Category: New Orleans

They Don’t Know

Friday, and this afternoon I am paneling (well, I guess it’s more of an early evening panel, really) at Comic Con, and that should be a lot of fun.

My Short Story challenge has not gotten off to the best start; here it is the fifth day of January already and I have only just now managed to finish reading one story; it’s shameful, I know. But I got out my enormous volume The Best American Noir of the 20th Century, and dutifully read the first story, from 1923 (!). 1923! Who knew noir went back so far? Much as I love noir, and as often as I think about it–I really should do a lengthy study of noir, both print and film–I don’t know much about its history; seeing that stories defined as noir were being published as far back as 1923 was a bit of a surprise for me; I guess I just always assumed noir fiction was something that came about in the late 1930’s, and was primarily pioneered by the great James M. Cain.

Shows you how little I know.

But I love noir; I am more drawn to it than actual more traditional crime fiction, to be honest. Most of my short fiction would be classified more readily as noir rather than as crime; as I have said before, I like to write about damaged people, and the stories of damaged people are more prone to wind up categorized as noir. I am currently in the midst of writing two stories that are noir–more details on them both when they become available–but I am very excited about both of them.

But I read this amazing story, “Spurs” by Tod Robbins, which is the opening story in the Best American Noir omnibus.

Jacques Courbe was a romanticist. He measured only twenty-eight inches from the soles of his diminutive feet to the crown of his head; but there were times, as he rode into the arena on his gallant charger, St. Eustache. when he felt himself a doughty knight of old about to do battle for his lady.

What matter that St. Eustache was not a gallant charger except in his master’s imagination–not even a pony, indeed, but a large dog of a nondescript breed, with the long snout and upstanding aura of a wolf? What matter that M. Courbe’s entrance was invariably greeted with shouts of derisive laughter and bombardments of banana skins and orange peel? What matter that he had no lady, and that his daring deeds were severely curtailed to a mimicry of the bareback riders who preceded him? What mattered all these things  to the tiny man who lived in dreams, and who resolutely closed his shoe button eyes to the drab realities of life?

I’m not sure that I would call this story noir in the classic sense; but who am I to argue with James Ellroy or Otto Penzler? The story, which is centered around the performers in a French traveling circus, is reminiscent both of American Horror Story: Freakshow and of course, the classic film Freaks, and, as it turns out, the film was based on the short story. Courbe has inherited money and an estate; he has fallen in love with one of the bareback riders, a large strong woman who agreed to marry him for his money; despite being in love with another one of the bareback riders–she is marrying him for his money, of course, and assuming he won’t live long; if he does live longer than is convenient, she will poison him, and she and her true love with live happily ever after on the little man’s money. But despite the same set-up, the film deviated from the story from the wedding onward; the story isn’t quite as dark as the film (seriously, what could be?) but it’s plenty dark and plenty creepy; and an excellent way for me to kick off short story month.

And now tis back to the spice mines with me; here is a hunk to ease you into your weekend.

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Lucky Star

New Year’s Eve, a time to look back on the past year and reflect on goals either achieved or missed; to look at what was accomplished and what wasn’t, to think about and make plans for the future year.

So, what kind of year was 2017? I didn’t achieve many, if any, of the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year. I intended to write more short stories (which I sort of did) and publish more short stories (which I didn’t really do); I intended to start my search for an agent (which I did); but I didn’t seem to get much else done. I didn’t start working out more, but I did lose weight–so that one’s kind of a toss-up; I weigh 15 pounds less than I did a year ago. I did buy a new car, which was also a goal, and I’ve not regretted it once, despite the impact on my finances. I also didn’t write nearly as much this year as I had hoped/wanted to; there were no new novels published under my name this year; which is the first time I think that’s happened since 2005. That doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it did in 2005, to be honest; my self-worth and identity as an author apparently no longer requires me to write and publish at the insane pace that I used to keep.

I read a lot of good books in 2017, discovered a lot of great new-to-me writers, watched some amazing television shows and movies, but creatively I spent most of the year in stasis; just kind of getting through the day every day and then watching as those days turned into weeks and then months. I started a number of short stories that I either didn’t finish, or finished but didn’t know how to fix. The WIP, the manuscript I am shopping to agents, needs some more work. I had started sending it out in the fall, but I am going to hold back on it for a few more months as I revise and polish it some more. I always felt it was missing something, even though I thought it was a good manuscript, and I’ve recently figured out what that something is; and I’ve also realized part of the problem I had with the manuscript and fixing it has to do with my own stubbornness. It’s starting point needs to be before where I start the book; I flash back to the beginning of the story and that kind of is not only a cliche but also steps on the action. Also, where I start the book itself is kind of hackneyed and cliched. There’s another subplot or two that needs to be woven into the story, and I  need to develop my main character more; and there are things about him that I know that are kind of crucial to the story that don’t actually appear in the story, and some of the relationships between the characters need to be developed and deepened, more layered. It’s a very basic story right now, and it needs to be more complex; and it needs to go deeper into its theme.

