Category: New Orleans

I’m Just a Country Boy

Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. I have a lot to get done over the weekend–errands and chores and things, oh my! I’ve arranged for medical appointments and examinations, have gathered everything I need for the OMV, and I even spent a little time writing yesterday. Who am I, and what have I done with Gregalicious?

I slept better on Tuesday night than the previous nights, and it felt great. I didn’t feel tired or worn out or dragged out–and of course, while it was still fucking hot here, it was normal August hot, not Satan’s taint hot. I can handle normal August hot. Sure, I’ll complain, but if this summer thus far has proven anything to me, it’s that I’ll be grateful for a regular Louisiana summer from now on. Yesterday was a good day at work as well; I feel like I helped some people and was able to be a good listener for some others who needed to get some things worked through. I love my job because I get to feel like I’ve made a difference in someone’s life, and there’s always at least one client per day who makes me feel that way. It’s a good feeling. I know I am helping everyone I see, but the ones where you have to go a bit deeper than is usually necessary are really special for me. That’s what I really needed from a job all along, and if I didn’t find that out until I was in my forties, at least I finally did find out. I’ve been at my day job longer than any job I’ve had previously, and by the time I retire at sixty-seven (roast in hell for all eternity, Ronald Reagan) I will have worked there longer than I worked at all my other jobs combined. (I’m not counting writing or editing in this, by the way; those are contract jobs, not a regular paycheck with benefits, which also includes fitness instruction. No benefits nor regular paycheck there, either.)

I also loved being a personal trainer because I enjoyed helping people feel better–so much of fitness training is mental, and reshaping mindsets and attitudes and mentalities, you have no idea. I used to actually write a syndicated queer-specific fitness column, which took a holistic approach to fitness and well-being, and so sometimes I would get into the mental health/self-image stuff. I always wanted to write a holistic health and fitness book targeted to a queer audience, but the performance aspect of promoting a health and fitness book wasn’t anything I was interested in; it would mean staying in shape constantly, watching everything that I put into my mouth and limiting myself, cutting out alcohol., and above all else, quitting smoking. Once I got myself back into shape, in 1994 and then again in 2001 (after that Horrible Year That We Never Discuss), I gradually became less obsessed about the regimen I needed to maintain to continue to work toward underwear model-type body and decided I was okay with a slight roll around the middle, and not having a six pack, or veins bulging out from under the skin everywhere. Fitness instruction, and fitness writing, weren’t my passion though; I wanted to be a fiction writer and I didn’t want to use my discipline and self-control and will to push myself into trying to compete for dollars and eyes and influence in the fitness world–I wanted to use that to write the best fiction I could and get it published so people could read it.

I was also thinking that I might want to think about doing something to mark Scotty’s turning twenty-one next year (I honestly cannot believe I’ve been writing this series this long. It was supposed to a stand alone!) I am thinking I should probably write another Scotty book, so the tenth will come out during his twenty-first year of existence, but I am not quite sure what I want to do with the boys next. I have some titles and possibilities–French Quarter Flambeaux about a Mardi Gras murderer; Quarter Quarantine Quadrille which of course takes place during the quarantine; and Bywater Bohemia Bougie, which would be a long look at real estate, gentrification, and how New Orleans has lost some of its soul since Katrina. I probably should write a Scotty every year. But I don’t want him or the series to get stale; that’s what happened with Chanse and I’d originally planned to only do seven, and I was on book seven so I said, fine, we’ll end it here. I do think there are more Chanse novellas to be written at some point; I think the shorter form will force me out of the “paint by numbers” way I was feeling with that series by the end. (For the record, I think the last two books of the series are just as strong, if not stronger, than the books that came before them. The quality wasn’t slipping, but the challenge of writing them wasn’t there anymore.)

The last thing I want to feel when I’m writing something is bored. Sick of it is one thing and is perfectly acceptable to feel; by the time you’re doing the page proofs you should be so fucking sick of your book and those characters that you don’t ever want to think about them again….and the time between turning in those final corrections and the release/promotion is just long enough of a time to pass so you don’t want to slit your wrists when the subject of the book comes up. I have yet to feel boredom with writing Scotty; the fact that the stories can be insanely ridiculous and completely over-the-top helps a lot in that regard. And yet…I’ve noticed things, looking back at the older books in the series, while I was writing Mississippi River Mischief, that I need to pay more attention to in the future. A reader asked me, sometime after the release of Royal Street Reveillon, “how many car accidents has Scotty been in?” And when I started thinking about it….was like yeeesh, quite a few–to the point where I probably wouldn’t get into the same car with him. I noticed that there are books where Frank and Colin’s presence is so minimal that they aren’t even supporting characters but rather cameos; and I don’t use Scotty’s family nearly as much in the later books as I did in the earlier ones. So, when I write the next Scottys, going into them I am going to be more conscious of these things, and I am going to try to work them out organically through the manuscript. Scotty’s getting older, as are the others (my editor was very enthusiastic about how much she loved that Scotty ages in real time), and I’ve started addressing that. I do think the next case is going to have to heavily involve Scotty’s family; I’m thinking it’s about time his sister Rain took center stage in one of his cases. I love Scotty’s entire family, to be honest, and I am really glad I brought his best friend David–missing from the last four or so books–back into this one.

As you can probably tell, I was a bit concerned about my editor’s response to this one. Someone who has anxiety to the degree I do probably shouldn’t be a fiction writer, but it’s too late now, over forty novels in. But….it’s never too late to enter a new chapter of my career, either.

I slept great again last night–the slight cooling off this week has been marvelous; the air conditioning finally caught up, and I was laughing last night because I was taking some stuff out to the recycling and realized…it was chilly enough in the apartment for me to wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants (which means the temperature inside is correct), and when I was walking the stuff out I didn’t break a sweat and thought it was actually pleasant outside…and it was 94. Today I have to get through, run some errands on the way home (post office mostly–I can’t decide about the grocery store but I don’t think we need anything; I have developed the habit of making groceries whenever I get the mail since I’m already uptown) and then settle in for the night. Paul was late last night working on a grant, so when he got home we watched the first episode of Only Murders in the Building, which was a very pleasant surprise (we weren’t wild about season two, but season three got off to a great start, and of course, Meryl Streep!), and finished the evening off with an episode of Awkwafina is Nora from Queens, which is just hysterically funny. It’s nice to feel rested before the last day of getting up early and going into the office.

