how she can create an entire image in your head with a clever turn of phrase. It’s a kind of writerly witchcraft not many authors have, and while I am sure it has a lot to do with her education (she’s incredibly intelligent) and her own influences, she is just kind of a genius, really. I plan to spend some more time with it this morning, once I get some things cleaned up around here–the kitchen is a mess, and as always, dishes dishes dishes and filing filing filing. But I did do some clean-up around here yesterday and I also successfully pruned the books down. I got rid of some of the empty boxes that have piled up around here, and so progress was made on the messy, slovenly hovel I call the Lost Apartment. I slept pretty well last night, too. I also spent some time brainstorming loosely in my journal for the next book I’m going to write. (I also just realized I’ve been listening for Scooter to come downstairs and demand his breakfast; I suppose that’s going to be a lengthy wait this morning…)

I’m not really sure what I am going to do today other than some clean-up and some reading and maybe some more brainstorming. I need to write Dad, among other important tasks, and there’s still some loose ends hanging around I need to get tied up at some point. There’s always something…but at least I am starting to feel creative again, which is always a plus. I was really feeling depleted there for a while, you know? I am also making Swedish meatballs for dinner. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve cooked–I’ve really fallen down on the job as far as that is concerned–and I also have doctors’ appointments on Wednesday so my week is going to be broken up into two parts around that.

And on that note, I think I will repair to my easy chair with Beware the Woman. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

Oil of Angels

Here we are on a lovely Thursday morning. I managed to survive a full week in the office for the first time in three weeks (I won’t be going in on next Wednesday, either, as I have doctors’ appointments all day that day, so yet another non-full week for me, oy). I wasn’t very tired yesterday; no more than just the normal wearing down of a work week. I had slept really well Tuesday night so I wasn’t very tired yesterday, and I was also trying to get some odds and ends finished. It’s very strange where I am right now; I have some commitments but not many; and I finally seem to have the email situation almost completely under control at long last. I do sometimes find myself at loose ends on occasion; no emails to answer, nothing urgent that needs to be done, finished or worked on. It kind of feels weird, but it’s also nice in some ways. Maybe that’s why I am sleeping better? Because I’ve managed to get the stress under control somehow?

Who knows?

Paul worked late the last two nights–he’s writing a grant for the National Endowment for the Arts, so glamorous–so I was kind of at loose ends. Last night I had a ZOOM thing at six; and I was already a little worn down from the day at the office (mostly from getting up at six, really). I was falling asleep in my chair by nine, so I went to bed; I tried reading a short story by H. G. Wells in that My Favorites in Suspense Hitchcock book, but I couldn’t get focused. But I also realized something when I got home from work yesterday: I am sort of caught up on everything? Oh, sure, I still have two novels in various stages of production–waiting for the edits on one while page proofing the other–but I am actually kind of caught up right now. I had no emails to answer in my inbox. The proofing is going decently, and isn’t due to be turned in for another couple of weeks, at any rate, so I am actually ahead on that one. For the first time in years, I had absolutely nothing to do and no excuses or justifications necessary to go sit in my chair and cuddle with the cat and just empty my brain and do nothing. I cannot remember the last time this has happened; it’s been at least since 2019, I think. It’s an odd feeling, but also one I could get sort of used to, if I let myself.

Someone told me yesterday–during the ZOOM call–that I’m a workaholic, which kind of took me aback. (Kind of like being called prolific used to always make do a double take and say, what?) But as I sat there in my easy chair rewatching the LSU College World Series final game at last (GEAUX TIGERS! I also realized I never really posted about that world series and how fun it was to watch–the final game was pretty fun to watch; must have been amazing to watch as it happened), I started thinking about that some more and instead of the usual kneejerk no, I’m actually really lazy defensive reaction I always have (because, believe it or not, I really AM lazy) when someone says something like that to me, I decided to think about it and she wasn’t entirely wrong. I do have a full time job in an office. I do write full time. I edit part time. This is the first year since maybe 2009 where I am not doing any kind of official volunteer service in what little time I have left after everything else, and it’s kind of nice. It’s nice to have free time I don’t have to feel guilty about, where I don’t have to say to myself “no one else has to justify taking the weekend off from everything” when they are too tired to work on the weekends. I think she was probably right: I am a workaholic.