So, that’s something, at any rate.

I also had a good year in that I was nominated for a Macavity Award (Best Short Story, “Survivor’s Guilt”) and an Anthony Award (Best Anthology, Blood on the Bayou). Both were completely unexpected surprises, and enormously gratifying.  As Constant Reader knows, I struggle with short stories and have very little to no self-confidence when it comes to them. So, to get nominated for a Macavity Award for a short story I wrote? That was probably one of the most meaningful things to happen to me in my career thus far. And I was nominated against some amazing writers–I read all the stories–and wasn’t in the least surprised when Art Taylor won; any of the other nominated stories were award-worthy. It was such an honor.

I was so certain I wasn’t going to win the Anthony Award that Paul and I booked our plane tickets home from Toronto for Sunday morning; I was boarding my flight to New Orleans when I started getting texts and tweets and Facebook messages that I’d won. It, too, was an incredibly lovely surprise, and I was extremely happy for the contributors, and thankful to them for their amazing stories.

I also realized this year that something I used to do when I was writing–something that was highly effective, and I don’t know why I stopped doing it–was write about whatever I was working on in long-hand in notebooks. I started doing that again this year, in these last few months–and it proved incredibly helpful with a couple of things I was working on at the time. So, I am going to make that a goal for the new year; to return to buying a blank book to carry around with me at all times, to use for notes and questions I have for myself, for developing characters and things. I think I stopped using the blank books because I started keeping physical files, and it was easier to use a spiral notebook for notes that could be removed and put in the files. There’s no reason I can’t stop doing that, either; but the point is that I need to start doing things like that in long-hand again. It was an excellent way of brainstorming and free-associating that I’ve sadly gotten away from over the years.

Despite getting off to a rough start, LSU also had a great season, one with lots of highlights and excitement, and wound up 9-3 on the year, with a chance for a ten-win season with a bowl win. The future also looks fairly bright for the Tigers going forward; the Saints are also having a great season. Back in September this football season was looking really bleak; who could have foreseen that both of our teams would have such a remarkable turnaround?

I had a lot of fun this past year. Last January I did two library events in Alabama, which were way fun, and was invited back again this year; I also spoke at an event at the University of Mississippi as well as at the Alabama Book Festival (both events were in teh same week, so I was driving around the deep South quite a bit then), and of course, Bouchercon in Toronto was a lot of fun. I’m looking forward to this year’s event in St. Petersburg, and I am also looking forward to a trip to England this spring.

We’re having lunch later at Commander’s Palace; our annual New Year’s Eve meal with Jean and Gillian, which is always a lovely way to ring out the old year. I’ve started reading John Hart’s Redemption Road–I greatly enjoyed his The Last Child and Iron House, so am greatly looking forward to this one. Next weekend I am appearing at Comic Con at the Convention Center every day; that should also be a lot of fun.

And so, I should get some things done before it’s time to go to lunch. The spice mines are always calling me, so here’s one last hunk for 2017, Constant Reader, and have a lovely and safe and happy new year.

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Love Somebody

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning again. It was just so warm and comfortable in the bed, so cold and unwelcoming outside of it. But a few nights of good sleep and I am on the road to recovery–barring a relapse, which at this point would be so cruel to have happen I can’t even contemplate it. My mind is actually clear-ish today and not foggy, which is also a really good sign. This means I might actually be able to start getting caught up, and start getting my shit together sooner rather than later.

I don’t even know what to think about this development. I’ve been so sick for so long I can’t remember what it feels like to not be sick and have energy and a clear mind.

Hallelujah.

Tomorrow I do have to get up earlier than I usually do; it’s my usual half-day Friday which means getting to the office earlier. But I am going to stop at the grocery on the way home, make another grocery run on Saturday, and pretty much have no plans to leave the house other than lunch at Commander’s on Sunday and possibly going to see I, Tonya on Sunday evening. Monday will be a lovely day off of staying home and watching football games and resting and reading and relaxing, and then Tuesday I can hit the ground running and really start busting through everything that needs to get done. I’m kind of excited; the problem with being sick and low-energy for so long is that it also leads to depression and unhappiness, and the last thing I need to do right now is get sucked down into a quagmire of misery and depression about my writing career; those dark demons in the corners of my mind are always there and ready to come rushing out at the drop of a hat.