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

That Was Yesterday

Your biweekly Pays the Bills Wednesday had somehow rolled around again, and yes, I have bills to pay before I put my sleepy head to rest tonight. I slept very well last night–didn’t even hear the alarm at first this morning–and certainly didn’t want to get up; the rain, however brief it was last night, apparently dropped the temperature and so it’s actually cold in the apartment this morning; I suspect the coldness overnight inside was part of the reason I slept so deeply and well, only getting up once. (It’s a chilly 79 degrees outside right now; I may need a jacket after this summer’s blistering heat.)

In very exciting news, I got my edits for Mississippi River Mischief yesterday, and my editor loved my book. Cue enormous sigh of relief. I was worried (I worry about everything) that it wasn’t good and that it didn’t do what I wanted it to do, but I can now breathe a sigh of relief. I am starting to feel–partly from all these Alfred Hitchcock Presents short stories–a lot more confident, more brave, and perhaps even more daring about my work and what I try to accomplish with what I am writing. John (Copenhaver, you can check out his books here, thank me later) asked so many smart and insightful questions of us on the Queer Crime Panel (which you can watch right here!) on Sunday afternoon–as well as listening to the brilliant answers given by my oh-so-talented co-panelists (Renee James, Robyn Gigl, Margot Douaihy, and Kelly J. Ford) made me start looking at my work, what I do with it, what I am trying to do with it, and what I can do with it. I’m starting to feel inspired again, which is absolutely lovely, and even if my creative ADHD is really flying off the charts lately, it’s been kind of nice. I’m always afraid I’m going to stop having ideas or being able to write. *shudders at mere thought*

But I ran my errands and got home relatively easily and efficiently, and I beat the short thunderstorm home. It didn’t last near long enough, but maybe it cooled things down a little for a bit, which is all any of us can even dare to dream of at this point in the summer. I got two more Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies at the post office: Stories to Be Told With the Lights On and The Master’s Choice. What I am really loving about these stories is they kind of exist in that shadow world between crime and speculative fiction. I should probably turn this into a project, as I tend to do to everything at some point. I am learning from every story I read, and I am also working on my critical skills while I do. What didn’t I like about this story? How could it have been made better? All of these things are subjective, of course, and then I also kind of try to analyze why I didn’t like the things I didn’t like; I think the concept behind every story is a good one–and authors don’t always succeed in pulling off what they are attempting with, and for, the reader.

I kind of was dragging a bit yesterday, and kind of have been all week thus far. I think part of it is the readjustment to Paul being home and my supervisor being back after her unexpected and unforeseen absence, which mirrored his almost exactly. But I am also digging myself out from under the malaise or whatever has been gripping me recently, and I really need to get back to the writing. I wrote a little yesterday, but not nearly enough–fatigue and inability to string a sentence together forced me to give up about one hundred words in. But it was a hundred more words than the day before, and it whetted my appetite a bit. I also did some more mindless research into the historical period I am thinking about setting a book in, which was interesting. It’s not really world-building since the world existed at the time, but rather world-reconstructing. This weekend I am going to try to get more writing done, and hopefully we’ll also be getting a cat (fingers crossed). I think the heat wave is going to be continuing, with a bit of a break; the temperature isn’t supposed to go above 93 today, which means no 120+…and how sad it is that it’s being called by local meteorologists (I think they’re in on the joke, however) a “cold front”?

Bouchercon is nigh, and my birthday is this weekend. I am trying to fit in a lot before San Diego because I am having oral surgery the Friday after I get back (at last) and at some point I’m going to probably have to have surgery to repair my left biceps (sorry if I’ve mentioned this before) so I don’t know how I will be or how long the recovery will be or what I’ll be able to do or deal with during said recovery. This is part and parcel, one supposes, of the decline and decay of my body as I get older, and it’s not like I ever took super good care of it before. Hell, when I was a personal trainer teaching aerobics I smoked cigarettes and spent my weekends drinking in the gay bars. (Facebook memories recently reminded me of how and who I was when I first broke into print with my first novels and short stories…my naïveté was really something. I was always who I was, only now I was a published author and I dressed like, well, like I always did. I rarely wore pants! I was always either in sweats, workout shorts, or shorts; T-shirts and sweatshirts and tank tops. That will be a topic for another time, though.) I’ll be sixty-two this weekend. Sixty-two! Lord, that will be an interesting blog post to write.

I also realized last night that this year the Scotty series turns twenty! I wish I had thought about that ahead of time; I could have done something to celebrate and mark this landmark in the series. Maybe I’ll do a Scotty-centric entry; I should be doing that anyway since Mississippi River Mischief is coming out this November….it was a bit of a jolt to realize it’s been twenty years–over twenty years, actually, since Bourbon Street Blues was a spring release–April 1 or May 1, I am not sure which. Twenty years of Scotty. My God, I can hardly believe it.

The joys of birthdays once you’re past a certain age, I suppose.

And on that note, I am. heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely, lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow. Or later; one never knows.

What A Difference You’ve Made in My Life

Yesterday was a weird day, and it took me a while to realize that it seemed weird because everything had been off for the last ten days or so; the same day Paul left for his trip was the same day my supervisor at work went out with COVID. Now they are both back and I have to get used to it again. I didn’t sleep great Sunday night–I slept in Sunday morning later than I usually do and I drank a Coke late, just before bed–and so I was a bit tired and drug out yesterday morning, and my mind wasn’t the finely tuned (ha!) machine that it usually is. I also had to rush home after work because I was expecting a delivery and the window was 5 to 7; and I am always afraid I am going to miss those deliveries. I hate that.

And of course, as soon as I did get home, I kept checking the delivery status. At 5:11 pm it was still “in progress.” Which meant–given the time of day and the way traffic dysfunctions in New Orleans, there was no reason to be concerned or worried about getting home in time ti begin with. But I wasn’t able to get anything done during the time I waited for the delivery–which finally came at 6:30–because I was afraid I’d miss them.

Anxiety is not my friend.