Oh, this is just a respite and things will start cranking up a bit again, I am well aware of that, but I want to enjoy this brief time of leisurely page proofing while I wait for my other edits with no sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I’m probably going to start writing something else relatively soon, maybe next week or the week after, depending on when the edits arrive. I want to finish strong first drafts for Muscles and Chlorine by September, when I am going to spend the rest of the year working on the requested follow up book to this other one I’m currently proofing. I also have to come up with a plot for that book, so there’s so mental gymnastics ahead of me, so letting my brain have a bit of a rest will be helpful as my batteries need to thoroughly recharge; I’ve run them down dramatically over the last few years. Mom’s decline and final illness, the pandemic, being EVP of MWA, trying to continue to write books and stories–and that’s not even taking into consideration the national political shit show this country has been for years now–it’s a wonder I managed to survive the last few years, you know? Let alone continued to write and be productive while doing my day job well, managing the household–the chores were definitely allowed to slide for a very long time, I’m afraid–no wonder I was exhausted and tired and drained all the time. No wonder writing my stories and books felt like misery and like I was doing it on autopilot.

And I need to take better care of myself, period.

Today is also the launch day (in Australia) for This Fresh Hell, edited by Katya de Becerra and Narrelle M. Harris; it features my story “Solace in a Dying Hour,” which is one that I am rather proud of, to be quite frankly. (While I was trying to read that H. G. Wells story–“The Inexperienced Ghost” was its title–it occurred to me that I am much prouder of my short stories than I am of my books, which is a weird thing I am going to have to unpack at some point) I’ll do another entry about the story, of course; maybe that will be the time and place for me to work through my weird neuroses about short stories and my writing.

Or I could see a therapist again. Which is probably the best thing, really.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Y’all have a great Thursday, okay?

The Itchy Glowbo Blow

Wednesday and we’ve made it halfway through the week, Constant Reader. Didn’t think it was quite possible, did you, when Monday dawned so early and ugly? We expecting thunderstorms today in New Orleans–it feels cooler and damp this morning, but I don’t know when we are supposed to have said storms; probably this afternoon. I slept really well again last night–it’s been lovely getting good sleep lately. I felt a bit tired yesterday when I got home from work, and so took it a little easier on myself when I got home. I managed to get caught up on my emails (such a weird feeling) and did some writing last night. I think I’m still a bit in the post-book malaise phase of things, so writing anything isn’t easy (not that it ever is) but Paul got home late so was left to my own devices once I finished writing for the evening. I did watch some documentaries on Youtube about the Hapsburgs last night (I also discovered an English-language biography about her–Margaret of Austria–which I added to the my list of books to buy…which is almost as out of control as my TBR stack, which is now essentially the entire living room), and I read a short story in Hitchcock’s My Favorites in Suspense anthology; a dark little Charlotte Armstrong story called “The Enemy.” Armstrong was a writer I discovered as a tween, when Mom let me join the Mystery Guild Book Club; I got an omnibus by her (The Witch’s House, Mischief, The Dream Walker) which I greatly enjoyed. I rediscovered Armstrong thanks to the work of both Sarah Weinman and Jeffrey Marks, which enabled me to continue reading in her canon.

Armstrong won an Edgar for Best Novel for A Dram of Poison, a charming if dark little story of suspense; maybe the rare Edgar winner where there’s no dead body but the plot has to do with preventing an accidental death? It’s very clever, and incredibly charming, but beneath that clever charming surface it says something dark and awful about human nature and character–people who are unhappy spreading their misery to others. Armstrong was also made a Grand Master by Mystery Writers of America. Her work may seem a bit dated in the modern day–technology and society have moved on from the times she lived and wrote in–but I think it’s well worth the read. “The Enemy” is that same style of writing as Dram, a serious subject presented charmingly, and the death of a child’s dog the catalyst for an exposé of something darker and nastier…and yes, the plot also hinges on the darkness a human being is capable of creating. It’s a really clever, if slightly dated, story–and you can’t help but smile or laugh at the last line of the story. I am really enjoying these time capsules into the past, to tell you the truth. I bought a few more of these anthologies on eBay yesterday, too. It’s nice to have short story collections around for those times when my brain can’t really focus on reading an entire novel.