I started ripping the WIP to pieces again yesterday; I have decided that it needs to really be overhauled and rewritten; I was never truly satisfied with it in the first place, to be honest, and some more time away from it has also convinced me that, well, while the book has the potential to be something fantastic, it’s really not there yet. So, while I get some other things I am working in tied up in bows and finished, I am going to start dissecting and rewriting; there’s a whole other subplot that needs to be added to the story, and there needs to be a lot more development of my incredibly passive hero; and the stakes need to be raised higher. And I need to get this done, because I need to get to work on the next WIP to try  to get an agent with, if this one  isn’t going to do the trick. I’ve been messing around with this one now for almost three years, off and on, and this is going to be the last try with it.

I’ve also started restructuring the Scotty book. Oy. Have I ever been off my game this past year!

And on that note, it’s back to the spice mines.

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State of Shock

Good morning, Constant Reader, and everyone who only occasionally stops by, should you happen to stop by this chilly late December morning. It’s very gray outside, and the Lost Apartment is cold, and I have a slight sinus headache, but nothing I can power my way through. I still am not feeling at 100% yet, but am getting there; maybe by this weekend? One can hope.

I feel slightly cotton-headed this morning, and am trying to decide what to read next. I’m definitely doing a month or two of short story reading for the first two months of the new year, which I am kind of excited about. Yesterday I was tired all day, and never made my to-do list; I’ll have to get that done today. Today is also payday, so I’ll have to pay the bills today as well. I didn’t really want to get out of bed this morning, honestly; the bed was warm and comfortable and it was cold in the apartment–and I would gladly go back to bed if i could. Heavy sigh.

I know I have some short stories to work on, and I need to do some other things as well. I hate this cotton-headed feeling! It makes it really hard to focus. One short story, which is do this weekend, is almost finished; it only needs two quick tweaks and another read-through before I turn it in; the other story isn’t necessarily a big priority; I just wanted to get it done and out of the way months before it is actually due because I don’t want to have to want until the last minute to work on it and have to rush, if that makes sense. It sort of does, doesn’t it? (See what I mean about cotton-headed?)

It’s always something, isn’t it?

I am still enjoying Joan Didion’s Miami, and think I’m going to read, for fiction, Lisa Unger’s The Red Hunter next. I always enjoy Lisa’s work, and while I am still carefully doling it out so I won’t run out of Unger books to read, I think it’s safe to go ahead and read another one. I also suppose I should do a year recap here, as well as a goals-setting entry for 2018. Sigh.

Okay, back to the spice mines.

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Legs

Post-Christmas, and it’s gray outside. I have to work today; it’s a late night so I don’t have to go in until later. It’s gray and chilly outside, and the Lost Apartment is a disaster area. I don’t feel quite so ill today; in fact, I feel better today than I have in over a week. Dare I hope that whatever it is I was contaminated with is finally over? I think so. I am not coughing, I don’t feel feverish, and I don’t feel dizzy nor weak; how lovely to get over my illness in time to go back to work! I do have a three day weekend upcoming, but we are having lunch at Commander’s on New Year’s Eve, seeing I Tonya that evening, and of course, the LSU bowl game is that Monday. And the next weekend is Comic-Con, at which I will be exceptionally busy. Heavy heaving sigh.

I also now have to figure out what I need to get done. I’ve been in the fog of illness for so long I don’t remember what’s due and to who anymore.

I slept most of yesterday. I woke up early, put the turkey in the slow cooker, tried to do the dishes and some straightening up, and then Paul and I binge-watched The Night Manager, which was remarkably good. I kept dozing off during it, though, missing almost all of episode 3,  as well as significant chunks of 2 and 4, but I did see all of 5 and 6. I’d never really seen Tom Hiddleston in anything before–not counting Thor–and I see why he is such a big deal. Handsome and talented and extremely charismatic, and those eyes! We then watched an old BBC miniseries with Daniel Craig, Archangel, and I also slept through most of it. Then I went to bed and slept like a stone. I think the sleep was a desperately needed part of the healing process, to be honest; the illness kicked off with an inability to sleep for three consecutive nights, which continued through the illness. So, finally being able to sleep well, and get some rest, was something I greatly appreciated and clearly needed. My mind does seem clear this morning, even if the disaster area that is the apartment is defeating to look at. But I must persist, because cleaning the apartment is long overdue, and it’s tragic how quickly it can get out of control.