But knowing it’s something I inherited from my mother–she was anxious about everything and worried constantly–has finally made me more aware of how bad my own is, and how bad it has been my entire life. I just thought it was the way everyone was, and occasionally marveled at people who never worried about anything. When Dad told me that Mom suffered from constant, sometimes crippling anxiety, the proverbial lightbulb went on over my head, and I thought that explains everything about you that you never really quite grasped before. I worry I’m going to be late. I worry I’m going to be early. I worry about everything, and yes, sometimes it’s crippling to the point where I can’t do anything. I’ve developed work-arounds, or coping mechanisms, as my former therapist would say, to deal with it and most of the time I can keep it under control–but I also can remembering my mother fidgeting nervously…and I do the same thing. Knowing that my brain is wired wrong–and that it isn’t my fault–has been kind of a relief in some ways, and makes me understand a lot that I didn’t before. Like I said, I’ve never known what it’s like to not have anxiety, to not be anxious about something (anything, everything) and never worry about things, so it just seemed like this was my normal. I mean, it is still my normal, but I know it’s not? I am not making sense. Perhaps I should have had more coffee before attempting this?

Meh, whatever.

But yes, I was off-balance and not firing on all my cylinders yesterday, and as such got no writing done. I did some more research on a new project that was inspired by an in-progress blog entry I have yet to finish, and working on said entry made me think you know you’ve always wanted to write about this and so, in lieu of any new writing last night, I spent the evening–my writing time–researching and realizing how incredibly free writing this could be; because despite its being historical in nature, the era being written about would be so long ago no one could really cite me for getting things wrong–who knows the period well besides scholars who wouldn’t read it anyway? Anyway, it’s taken my fancy and I’ve started looking into it, and there really isn’t much there; much of it can be made up, imagined…there are lots of blanks to fill in, and that could really be a lot of fun. I probably won’t be writing it any time soon–book ideas generally percolate for years in my brain, and over the years I do more research whenever I think about it, trying to be ready for the time when I am finally able to sit down and start writing it. This is the fun part for me.

And I could use some fun about now. This heat is really breaking me.

I think I slept better last night–I feel better and more awake, more lively, more together this morning; at least certainly more so than I did yesterday morning. We’ll see how the day progresses, at any rate. I managed to get some things taken care of yesterday that were odious and things I always put off: I made an eye exam appointment, ordered some things that I need, and sent some emails I’d been putting off. I need to update my to-do this for this week, though; I also need to look at it every morning so I know what needs to be done, you know? But hopefully tonight–since nothing is being delivered and I have errands to run on the way home–I’ll be able to get settled in once I am home, put away the groceries and the mail, etc., and put the dishes away and reload the dishwasher to run. My, what an exciting life I lead. But tonight I am going to run some errands on the way home (mail, groceries) and then I’m coming home and I am going to try to work on my writing a bit, whether it’s a short story or diving back into the WIP–which has mistakes I want to correct before I move on; it’s how my mind works at this stage and yes, probably procrastination plays some part in that mental process…

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

Some Broken Hearts Never Mend

Ah, Monday morning and back into the office with me. I slept a little late yesterday, got up feeling very refreshed and rested, then spent the morning doing research, some touch-up chores, and some reading. I also did some writing before my 5 pm EST panel, moderated by the marvelous John Copenhaver and including four of my favorite queer writers: Robyn Gigl, Renee James, Kelly J. Ford, and Margot Douaihy. They were all brilliant, and I was my usual incoherent rambling mess who then proceeds to forget what the actual question was. I should probably prepare for these things, but why start now? After all, no matter how much I prepare, my co-panelists will always be incisive and insightful and intelligent and I will be….Gregalicious.

I did finish reading the remaining short stories in Alfred Hitchcock Presents My Favorites in Suspense, and enjoyed all three–and again, like the others, reminded me the only thing limiting my short stories in what I write about and try to accomplish is my own insecurities as a writer and laziness about doing research. The final three stories (“Treasure Trove” by F. Tennyson Jesse, “The Body of the Crime” by Wilbur Daniel Steele, and “A Nice Touch” by Mann Rubin) were all marvelous, all containing that delightfully nasty twist at the end that is so reminiscent of so much of Hitchcock’s television shows and anthologies. Reading these stories–these old anthologies–has really been quite an education in short story writing–and I’ve also learned a lot about my own limitations when it comes to my creativity and what is possible. I need to, as I said the other day, write precisely the things I don’t think I can, or have the knowledge or skillset to tackle. If it’s a research issue, write the fucking story first if the research is fucking intimidating and make the research part of the editing/revision process. It’s really not as hard as I make it out to be for myself all the fucking time, seriously.

If there’s a way to make it harder I can assure you I will find it.

I also read the first story in Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories to Be Read With the Door Locked, “Hijack” by Robert L. Fish. Mr. Fish was a prolific short story writer, and his estate endowed Mystery Writers of America to present an award in his honor every year to an outstanding short story by a first time published author every year (Rob Osler won this last year, the first of a lot of award recognition for him; his debut novel Devil’s Chew Toy has turned up on almost every awards short-list for the year). “Hijack” is a story that doesn’t hold up well; airline and airport security measures have amped up in the decades since the World Trade Center was bombed for the first time back in 1993 or 1994; ur could have been 1995. All I know is 1) I was in Manhattan when it happened and 2) I was working at the airport when the new security protocols were put into place. There probably aren’t many of us around who remember the hijacking plague of the late 1960s and early 1970s; it seemed like almost every day a flight to Miami was being hijacked to Cuba. It was so commonplace it became part of popular culture; comedians and movies and television shows constantly making hijacking jokes. But it’s a very good story with, as always, the requisite twist that comes at the end (hilariously, the ransom demand is for $250,000–a lot of money when the story was written but practically nothing in terms of today’s money and wealth) which I wasn’t quite expecting; it’s not a spoiler because the story is at least forty years old so–turns out the crew hijacked the plane themselves and killed a passenger to frame for it. It actually could have worked back then, too–and it made me want to read more of Mr. Fish.

I intended to try to write or edit before the panel yesterday, but as always with something like this, I was too antsy and nervous to focus, so I spent most of the day doing some more research–old New Orleans, Mayan gods, homosexuality in old Hollywood–and cleaning and picking things up. I also ordered some more of these Arctic Air hydration coolers; they really work well, and if you freeze the filter, well, they blow extremely cold air. I have three from several years ago before we got the new a/c system (summer of 2020, it must have been, as we got the new system after Mardi Gras in 2021), but lost the power cord for one of them. I’ve had them going since Paul left and they’ve really helped in the kitchen. I also bought a really powerful if small fan for the living room while making groceries Saturday afternoon, and it is super powerful, too–I also ordered another of those, too. I know I sound like a wimp, but you try cooling down your house when the heat index is 120+ every day for weeks on end–and of course, the kitchen add-on is always so much hotter than the rest of the apartment.