I have been listening to Carol Goodman’s The Drowning Tree on Audible, but I may have to break down and finish actually reading a physical copy because I can’t keep listening every day and with my memory a literal thing of the past these days, I’m not sure I remember enough of the story to pick it up again this weekend. I also picked up copies of her new novel, The Bones of the Story, along with Paul Tremblay’s new short story collection, The Beast You Are. I do like Tremblay’s writing–A Head Full of Ghosts was one of the best horror novels of the last decade, and I’ve liked everything else of his that I’ve read–and I think this may even be his second collection. I am also hoping to pull together another collection myself this year–This Town and Other Macabre Stories–but I am not sure if I will have the time. I also got the copy edits for a short story I contributed to an anthology in my inbox last night, so that has to go onto the to-do list, and I still have page proofs to get through. But for the most part, it seems as though I have a guilt-free free weekend, which one can never truly go wrong with, either. I’ll have some errands to run, of course–I always have errands to run–but there’s no stress or pressure on me either, which is kind of nice. I think maybe that’s the reason I’ve been sleeping so well this week? No pressure and my schedule has kind of normalized, gotten back to normal, settled back into the routine my body is used to, perhaps?

Yes, that makes total sense to me.

I also have ideas and thoughts pinging around in my head. I’m itching to get back to the works I have in progress; I want to get a strong first draft of two different novels finished before I leave for Bouchercon next (!!!) month. I actually, finally, made a to-do list yesterday; I am hoping that I can get my life back on track the way it was before the pandemic and the madness of the last few years. That doesn’t mean that my blood pressure won’t continue to go up predicated on the constant assaults on everyone who’s not a cisgender straight man from the demons on the right–which is part of the reason my interest in the Civil War and the 1850’s, that terrible lead-up to the split, has been heightened these last few months. I do see a lot of similarities in the split between conservative v. progressive today, which was predicated along the lines of abolitionist/pro-human trafficking back then. One of the books my father gave me to read was called Southerners in Blue, which was a novelization of the true story (albeit poorly written) of a Union sympathizer and others like him in Winston County, Alabama. (If you’re not familiar with Winston County, the easiest way to explain it is this county did not vote for secession and essentially stated that if Alabama had the right to secede from the Union, the county had the right to secede from Alabama. They did not secede from Alabama, just said they had the right to predicated on the secession arguments being presented, but have gone down in Alabama history and lore as having actually seceded even though they most certainly did not) Basically, in some of the northern counties of Alabama there was basically a second civil war, between the “secesh” and the “Unionist” supporters, and the mountains of north Alabama were filled with deserters from the Confederate Army, This was also novelized into a book called Tories of the Hills by Wesley Sylvester Thompson, which is incredibly rare (my uncle has a copy, which my aunt won’t let be removed from her house–wise, as I would totally steal it). I had read another book also while I was up there, about the Kansas-Missouri border war–which had a decided “secesh” slant to it, of course, while complaining that all previous histories were “unsympathetic to the Missouri slave-owner point of view”. I’m sure he had a point, but simply because there are two sides to every story doesn’t mean each side deserves to be heard, or that each side’s opinion has equal weight. It did spark my interest, though, and I really think there’s a book in this little-known history of north Alabama. Again, it would be difficult to write–lots of potential landmines there–but it’s also, as I said, not very well known and with today’s tribalism mentality–not to mention how loud the Lost Cause fanatics are–it’s hard to wrap one’s mind around the notion that the South wasn’t monolithic in its thinking.

Because no group of people are, really, which is why I don’t like being asked for a gay perspective on anything; I can only speak for myself.

But while I continue to research this aspect of history and try to figure out a way to get a novel out of it, I am going to map out two others. One is already in progress, and the other is a New Orleans ghost story I’ve been wanting to write for quite some time now. The trick is to make it different from every other ghost story I’ve already written. Good luck with that, Mr. Repetitive!

Heavy heaving sigh.

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

Athol-Brose

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and how the hell are you, Constant Reader? I slept super well last night–much better than Friday night, which felt really great–and am a-rarin’ to go this morning. Yesterday was a good day, frankly and surprisingly. I woke feeling rested and well, managed to get some things going in the morning, and kept getting things done for most of the day. I also took it a little easier than I usually do, resting and relaxing for a bit before getting up again to do something else. Thus I managed to get some things accomplished.