I am delving more deeply into Joan Didion’s Miami every night before I go to sleep, and the book is simply fantastic. I’m amazed at how she wrote; the way she effortlessly creates a mood with her word choices, which are clever and insightful and spare at the same time. I’ve also decided to make the month of January “Short Story Month” again, perhaps extending it into February as well, since I have so many marvelous anthologies and single-author collections to choose from. And really, how difficult is it to read a short story every day? Not very.

And so, on that note, it is back to the spice mines with me.

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Almost Paradise

Christmas. I am still not 100%, but so far this is the best i’ve felt on waking in a while. The temptation is to, of course, overdo it some today, but I also don’t know what my energy levels are like; are they still depleted as they have been, making even the simplest of tasks exhausting? I was so drained all day yesterday that I couldn’t focus enough to even read, let alone do anything involving heavy lifting. The apartment is a disaster area, ready for a FEMA inspection. I’ve fallen so far behind on everything that I despair that I will ever be able to get caught up. But I know I will; I know I shall have to simply buckle down and focus, and with focus, all things shall come to pass.

I also did fairly well in the Christmas present department this year. Paul got me an incredibly comfortable long-sleeved LSU T-shirt (which I am wearing); a Team Italia soccer shirt; two books–one a memoir by a male ballet dancer and the other a history of the Bolshoi Ballet; tickets with great seats to see the Ballet des Monte Carlo at the Mahalia Jackson Theater in February; and a gorgeous new watch. We had watched the documentary Bolshoi Babylon some months ago, and I had mentioned my fascination with the ballet and thinking it would be a great setting for a noir novel–and that I would love to go see the ballet sometime. Being Paul, he remembered. This is why I am so shitty at gift-giving, to be honest; I am so self-absorbed so much of the time that I don’t notice things other people say that could be used as hints for gifts.

I have to say, the ballet noir is sounding better and better all the time.

Okay, I am starting to feel hollow-headed, so I am going to go lie down for a little while.

Merry Christmas, Constant Reader!

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Infatuation

I don’t remember ever being sick for Christmas before, but it must have happened, right? I mean, it’s hard to believe I’ve made it fifty-six years without ever being sick at this time of year. I am hoping if I spend the day today–and possibly tomorrow–resting and drinking lots of fluids and not exerting myself in any way–that I’ll be well and ready to hit the ground running on Tuesday when I have to return to work. Yay. Not really how I wanted to spend four days off, but the best laid plans and all of that nonsense.

At least, so far today the biggest thing is a complete lack of energy. I get tired very quickly; just clearing out the dishwasher and putting the clean dishes away made me so exhausted i had to sit down for a minute. But at least today I’m not praying for death as a merciful release, so that’s something.

I was so tired yesterday that I kept dozing off while trying to read! At one point I started reading and woke up two hours later, with the book still open in my hands. I started watching a documentary on Dunkirk, and woke up an hour later with the credits running. When Paul got home we finished watching the documentary series about the Papal history, and with Paul periodically talking to me, I managed to stay awake, but when the show ended I went to bed and slept through the night. This morning, I’m not praying for death and I’m not feverish, but my throat still hurts, my chest hurts when I cough, and there’s the no energy thing.

The smart thing here to do is not try to overdo anything, right? So I think I’m going to go sit in the easy chair, try to read, and then maybe do some of the dishes at some point. The Saints are also playing today, so there’s that.

I just hate wasting time, although I suppose it’s not really a waste if you’re trying to get over an illness? But you know what I mean. I have so much to do. Then again, being overwhelmed with an insane amount of work to do always seems to make me be more productive.

Heavy heaving sigh.

Anyway, merry Christmas Eve!

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Love is a Battlefield

Yesterday I made an attempt to run errands; but after I went to the bank I felt dizzy and nauseous, so skipped the grocery store and came home. I spent the rest of the day alternating between fevers and normal, and so on, so I simply parked myself in my easy chair with a book, a blanket, and a cat. I finished reading Joan Didion’s A Book of Common Prayer, which was extraordinary, and started another that I’m not too wild about. I also started watching a documentary of the history of the Papacy on Prime, which conveniently now has an app for AppleTV. I shall continue to try to read the book I’m not wild about, but it may not survive the fifty-page rule. Harsh, I know, but I have a lot of books to read.