I slept okay last night, feel a bit groggy this morning, but hopefully the coffee with work its magic on me and I’ll be wide awake by the time I get to the office this morning. I think we have a busy schedule, my supervisor is back from having COVID (haven’t see her in over a week), and of course, after work today I ordered some things from Sam’s Club to be delivered. Next week I have my meeting with the orthopedic surgeon to see when we can schedule my biceps surgery–assuming I need it, which I am pretty certain I do–and then after the recovery for that I can start exercising again. I have to remember I am older and more frail than I used to be, so getting back into shape in my sixties is going to take far longer and be more painful and slow than it was in my thirties when I did it the first time. I didn’t write anything all weekend (or for most of the week last week, really) so I need to get back on that horse this week as well. Bouchercon is looming on the horizon as well.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines and getting another cup of coffee. Have a great Monday and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

Blue Bayou

Sunday morning and all is well in the Lost Apartment. Yesterday was kind of nice. I slept well again on Friday night, woke up at five, six and seven like every morning with no alarm, and then finally got up around seven thirty to get ready for the day, which was nice. I decided that it made the most sense to run my errands in the morning before the brutal heat of the afternoon; I needed to mail a letter and pick up the mail, as well as drop off Scooter’s leftover food at the Cat Practice and make groceries–and I needed cleaning supplies, so that was crucial to the day; an errand that had to be run. It was brutally hot, but I managed it all. I bought a lot of cleaning supplies, and spent most of the afternoon yesterday cleaning. I did the stairs, the floors in the bedroom, and finally emptied and cleaned out Scooter’s litter box. I was avoiding it because I was afraid doing it would make me sad, but ironically it was just a chore…but writing about it just now made me start to tear up a bit. Sigh. He was such a dear cat. (I also looked at the adoptable cats on the SPCA’s website. I really really want to get this twelve year old ginger boy that no one’s going to want because he’s old..but we’re old. Is it fair to get a baby cat that might outlive either or both of us? Well, that certainly cheered me up a bit. Christ.)

I also did the baseboards and the CD stand…which is something we’re going to have to discuss. We don’t even have a CD player anymore, and yes, it’s terrible to have paid for all that music only to lose it now all these years later but…I haven’t listened to a CD in years. My car has a CD player–maybe I can move some into the car and listen to them instead of the phone? We have all these great gay deejay dance mix CD’s–we used to buy them all the time, the little store across from the Pub used to sell them, and Tower Records–when it existed still–also sold dance remix CDs; I think I got the Debbie Harry dance mix CD single for “I Want That Man” at Tower Records. Anyway, years and years ago Paul had this wooden CD stand custom built. It’s a lovely piece of furniture, and perhaps it can be repurposed for something else–but the CDs are grimy and I cleaned them with a lick and a promise; but…do we really need to hold on to all those CDs? (The stand needs to be repainted white, too–years of nicotine have turned it precancerous–but that will have to wait until the weather calms the fuck down.

But I feel good about the apartment, really. Having the walls finally finished has awakened a nesting instinct in me that’s been dormant for quite some time. As I was finishing the stairs and looking around, I actually thought I wouldn’t mind having someone come by the house now even though it’s still not up to my standard (my work space will never stay tamed, alas), which is something I’ve not even considered in years. It felt good wiping down the walls and baseboards, picking up all that nasty dust and getting rid of it. I also bought a dust mop at the store yesterday (as one of my cleaning purchases) so I can run it over the walls more regularly to keep the dust from accumulating and turning into grime or cobwebs. It’s still very much a work in progress, of course, but I am feeling good about the homestead, and probably am about to do another brutal purge of the books.

I read some short stories yesterday as well–more of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthology stories, of course–and I am getting such an education in short stories, as well as having some powerful insights (well, to me anyway; remember, I go through life completely oblivious to everything) about my own stories, what I find myself afraid to do and how limiting my own fears about my abilities and my talents and my creativity have proven to be. One of the stories I read yesterday, “Getting Rid of George” by Robert Arthur, was about a movie star whose carefully hidden past suddenly comes back with a vengeance just as she is about to marry the love of her life and start her own production company with him, making herself quite rich in the process, and it hit me: one of the stories I am struggling with writing right now is about a wealthy gay man and his boy toy looking for a fabled ‘fountain of youth’ in a fictional Latin American country. I’ve had the idea for decades–since visiting the Mayan ruins in the Yucatan and thinking I should write a story about these ruins (and yes, well aware that I have to be incredibly careful and respectful of the Mayan culture and their descendants)…and this is the story set in a foreign locale I was going to try to write for the Malice anthology. I need to recognize self-destructive thinking when it presents myself; and whenever I think you can’t write this for whatever reason my reaction shouldn’t be to shy away from it but to dive into it headfirst and commit to it. (This is also one of those stories that I thought I had already written a draft of; but it is not to be found anywhere, nothing other than pieces of aborted openings–it may have been lost in the Great Data Disaster of 2018….but I just realized where it probably was and THAT’S WHERE IT WAS! Victory!)

And really, one of the two main characters in my story “Don’t Look Down” was a retired former boy band star. So, that was certainly outside my expertise, was it not?

I really enjoyed the Robert Arthur story; Arthur was also the creator of, and wrote, eleven of the first twelve Three Investigators mystery series, which makes him always special to me. He worked for Hitchcock on the literary side of the brand (Hitchcock became a brand like before we thought of creatives in terms of brands and branding and brand marketing), and also “helped” (i.e. “ghost edited”) most of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies. Arthur was a great writer, “Getting Rid of George” certainly is evidence of his talents, and it’s a shame he isn’t better known or regarded; but the great tragedy of juvenile books is that they rarely survive the test of time–they inevitably are forgotten, as are their authors, unless they win a Newbery medal or something, like Johnny Tremain, but I suspect even that tired old war horse of American revolutionary propaganda isn’t read nearly as much today as it was when I was a kid. There are few–Lois Duncan being one–crime writers for juveniles or young adults to be named Grand Masters by Mystery Writers of America; Arthur certainly deserved to at least be considered, as the creator of the Three Investigators and as a rather successful writer of crime short stories.