After doing some kitchen organizing yesterday (and filing), I started going through that box of clippings and magazine copies, to better organize them in another box, and found all kinds of things that are marvelous. I’ll do some scanning today, so that there’s an electronic version of everything preserved for all time. The Queer Crime Writers group has expressed some interest in archiving some of the articles and reviews of crime authors and their books…it was funny, but it’s been a long time since I looked at those old issues of Lambda Book Report, and while I am still proud of them, it’s been long enough that I can look at them critically and see the mistakes and flaws and so forth. It was also kind of interesting because I forgot, for one thing, that I interviewed Margaret Cho for Lambda Book Report, or that Paul used to do author interviews, and so forth. It was kind of cool experiencing the nostalgia of seeing them, or the old Saints & Sinners programs from the first years, when I had to do the layout and design for them (which is why they all look so amateur hour) but I also used to do that for Lambda Book Report too. There were also clippings from other gay papers, including the local IMPACT News which then became Southern Voice-New Orleans before folding completely, the Times-Picayune, Gambit, and St. Charles magazine. It’s hard to believe, really, that I’ve been in and around the publishing business for as long as I have. It’s also kind of eerie. I’m trying not to be a cliché, but seriously, where did the time go?

I also walked to the Office Depot during the afternoon rainstorm yesterday to get ink for the printer and some notepads. I live for the 5 x 7 legal pads, and I’ve been down to my last one for quite some time, which inevitably throws me a bit off-balance, as I use them for everything, from grocery lists to “what to do today” lists” and making notes to myself to remind myself of things. I just feel better knowing there are eleven notepads in the cabinet, next to two blank journals, for me to use if and when I need one again. It’s odd how comforting that knowledge is, so it’s clearly one of my (many) neuroses.

I also started watching a true crime series on Hulu–Paul was meeting a friend for dinner and drinks last night, so I was left to my own devices–about Billy Milligan, a serial rapist who had dissociative identity disorder at a time when not much was known a bout it; many people to this day don’t believe Milligan actually had the disorder, but was simply a very good actor (The Crowded Room series on Apple Plus is based on his story), but I stopped watching by the fourth episode. Do I believe DID is a thing? Sure, why not? Even if the Sybil case turned out to be a fraud, I do think the mind is capable of splintering like that when faced with a horrific trauma; ironically, this illness was depicted beautifully over the years for Victoria Lord on One Life to Live (winning her portrayer, Erika Slezak, a ridiculous amount of daytime Emmys over the years); it began when first shown as part of the melodrama with some research done into it; as more information about it became available and more studies were done, that was also explored over the years as it reoccurred, finally culminating with the truth that she was molested by her father–that was the initial trauma that shattered her mind. I’d like to write about this sometime myself, because it’s interesting to me, but it would take a lot of research because I’d want to do it right, you know?

I got a lovely compliment on a story I contributed to an anthology yesterday, which was unexpected and lovely–especially since I hadn’t felt confident about the story when I sent it in. It’s another Alabama story, which makes me happy, and I pulled up the electronic last version I had with me here at the house and…it’s full of mistakes. I just hope that wasn’t the version I sent in. But it’s a story I wrote a long time ago, based in some sort of reality. When we used to visit Alabama in the summer time, my aunt and uncle lived in the county seat in a nice brick one-story three bedroom house whose back yard gently sloped, gradually ending in what my cousins (and everyone) just called “the ditch.” I never really knew how it was created or where it came from–in the story I referred to it as a branch of the river that was dammed up and so it dried up–but it was about twenty feet wide and fifteen foot deep; and the bottom was just as I described it–littered with rusting cans and broken glass and other debris. But it was also cool down there as it was completely shaded by all the trees lining the sides (that’s what gave me the idea that it may have been a branch of the river; it does kind of look the shores of a river); there was also a path from the back of the house to an ancient wooden footbridge to cross to the other side. I wrote the story “The Ditch” originally years ago, I think possibly for a Horror Writers Association anthology, and it was rejected. I liked the story but knew it needed more work, and when I dragged it out to use for this anthology I did a strong revision. It is a much better story now than it was, but please God, tell me I didn’t turn in this error-riddled version. More on that anthology as it develops.

I also made a list of things I need to get done today (yay for little legal pads!) and am feeling pretty good about everything this morning. It really is amazing what a difference sleep makes, isn’t it? I woke up early this morning, am enjoying my morning coffee, and I finally feel like I am part of my own reality again (it always takes a while for me to readjust to my normal daily routine). I also have some writing and reading to do today, and I hope to get to work on the page proofs either today or sometime this week.

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again at some point, no doubt.