I am hoping that I am in the last stage of this illness; I am still coughing so hard that my lungs and diaphragm hurt, and right now my eyes are kind of warm, but I think I am going to be able to hang with a quick (ha!) trip to get groceries and then spending the rest of the day curled up underneath a blanket with a book. My kitchen of course is a disaster area, but I feel confident that I’ll be able to get it cleaned up today as well. This is a big transition from yesterday, I might add, when I felt like a limp dishrag for most of the day.

Hope springs eternal.

In other exciting news, I’ll be signing and speaking on two panels at Comic Con in New Orleans in two weeks. Huzzah! Of course, this appearance is contingent on my living that long; which is a moment by moment thing. I am feeling odd again right now; not sure what that’s about, or even how to describe it, but I guess the easiest way to sum it up in one word is fuzzy; like I am out of my body and observing but not participating. It’s unnerving, and it definitely needs to stop.

All right, I think I might need to lie down again. Heavy sigh.

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Islands in the Stream

I am officially on Christmas vacation! It’s only four and a half days, but I will take it, thank you very much. I am still not at 100%, but today is much better than the nadir of Wednesday, and even yesterday. My throat is raw and my chest still hurts from coughing so hard, but I am down to DayQuil, cough drops, and the occasional tablespoon of honey. I had planned originally to get a lot done today; and I still might try. I am a bit foggy right now, but then I’ve only been up for about an hour thus far. I think the worst part of this illness has been the utter exhaustion. Yesterday was the worst on the score; I was so tired everything ached.

And to add insult to injury, I’ve gained two pounds this week. Where is the justice in THAT?

I’ll tell you where: nowhere.

I am over halfway through with Joan Didion’s A Book of Common Prayer, and it is really quite marvelous. I tend to shy away from literary fiction, as a general rule, but this is not only gorgeously written but it’s telling an interesting story as well. That’s my primary complaint with literary fiction; if the story isn’t interesting the writing has to be beautiful, and so often it isn’t. I’ve never really understood the cults of writers like William Styron, Philip Roth, Jonathan Franzen; I’ve read their books and not been overly impressed with them. (Although they all have their moments.) But I generally simply say “I guess I’m just not smart enough to understand or appreciate their brilliance” and end the conversation there. I guess I’m just not a fan of the “plight of the straight white male” school of literature.

All right, I’m feeling a wave of illness coming on, so I am going to retire my easy chair with the book.

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Sad Songs (Say So Much)

I don’t feel very Christmassy this year, but nor do I fall into the bah humbug category of Christmas. It’s interesting that when it comes to this particular holiday, it seems as though reactions are predicated on diametric polar opposites; you either love it or hate it. I fall into neither category; it’s just another day. I like the idea behind Christmas; reflecting on peace on earth and goodwill toward my fellow man, and so on. Those are lovely sentiments, but aren’t they things we should think about and focus on the entire year, rather than the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Maybe I am a humbug, I don’t know. It doesn’t help that I am ill.

My diaphragm is sore and I have a slight sinus headache and I feel like I have to cough all the time. I’m not feverish, and it’s more of a meh feeling than anything else. It’s the tickle in the back of my throat that’s especially making me nuts. And the soreness of my throat and the diaphragm, and the medicine-head feeling from the DayQuil. Paul seems to be doing better; it looked like he was at death’s door a couple of days ago, but he seems to be slowly coming out of it. I am hoping I’ll be over it by Friday, which starts my four-day weekend. I’m sure, though, once I get showered and cleaned up, stop at CVS for some cough drops etc, I’ll feel much better. At least I certainly hope so. I have a busy day at the office, and then of course tonight is the office Christmas party.

And at least I’m not congested. If I were, I’d have to kill myself.

I’ve started and given up on several young adult novels over the past few days as well–including some that were critically acclaimed and award winners. None of them passed the fifty page rule, and they all went into the donation pile. While it felt good to get the TBR pile down a bit, I was enormously disappointed; but A. S. King’s Reality Boy was so good it was bound to make anything I read after look not as good. And getting the TBR pile down is always a good thing, don’t you think? One would hope, at any rate.

I’ve become obsessed with Joan Didion, and I think my next read will be her A Book of Common Prayer. It’s kind of astonishing to me that I’ve never read anything she’s written (Miami is my current non-fiction read; I love the way she writes. I’m also thinking, re: a conversation I had with my friend Susan, about writing a memoir in the form of personal essays. This of course is the ultimate in hubris; why do I feel my observations and my experiences are so amazing that they need to be shared? But…it’s been an interesting life, and even if it doesn’t get published, it will help me personally to write such a thing. I actually started the other day because I don’t have enough else to do, right?).

And on that note, I’m going to straighten up this mess in the kitchen and get ready for work.

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