I read another story in My Favorites in Suspense, “Island of Fear” by William Sambrot, which I really enjoyed and thought was quite excellent. An Englishman looking for antiques and local art in the Greek islands spots a small island with a massive wall built along its shoreline, and wants to stop there as it is remote and doesn’t, per the captain, get many outside visitors. This is a “be careful what you wish for” tale; because he convinces the captain to let him off on the island, where he spots a gorgeous sculpture through a break in the wall, so exquisite he has to have it and meet whoever the people are who live in the land inside the wall. The island natives are quiet and don’t talk much–not his usual experience with Greeks–and finally convinces a young man to row him around the island to an opening in the walls so he can go ashore, meet the owners, and buy the statue. As I said, it’s a “be careful what you wish for” story, and the ending is quite satisfying as the last few paragraphs make sense of the “mystery” of the island. It may well have been my favorite of the stories thus far in the anthology (at least of the new-to-me material; remember the book opened with “The Birds” by Daphne du Maurier, which quite set the tone for the rest of the stories.

I also read a story from Stories That Scared Even Me, “Two Spinsters”, which falls into the category of “the unfortunate traveler,” which several stories in both anthologies fall into. It’s not bad, the main character being a police detective who gets lost on unknown backroads and can’t find the town he’s looking for, and is eventually forced to seek refuge at a strange house with two identical, if silent, spinsters–and there’s a lot more going on in that strange house than the weary traveler suspects at first. This story was written by E. Phillips Oppenheim, yet another writer I’ve never heard of or his work before. Oppenheim, however, was quite the big deal in his time; he wrote and published over a hundred novels and even more short stories; John Buchan (a Golden Age crime writer not as well known today as perhaps he should be) called him his primary inspiration when launching his own career in 1913.

Interestingly enough, the next story up in Stories That Scared Even Me is by Robert Arthur. There are only three stories left in My Favorites in Suspense, and the book closes with a short novel, The Blank Wall by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding, a classic from that post-war era that I’ve always wanted to read (it was common in those days to close a short story collection by including a short novel, and most crime novels in those days were rather short). I’ll probably finish reading those short stories today, but really need to get back to reading novels–maybe I’ll read a bit more into The Hunt by Kelly J. Ford, which is fantastic; taking so long to finish should not be seen as an indictment of Ford’s work. The book is fantastic and she is one of the great new voices in queer crime fiction–and I’ll be doing a crime panel with her later today for Outwrite DC.

I slept really well last night–it’s lovely having Paul home, really–and so today I hope to get some reading and writing done. I am about to adjourn to my chair to finish this Hitchcock anthology, and then I am going to work on getting some writing done while cleaning up the kitchen and my workspace. I feel very well rested this morning–I could have easily slept much later–so hopefully it will be a great day of getting things done.

Or not. Since Paul’s home now we can finish watching Gotham Knights, Hijack, and back to other shows we’re watching, and of course Paul needs to watch Season Two of Heartstopper, which means I can finally talk about it. I may check in with you again later, Constant Reader, and if not, I certainly will do so tomorrow.

Let My Love Be Your Pillow

Saturday morning and Paul comes home today! Huzzah! Huzzah! I of course literally have no idea what time he will be arriving–he never tells me these things and I never think to ask–but it’s fine. Yesterday was a good work-at-home day. Sam the handyman came by in the morning to finish touching things up and clean everything up, which was marvelous, and now the apartment sort of looks like our apartment again. It’s great, and it makes me want to clean, which is something I’d forgotten that I enjoyed so much. I’ve really let the housework slide since the pandemic started (sure, let’s blame it on that, shall we?) but a lot of it had to do with the walls in the living room. tl;dr= we had some leaks, and water damage to the walls in the living room. The leaks were repaired, but the plaster and paint somehow never got finished and we’d been living with that for a while….and when you have places where the bare wall is showing…the apartment, even clean and sparkling from ceiling to floor, would look deranged and damaged and sloppy. I think I felt a little defeated, to be honest.

I’ve felt defeated a lot over the last few years, if I’m going to be honest. But I’ve been feeling oddly better lately about things lately, even optimistic at times. I know, right? It’s kind of scary. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore, but I have full faith in the universe to deliver yet another blow the way it always does when I start feeling like this again–a sense of contentment and peace. I’m sleeping better, getting better rest, and I am getting things done rather than sitting in my easy chair every night scrolling through social media while Youtube videos stream endlessly on continual play. Ironically, I remember feeling this way on another hot August Friday in New Orleans, two weeks before Hurricane Katrina. I had just finished Mardi Gras Mambo at long last and turned it in, and that Friday I had met with the Admissions office at UNO to see about finishing my degree in English and pursuing a master’s, and even potentially eventually a PhD. Yes, I had ambitions. The meeting had gone incredibly well. We scheduled a meeting with the chair of the English department, and it looked fortuitous and very good; I’d have to pay for the semester required to get the English degree, but it looked like I’d get the master’s not only without having to pay, but I’d also get an on-campus part-time job. I don’t reflect back very often, but sometimes I remember that last optimistic August before Katrina and wonder how different my life would look now had Katrina never happened…or at least had the levees held. I’ve always felt the lack of educational degree and study keenly; I was far too young when I started school and majored in English to really appreciate the in-depth examination of classic literature and other forms. None of what little I learned stuck, either. I have also always been made to feel that the books I actually did read and appreciate were lowbrow; on par for someone as uneducated and unserious like me. I’ve not read much of the classic writers, for example; I’ve never read Edith Wharton or Jane Austen or much of Henry James; I may give Hemingway another try at some point but I was unimpressed with both A Farewell to Arms and The Old Man and the Sea. Fitzgerald wrote beautifully about horrible people I’m not interested in; I love Faulkner but he’s a lot of work to read (but I will go to my grave loving “A Rose for Emily” and wishing I had written one thing that perfect), so I’m not going to read Faulkner for pleasure–even though I take great pleasure in the voice and the rhythm of the words and so forth, I’m still looking for characterization and story.

Hell, there are any number of classic mystery writers I’ve never read, for that matter. I had never read Ross Macdonald until I was on a panel with Christopher Rice who sang his praises highly enough for me to get a couple of his books…and have always been delighted that I did. I think I’ve read one Rex Stout novel, but I can’t remember anything about it and I think I am thinking of a television adaptation with William Conrad and Timothy Hutton? Or did I imagine that, too? One of the things I am loving about reading the short stories in these marvelous old Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies is getting to read authors I’ve heard of that I’ve not read. Yesterday night I read “Curious Adventure of Mr. Bond” by Nugent Barker, from Stories That Scared Even Me; “Four O’Clock” by Rice Day, “Of Missing Persons” by Jack Finney, and Paul Eiden’s “Too Many Coincidences”, from My Favorites in Suspense. I enjoyed them all, but the Barker was my least favorite of the four. It’s written in Ye Olde Timey Style, and it goes on for far too long, and it’s big twist I saw coming. I also didn’t much care for Mr. Bond. The Day story was one of those macabre little tales of irony with the kind of ending that Daphne du Maurier mastered and I’ve always loved–and aspire to write. (The trick is the ending has to be earned.) The Finney story was also one of those, but a bit more melancholic than macabre.