Fly Like an Eagle

One of the first Alfred Hitchcock movies I ever saw was The Birds. We watched it on our big black-and-white television, and it was absolutely terrifying. What made it even more terrifying was that we as viewers–along with the characters in the film–had no idea what had turned the birds into vicious flocks of attacking predators. The movie was absolutely terrifying to a very young Gregalicious, who ever after always gave whatever birds he saw a wary look. That innocuous scene where the birds start gathering on the jungle gym? First a few that you notice, then you look again and there’s more… you look back another time and there are even more….more and more with every look until you have a sick feeling and think maybe I better get out of here–yes, I related absolutely to that scene in the movie and whenever I see a flock of birds gathered anywhere I have a bit of an uneasy feeling. You never really think about how vicious and terrifying birds–descended from the dinosaurs, after all–can be. Sure, we all know about the birds of prey, with their sharp claws and razor-like beaks; but sparrows? Blackbirds? Crows? How do you defend yourself if a flock comes for you? God, even now, just thinking about it gives me goosebumps.

I recently rewatched the movie (during the Rewatch Project during the pandemic) and it’s not as good a film as I remembered, but it’s still terrifying. I was curious to see how I would react to the movie, because in the intervening years I had read the short story it was based on, and the story is much, much better than the movie.

The fact it was written by Daphne du Maurier didn’t hurt.

On December the third the wind changed overnight and it was winter. Until then the autumn had been mellow, soft. The earth was rich where the plough turned it.

Nat Hocken, because of a wartime disability, had a pension and did not work full time at the farm. He worked three days a week, and they gave him the lighter jobs. Although he was married, with children, his was a solitary disposition; he liked best to work alone, too.

It pleased him when he was given a bank to build up, or a gate to mend, at the far end of the peninsular, where the sea surrounded the farmland on either side. Then, at midday, he would pause and eat the meat pie his wife had baked for him and, sitting on the cliff’s edge, watch the birds.

In autumn great flocks of them came to the peninsula, restless, uneasy, spending afternoons in motion; now wheeling, circling in the sky; now settling to feed on the rich, just turned soil; but even when they fed, it was as though they did so without hunger, without desire.

Restlessness drove them to the skies again. Crying, whistling, caslling, they skimmed the placid sea and left the shore.

Make haste, make speed, hurry and begone; yet where, and to what purpose? The restless urge of autumn, unsatisfying, sad, had put a spell on them, and they must spill themselves of motion before winter came.

I love Daphne du Maurier.

The story was originally published in her collection The Apple Tree and Other Stories; when the film was released in 1963 it was rereleased as The Birds and Other Stories. (One of the problems with trying to read all of du Maurier’s short stories is because her collections inevitably have at least half the stories that have appeared in other collections; so you can wind up buying a collection for the two or three stories in it you’ve not read; for example, my first du Maurier collection was Echoes from the Macabre, which included “The Apple Tree” (title story of another collection) AND “Don’t Look Now” (also the title story of another collection) AND “Not After Midnight” (which, as you probably already guessed, is the title story of another collection). I have yet to find a definitive list of du Maurier’s short stories anywhere, and it certainly is long past time that all of her stories are collected into a single collection (are you listening to me, du Maurier estate?).

The reason I love the story so much is because it really is a master class in tension and suspense. It’s also a much more intimate, small story than the film. Nat is a simple worker, loves his wife and kids, and wakes up one morning to winter and bizarre behavior from the birds. The way du Maurier describes the sight of the seagulls all gathered out on the sea, rising the waves in silence, is creepier than any shot of Suzanne Pleshette sprawled out on the walk with her eyes pecked out. The radio–there only method of communication and getting news from the rest of the world–is reporting on the strange behavior of the birds, and that they are attacking people. Most of the action–the truly terrifying action–takes place inside Nat’s cottage while they are under siege; the attacks have something to do with the tides. During the lulls he boards up the windows and tries to lay in supplies, as he slowly begins to realize that the birds are winning. They wait out the attack one night and in the morning turn on the radio…only to get static. It soon begins to feel like they are, or may be, the only humans left alive. And Nat also realized that it’s just the smaller birds–sparrows, wrens, seagulls–and worries about what will happen when the birds of prey join in….and of course, they do…the story closes with the hawks attacking the front door while Nat resignedly waits for them to get through.

If I were teaching a suspense writing class, I would definitely teach this story. It’s simply brilliant.