I also spent some more time with Superman last night. First I watched a documentary called Look Up In The Sky! The Amazing Story of Superman, which I followed with this week’s episode of My Adventures with Superman. I was very pleased to see Jimmy Olsen talked about in the documentary, and the actor from the television series, Jack Larson, was openly gay and was in a very long term relationship that lasted until he died in 2015, as someone very kindly reminded me on Twitter the other day in response to my talking about Jimmy on here. I am really intrigued at the idea of writing a Jimmy Olsen story…although I’m not exactly sure what I would do with such a thing, and I’m equally sure publishing it would be a trademark/copyright violation of some sort. I’ll make a note and keep chewing on it, though.

I also worked on the book some last night (at last) which felt marvelous and overdue. It was so hot yesterday–even with the air conditioner on full blast and desperately trying to keep up, you could tell inside that everything outside was roasting. I am quite pleased to have gotten past the revision of Chapter Five at long last and I have to say, I am most happy with what I did. Of course, Chapter Six is from scratch, which is going to be an enormous pain in my ass, naturally; writing anything where nothing other than a thought exists at the moment is always harder than revising. Revising can be either tedious or a lot of fun; it’s when your making the book better written and deepening characters and cleaning up shit and building on the ideas you’ve already gotten down but didn’t express particularly well as you were just madly trying to get words on the page and the story advanced and all of that.

Whew. Breathe.

I also woke up to a marvelous email–I just checked–from my editor on Mississippi River Mischief letting me know when the edits would come and included…”This book is fabulous, btw.”

Whew,

And on that marvelous note, off to the spice mines with me!

My Way

Work at home Friday! Huzzah! Huzzah!

I received an invitation code the other day from a friend for Blue Sky, one of the new upstarts looking to replace the dumpster fire hellhole that is Twitter, and so yesterday I set up the account. I am also on Threads. On Blue Sky I am @scottynola, just like I am on Twitter, but on Threads I am @gregh121. I probably should have been consistent across the three platforms, but why would I start making things easier for people to find me now, twenty years into my career? But I posted on both Facebook and Twitter that I was there–and Twitter locked my account. Yes, the Muskrat is all about free speech, isn’t he?

Honestly. But Twitter becomes more and more of a shit-show with every passing day, and it’s not like it was ever a great place to be for long, anyway. I’d go on there, scroll through, have some fun and/or funny interactions with friends and acquaintances…and then inevitably it would turn horrific and I could feel the bile rising within myself as I read more and started to reply angrily…before deleting and closing the app. I wonder what future historians (if there are any future historians) will write and think about this era? What will they debate about, what will they think the truth was and how will it all wind up being reported? How harshly will we all be judged?

That’s a rather chilling thought on Morning 4, 432, 172 of an excessive heat advisory day here in New Orleans. I had thought and planned to go to the OMV today and get my real ID at long last, but I cannot find one item that I need…which Paul keeps so I won’t lose it and yet I was able to put my hands rather easily on all of the other things I need. The irony of this is not lost on me. I also am kind of glad of an excuse to not go outside today, in all honesty. It’s going to “feel like” up to 120 every day over the weekend, and I’d really rather not. It was miserable coming home from work yesterday, and I had to run a couple of errands as well. Dreadful. Just leaving my backpack in the car during those brief intervals at the stops I made was enough for my laptop to be hot to the touch when I got it inside. I think I have to make at least one grocery run this weekend, but I don’t know when I want to attempt it and go out into that. Paul’s coming home sometime on Saturday, and it would probably make the most sense to wait until he’s home, maybe? I don’t know, really. My brain is sort of on the fritz these days from the heat (yes, Greg, it’s recent and it’s the heat, whatever helps you get through it) but I had a great breakthrough last night on the WIP, and realized what absolutely is missing from the manuscript. So, hopefully after completing today’s homework duties (seriously, why haven’t I been calling it that all along instead of work-at-home? Embarrassment because it sounds like being a kid again? It’s work I do at home that’s more easily and efficiently done here than at the office, so homework), I’ll be able to dig into the book and get this important piece of the voice into the book. I also know where it’s heading in this first act, and I kind of have an idea for the middle for a change. That’s always satisfying; those a-ha moments are always so satisfying that it’s almost like having an orgasm; I want a cigarette immediately after, LOL.

But the finishing touches on the apartment are being done today, and I have to say having the walls back together on the first floor is amazing. I always forget how lovely this apartment is when, well, things are the way they are supposed to be. It’s an old house, and things go wrong and leaks occur and so on, and we generally tend to not complain about things…so they tend to not get the attention they need when we would prefer that to occur. But with the walls taken care of, with new plaster where it had damaged and then being painted over to match at last, it looks lovely in the living room and kitchen (I’d forgotten about that patch of white paint up in the corner by the ceiling; but it now matches) and now I no longer have any excuse for not cleaning and keeping the apartment up, which primarily was the defeat of “oh because of the damaged walls it will always look slovenly in here no matter what else I do” which turned into a multi-year slide. Had the walls been redone just before the shut down, I could have really used that time at home to clean the fuck out of this place. But the shutdown came with a malaise–depression, undoubtedly–and so nothing ever really got done.

I slept really well last night–woke up at five, again at six, and stayed in bed until seven–and now am enjoying my coffee and finishing this up. Sam the handyman has already come by to check in; I told him I’d be moving upstairs with my laptop and he has free rein on the downstairs. I need to start the cleaning upstairs anyway, and so if I am up there working when I take a break I can go clean something. There’s a television with Apple TV as well, so there’s literally no reason why I can’t get things done with music playing through the television. I’ve already started redoing the upstairs in bits and pieces. Tonight when I am finished with everything I think I will start watching this new reboot of The Real Housewives of New York. I’m kind of burning out on reality television, which has fascinated me for almost two solid decades now, so it would be nice to see a new, interesting take on these shows. (Hell, I even wrote a book around them.) I still have to get caught up on this season of Superman and Lois, but I am experiencing quite a bit of super-hero burnout lately, which is why I am enjoying the animated My Adventures with Superman so much–it’s optimistic and the doom and gloom and darkness so endlessly in supply for the DC Universe movies (thanks to The Dark Knight series) isn’t fun to watch.