Suckling the Mender

Work-at-home Friday! Woo-hoo! It’s almost the weekend! I felt funky yesterday; more than just my usual end-of-the-getting-up-at-six-every-day tireds. My stomach started bothering me on Wednesday night, and I chose to eat breakfast and lunch yesterday with soft foods–yogurt, cereal, mozzarella salad–as I had the day before and that didn’t seem to be much help, as my stomach ached all afternoon. This continued throughout the evening, and I also was terribly tired when I left the office. I felt so bad–the combination of the exhaustion and the stomach issue–that I did something I never do; I laid down on the couch. I floated for about three hours in the in-between sleep and awake state of consciousness, which was where I was when Paul came home. I ate a little bit and felt better, but it’s still odd. I think it’s not eating enough, maybe? This was how I felt on Sunday after getting home from the trip–so I must eat solids and more regularly. My bad eating habits catching up to me at long last, and I really need to focus on eating regularly and more healthy. (I lost twelve pounds in Kentucky.) It’s also achy and sore this morning, too, but not nearly as bad as it was yesterday. I’ll try to eat more today than I have the last few days.

I have some errands to run after work-at-home duties are completed today, which will probably suck the life right out of me. Running errands in New Orleans in the summertime is always a draining chore, but if I can get all of that done today I won’t have to leave the house at all until Monday morning when I go back to work. It doesn’t look too bad out there this morning, but a quick check of my phone tells me it’s 82, which is practically a cold spell for July down here.

We finished watching Red Rose last night, and what a ride that was. Intense suspense, wild out of nowhere plot twists, and all the young British actors were very appealing and good in their roles. I do recommend it; it’s a new trope for horror (maybe it’s already tired, I don’t know, but it’s my first experience of it) by using apps and your phone to terrorize you. It was also a terrifying commentary on how careless we all can be about our online security. Now, of course we have to start watching something new–often a challenge to decide–

I kept waking up a lot last night–pretty much every hour on the hour–and of course, was wide awake at six. I fed and watered Scooter, since he expects it at that time every day now, and went back to bed for a little while longer. I don’t know whether iI actually slept any more, but I don’t feel spacy-tired or loopy-tired this morning, so that’s something, I suppose. Hopefully it will turn out to be a most productive day for me. I do have laundry and lots of dishes and cleaning and straightening up around here to get done, too.

I joined Threads, the new Instagram version of Twitter, last night and I have to say, I like it so far. It was nice that your followers and who you follow from Instagram transferred over, and if any of those folks aren’t there, it will automatically follow them when they join and if they follow me, it will follow them automatically, too. That was kind of cool, and it was also kind of cool to go onto social media and not have bigotry and hatred shoved into my face every time I turn around. It also made me think about something else–Pride is more than just June, and why should I only write about my experiences as a gay male and as a gay male writer during that month? Firing off snarky tweets in response to bigotry is a nice little dopamine rush, but I also feel like I’m not doing enough to counter the rise of the Fascists; what better way for a writer to do that than write about it? There is an element of “preaching to the choir” to blogging about homophobia and bigotry, but if it changes one mind…then it was all worth it, was it not? I know there are people who think of me as one of the “good ones”–if you don’t know what that means, congratulations on your privilege–because I am, in person, usually very conciliatory and understanding (conflict-averse, and a trained counselor, remember) and because I generally don’t go on my old Julia Sugarbaker rants much anymore, if at all. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have them in my head anymore; barely a day passes without me seeing something, either on social media or in the news or both, that raises my blood pressure and makes me want to strangle someone. So, I am going to try to channel that anger and rage into something productive; blog posts. I don’t worry about offending potential readers of my books because all anyone ever has to do is look at my social media or even this blog to get a sense of my politics. I probably should have developed a public persona who is just charming and funny and apolitical, but that really just opens you up to more homophobia when you’re a gay man.

I can never decide if its worse for someone to be homophobic to me because it is so ingrained in them that they don’t ever realize it, or if it’s deliberate. I guess it depends on how you call out the homophobia and how they react to it. I do, however, generally always default to “doesn’t know any better” and correct them; I also don’t ever say someone is a homophobe unless I am 100% certain it was deliberate. I just say, “that’s a homophobic thing to say” or “that’s a homophobic comment” rather than saying “you’re a homophobe”–but if you continue to not do better, well, then you’re a homophobe. The thing that I never understand is how people react to things they don’t understand automatically with dislike bordering on hatred; it’s actually okay to not understand. I don’t completely understand every experience in the world, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be sympathetic, empathetic, and respectful. One of the wonderful side effects of my day job is that training and experience as a counselor, and recognizing that experiences should be met with respect and sympathy and empathy instead of judgment. Who am I to judge anyone? The only people I don’t respect and I will judge are racists, sexists, homophobes or transphobes; anyone who uses lies, deceptions, and stereotypes to categorize any one group as lesser and less worthy. I will judge you for judging others–and I will judge very harshly.

This weekend will be about tying up loose odds and ends, working on my page proofs, and trying to straighten up around here. I want to prune the books some more, and maybe even take another box down from the attic to go through. I also want to look through that box of clippings and other Greg memorabilia from my past career to see what can be kept, what can be scanned, and what can be tossed. I really want to get that attic cleaned out this year.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you later.

Throughout the Dark Months of April and May

Well, yesterday felt normal–as opposed to all the energy and the fabulous mood I was in on Monday, yesterday I felt more like the way I usually do on a midweek morning coming into the office. It was busy and we did have some odd and unusual issues, like we did on Monday, but it all worked out and I managed to get everything done and get out on time. I wasn’ tired when I got home, but there were men working on the house on our side of the building until about eight o’clock, playing (bizarre) music (choices) really loudly and of course, hammering and drilling and all those other power tool-esque things construction workers use. I’d intended to get some things done, but this successfully irritated me enough to make me lethargic. Then Scooter climbed into my lap and started purring and head-butting me and that was all it took; I was down for the evening. I did manage, however, to do a load of dishes so the evening wasn’t a complete waste. I feel more awake and alert and energetic this morning than I did yesterday, so that’s a step in the right direction, I think. Tomorrow I’ll be working from home, and trying to get caught up on the data entry and quality assurance stuff, as well as doing some yearly, on-line trainings about safety that are due (biohazard, fire prevention, HIPAA, etc.) so I’ll have a pretty full plate tomorrow, which is cool. I hope to spend some time with Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman this weekend, and I also would like to get some more entries finished–I have a review of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Seduction of Water to post, and I have more entries about my own books to write. and on and on and on.

We watched more of Red Rose on Netflix last night, and we’re really enjoying it. It’s a horror series about a deadly app teens have on their phones; it’s an interesting modern take on the horror trope of the haunted device, and a very clever use of cell phone technology to base a horror series on. We’ll probably finish it over the course of the weekend, we’re about halfway through with four more episodes to go.

I’m also getting better at figuring out where I am at in my life and getting a grasp on everything I am doing and what needs to be done going forward. I want to spend the rest of this month trying to get one of my in-progress manuscripts finished, or at the very least, a first draft finished. I also am going to start trying to pull together another short story collection, and I want to get these novellas finished and out of the way, too. I am also aware that is a far too ambitious plan for me; there’s no way I’d be able to get all that writing done in twenty-five days. I also have another Alabama book swirling around inside of my head; I keep thinking Beau Hackworth, Jake’s boyfriend in Bury Me in Shadows, deserves his own story and would be the best place for me to continue on with Corinth County tales; I have others in progress (two novellas, in fact, “Fireflies” and “A Holler Full of Kudzu”) and numerous short stories. I have one actually coming out in an anthology this fall, predicated around breaking the Father Brown rules for a mystery story–mine was “include a supernatural element,” natch–called “The Ditch” that I’m rather pleased with. I want to revise my old story “Whim of the Wind” again, too, because I think I’ve finally unlocked the key to solving the problem in the story (with a grateful not to Art Taylor, whose story “The Boy Detective and the Summer of 74”) but have never gotten around to actually, you know, making the changes to the story.

That story, “Whim of the Wind,” is uniquely special to me. After being told by my first creative writing professor that I would never be a published author and to “find another dream” sent me into a tailspin that resulted in my flunking out of college and putting off seriously pursuing writing as a vocation for over a decade (there were flashes of time when I’d put some effort into it, writing stories and so forth before giving it all up as pointless and impossible for me) I took creative writing again when I went to a junior college in California in an attempt to get my GPA up enough to allow me to re-enroll in the California State University system. We were allowed to take that class twice, so I took it in both fall and spring semesters. The first semester my stories were derivative and trying too hard, but the teacher was very encouraging, which I wasn’t used to, so I decided to take it again in the spring–he urged me to do so. One day in class we were talking about stories and structures and writing, and I just had this idea pop into my head and I started writing in my notebook. All throughout the rest of the class I kept writing, and I finished it when I got home that night. That story was “Whim of the Wind,” and not only did the teacher love it (he wrote on the first page, excellent, you should send this out which was a huge thrill for me. The class also loved it and didn’t critique it very much–there wasn’t anything negative anyone had to say about it. But the story was flawed; there was a strong flaw in its premise which inevitably always got the story kicked back from anywhere I may have submitted it; editors would even admit they loved the story but it was missing something–but no one has ever been able to tell me what the story needed…and please remember, what I turned in was a first draft, I’ve never rewritten the story because I didn’t know how–and it’s really one of those “kill your darlings” examples; I can’t change the opening paragraph because it’s poetic and beautifully written and…I can’t bring myself to make any changes to that, and I suspect that’s really what it needs. Maybe I’ll take another look at it this weekend.