And on that note, I am going to get a cup of coffee and head upstairs. Happy Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow. Or later–one never can be sure.

Daytime Friends

We made it to Wednesday, Constant Reader! Can you believe it? I barely can. And yet here we are, at the crest of the week and ready to head downhill into the weekend, in which Paul comes home. Huzzah! Huzzah! I have to say I am rather proud of myself. Despite being alone–which isn’t a regular occurrence in the Lost Apartment–I’ve managed. I’ve only gotten bored a couple of times, and the loneliness isn’t pronounced; it’s there, but not in the forefront of my mind and it’s just kind of there. I was actually thinking the other night (morbidly) you know, I could probably handle the living alone thing if and when it comes to that. Not something I want to happen any time soon, mind you–and I certainly have no desire for it, but I kind of get it where my dad is coming from. Obviously, being alone in the house, given that Mom died earlier this year and how much Dad is going through, is of course going to make me think about being alone and living alone and having to go on alone. I’ve thought about this before–any number of times over the years, especially every time Paul’s had to undergo surgery of some kind–which is morbid, yes, but realistic. We’re at the age where we have to start recognizing that we aren’t immortal–my aching and sore body reminds me of that fact every damned day, thank you very much–and start planning. Wills and so forth, legal protections, potentially even getting married because of Louisiana’s insane inheritance laws. (Thank you, research for A Streetcar Named Murder.)

I also have to get my driver’s license renewed, and I may as well get one of those Real ID things while I am at it, since the deadline for getting one is next May and since I have to go to the OMV anyway, I may as well get this done. What a royal pain in the ass this is, I might add; I’ll have to find my birth certificate or my passport (which is probably useless as it is most likely expired since we went to Toronto several years ago), and some other things. Aggravating, yes, but in a worst case scenario I won’t be able to find my birth certificate and my passport will have expired, so I will need to wait for Paul to get home because he knows where they are kept (I do not; I lose things so Paul is always in charge of important things–but I’ve not managed to lose the title to my car!). Ah, a trip to the West Bank. Which means Sonic for lunch! Huzzah!

It seriously doesn’t take much to please me.

I should have looked for things last night when I got home from work but I was drained. When I got into the car the temperature outside was about 102, and by the time I’d driven home through the nightmare that is the Central Business District after four thirty in the afternoon, I was a bit worn down so wound up taking the evening off. Literally. I didn’t do a fucking thing last night (I wrote about 150 words on chapter five of the WIP) and went through my journals. I meant to read a short story, but I dozed off in my chair around eight, and finally staggered up to bed sometime between nine and ten. I do not understand why last evening turned out the way it did, but I also slept really well last night and feel very rested and together today. (I think it was primarily being drained from clients yesterday, we were busier than usual–a good thing; I’d prefer we had a full schedule–and I’ve grown unused to that much human interaction, so it made me tired.) I am not going to lambaste myself over not getting much accomplished last night; part of my “be kinder to yourself” goal of this year is to accept that I am not superhuman and will occasionally be tired, worn out, unable to work and thus need rest instead. I do not have to continue the pace of productivity I set for myself when I was younger and had more energy.

I think tonight when I get home, after I do some chores–seriously, how does one person mess up so many dishes and laundry–I’ll write for a bit and then try to get caught up on Superman and Lois, which means going back to the first episode of this season and rewatching, because I don’t remember what is going on this season. I know they replaced the actor playing Jonathan Kent, which I wasn’t thrilled about (but should give the new actor a chance; I was unimpressed with the new actor), or maybe start the third season of Titans, which I had also started and gave up after a few episodes. I mean, I love me some super-heroes, but I’m also starting to get a little burned out on them. I probably won’t watch any more Marvel movies, and I am beginning to get a bit bored with the DC movies, too. I do want to watch the next season of Loki, and I do like Superman and Lois…but it’s all starting to feel a little stale to me. Maybe I should go get caught up on my comics reading? We stopped watching both Arrow and The Flash because every episode of Arrow started to feel the same and the fight scenes became repetitive; with The Flash, it was because how many times can one person go back in time to change the past and fuck everything up for the present and then keeps doing it?

I don’t like my super-heroes to be that stupid, frankly. It’s a shame, too, because I’ve always loved the character and Grant Gustin is terrific in the part. Ah, well.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day. Constant Reader!

Say You’ll Stay Until Tomorrow

Sunday morning and we’ve survived yet another day of a heat advisory, which was miserable when I went out to get the mail and some cleaning supplies (I also got grocery store sushi for lunch, don’t you dare judge me). But I wasn’t out in it all the much, and I managed. I slept decently Friday night, woke up a few times, like always, but went to bed and slept in until seven thirty (!) before getting up and getting started on the day. I started doing a thorough cleaning of the laundry room and the kitchen in the morning (I needed more wet Swiffer pads, which was why I had to stop before running errands, and I needed other cleaning supplies as well, too), and rearranged the top of the dresser upstairs so there was room for more books, so I took my copies of the annotated Holmes up there along with some other enormous research books that don’t fit in my bookcases and had taken up residence on top of the microwave–which I then cleaned and moved the cookbooks to (because that’s where they belong, goddamnit), which pleased me inordinately. I miss Paul, of course, but the plan to keep myself busy so as to not get lonely seems to be working out so far.

Yesterday, I cleaned.

I even moved furniture and rearranged my workspace. I also discovered that I’d bought one of those Apple speaker things I can stream Spotify through, so I can have music playing while I do things–so no risk of being detoured by television or going down Youtube wormholes. I did baseboards, Constant Reader. I really need to get some Venetian blinds for this window over my desk, much as I loathe giving in finally to the loss of the crepe myrtles. The LSU blanket I tacked up in a rather pointless display of spite and vengeance that had absolutely no effect on anything other than to further enhance the “college apartment” essence we’ve apparently been going for these last few years needs to come down. I’m a grown-up, after all, and the days of using blankets for shades should have been gone years ago.

Talk about arrested development! And as usual, the only person affected by my spite is me, as always.