I’ve also been going through my journals looking for things–ideas, story fragments, etc.–that I’ve forgotten about, and I must say there’s quite a lot of that. I’ve even started writing short stories in my journal that I never finished and they are just sitting there, minding their own business and waiting for me to remember them so I can finish them. It’s also interesting seeing what I write in those things, too–sometimes I just free-write, which is open it, take a pen and just start scribbling whatever pops into my head, which makes for a kind of interesting (to me) look at how my brain operates when free associating…I am sure some future psychoanalyst (or even current, for that matter) would look and see a need for medication if not multiple psychoses. I also free associate write when I am playing with ideas for stories or novels in progress, so that’s always interesting to see again later.

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

Ella Megalast Burls Forever

Well, it’s the fifth and it’s back to the office with me this morning. It’s also Pay-the-Bills Day, woo-hoo! An oddly weird work week, the aftermath of a trip, and that weird stage of being beyond writing, if that makes any sense. I do have proofs to correct and other edits to come on something else, but I am not writing anything at the moment. I have some ideas I am toying with–a New Orleans ghost story, an Alabama book, among others–but for the moment I am just re-acclimated to myself and my world. I took yesterday off for the most part, and it was nice. I slept well again and felt good all day. I made holiday waffles for Paul, and I ate the Subway sandwich he’d purchased for me on Monday, I did some chores this morning while listening to the end of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Seduction of Water (more on that later), and then Paul was up. I had thought about doing some work, getting started on the proofs or something, but once he was up I thought, we haven’t both had an entire day to ourselves in a long time so therefore, everything else could wait for another day.

We binged through a Paramount Plus show called School Spirits, which essentially is about a high school girl who is murdered, and her soul is trapped at the school with the spirits of other students throughout the school’s history who died there and cannot move on. She doesn’t remember how she was murdered or who had done it; there were gaps, and the other ghosts estimate that perhaps once she remembers everything she can then move on. It was cute enough, and entertaining enough, with some interesting twists here and there that it held our interest, and we watched all the way through until the season finale. We then moved on to the first two episodes of a horror series on Netflix, Red Rose, which was interesting and intriguing enough for us to continue, and decide to continue until we finish it. It was, all in all, a lovely relaxing day, and I am glad of it.

I also reread Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds” yesterday. It’s really quite a wonderful and creepily intimate little story. I think it’s creepier and scarier than the film Hitchcock made of it–although the film is terrifying in an entirely different way. The story is very intimate and small–it focuses on a farmer trying to protect his family from the sudden turning of the birds, and how they have to fortify themselves in their house during the attacks, which in the story have to do with high tide. It’s really quite something, but du Maurier was such a master. I may write more about it later; the jury is still out on that.

I slept deeply and well last night, but didn’t wake up earlier than the alarm this morning nor am I awake and alive and ready to spring into action at work the way I was Monday morning. I don’t feel tired, I just don’t feel like I am fully awake just yet, which of course is fine. I do not regret taking yesterday off for myself; I am trying to not make myself crazy with that sort of thing anymore. No one can work at full capacity every day, after all, and there’s nothing wrong with me taking some time for myself and time off from everything every once in a while, to stop from going completely insane or at least wearing myself out. It’s much easier to take care of yourself, and I am trying to pay attention to my health on all fronts, including getting rest and not allowing my brain to get burned out. I think protecting my mental health, particularly since having the long COVID last year, is much more important now than it has ever been before in my life. I may not do a lot of thinking or writing this week, but there’s only two in-office days this week and a work-at-home Friday in my future, so maybe waiting until this weekend to do any of that sort of thing is perhaps for the best. I do want to start reading my new Megan Abbott novel; perhaps when I get home from work today I can use my writing time for reading.

Plus I need to figure out what I want to do next and come up with a plan of some sort for the next few years.

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