But it felt good to clean everything, to pick up the rugs and beat them outside, to actually sweep the floors beneath and then wash them before putting back the rugs; moving furniture to anchor the ones more prone to moving, wiping every surface down and even getting some work done in the living room, too, which was marvelous. I also discovered that I had already written a draft of the fifth chapter–I didn’t remember getting past Chapter Four (although I thought I’d already figured it out just not written it–pleasant surprise!). Also, after putting the new drafts of chapters three of four in the three ring binder for the book (because I do this for every book), I found a note scribbled on the last page of Chapter Four–something I had noticed when I was revising it, but didn’t think was a big deal–and now I need to go back and fix it. It’s minor, not a big deal, but if I don’t catch it and fix it now…I may not and whoops! Today I am going to work on the living room some and try to get some writing done. I want to revise Chapter Five, maybe finish this next draft of a short story, and maybe finish writing the first draft of another. I also need to sit down and plot out another one.

I may clean the ceiling fans. Madness. I also need to get lightbulbs, or find the ones we already have.

I also stretched yesterday and used the the back massage roller thingee, which felt great–as did the stretching. I need to stretch more regularly; seriously. It only takes about five minutes, feels great, and always gives me a jolt of energy whenever I do it. And it’s good for me and a healthy thing to do, so why do I never think about doing it? Or why do I think about it and then just shrug it off? Perhaps someday I will understand, but it’s doubtful at this point.

I slept really well again last night, waking up relatively early this morning, which is good as I plan on having a productive day. This morning I plan to do some more cleaning, read some more, and then write all afternoon if possible. My coffee is definitely hitting the spot this morning and tasting marvelous, and here’s hoping this motivation carries through the day, shall we?

I did finish watching The History of Sitcoms last night, which I did enjoy somewhat, I could probably write an entire entry dissecting the episode about class, and the success CBS had in the 1960’s essentially stereotyping the South and Southern people with shows like The Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, and Petticoat Junction, among others. But the first two shows (I watched Petticoat Junction growing up, but don’t remember anything about it; the other two I remember very clearly) were actually a lot more clever that critics of the time thought–they were dismissed as very lowbrow humor, but they said a lot about class and were also kind of stinging indictments of American capitalism, mythology, and the class strictures we faced as a nation. (It was interesting that these shows about rural Southern people never address race; Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies still believed the Civil War was still on-going–she was in denial about the loss, I guess; which is certainly problematic when seen through a more evolved and modern perspective.)

I plan on finishing the downstairs today–which means the ceiling fans, or at least trying to get them cleaned; I can only reach so far with my ladder (I should have bought a six foot instead of a five foot all those years ago) but I think I can reach the blades of the fans…or at least I can change out the lightbulbs that are blown out. Then I can spend the rest of this week keeping the downstairs under control as I start working on the upstairs.

I also read two more chilling Alfred Hitchcock Presents tales, this time from Stories That Scared Even Me, “Men Without Bones” by Gerald Kersh and “Not With a Bang” by Damon Knight. I enjoyed both stories, despite having no clue about either author (these old anthologies do not include author biographies in the back, which is a rather disappointing oversight). Kersh apparently wrote the book Night and the City and lots of short stories; Harlan Ellison considered him one of his favorite writers, and “Men Without Bones” was certainly a chilling story, about a man who boards a banana boat hoping desperately for passage back to the United States, who then tells of a chilling voyage deep into the jungle to look for proof of alien visitation years ago when mankind was still in its infancy (which was a very popular trope when I was a kid; Erich von Däniken’s work was selling hundreds of thousands of copies in multiple languages); there is a very dark twist at the end of the already dark story that was rather jolting. Damon Knight was a very popular science fiction writer of the post-war period; I’ve not heard of any of his novels (he was named a Grand Master by SFWA, which he helped found; he was also very prolific as a short story writer, and he wrote the story “To Serve Man,” which became one of the more famous episodes of the original Twilight Zone. One of the things I am enjoying most about reading these old anthologies is learning about great writers of the past who may not be as well-known today as they were in their time; it sometimes makes me wonder if forty years from now some gay mystery writer could be reading old anthologies from this time and discover me? “Not With a Bang” is a post-apocalyptic story about the last two humans left alive–a man and a woman–but the woman’s experiences and what she witnessed as the world came to an end has kind of fried her brain; she cannot really process what happened and it sent her back to a rather prim-like mental state from earlier in her life; she refuses to have sex with the only man left alive unless they are married–but they cannot be married as there’s no one left alive to perform the ceremony. It’s never very clear if the man is so anxious to fuck her because he wants to repopulate the world or if its sexual anxiety and frustration; but he’s not a very good person and he also has caught the post-nuclear plague that wiped out everything the bombs and the fallout didn’t get; one of the symptoms is essentially losing the ability to move or speak and falling into a coma-like state that can be reversed with medication he has stockpiled…but once she has agreed to marry him and we realize that he’s not just frustrated with her–he’s not a good person and he plans to abuse her and be dreadful to her…and chillingly thinks and she could have a daughter…before he goes into a bathroom and freezes into the coma…with the door shut behind him and he’s lost the ability to speak.

These old macabre tales with their eerie twists at the end are probably–I am seeing now–the biggest influences I ever had with my short story writing. I still try to end my stories with a surprising twist, and that has everything to do with reading these anthologies when I was a teenager, watching Night Gallery and reruns of The Twilight Zone (as well as the reboot in the 1980s, which aired one of my favorite episodes of television of all time; a teleplay based on Harlan Ellison’s brilliant story–one of my favorites of all time–“Paladin of the Lost Hour”); these were the same influences Stephen King counts. I also read the horror/suspense comics a lot as a kid, House of Secrets, House of Mystery, Tales from the Crypt and The Witching Hour, among others; there were also little digests for Ripley’s Believe It or Not and other macabre comic tales. Apparently, you’re never too old to remember influences or learn more about yourself.

And on that note, I am going to go spend some more time with Kelly J. Ford’s marvelous The Hunt, and I will check in with you again later, Constant Reader. Have a lovely Sunday!

Way Down

Saturday in the Lost Apartment, and I am feeling relaxed and good. I had a nice day yesterday, the apartment got more work done on it, and I managed to get everything done that needed doing yesterday. I didn’t really write much last night, but I did read some marvelously macabre short stories, which was lovely, and then watched a few episodes of a CNN documentary series, The History of Sitcoms, which is interesting enough, and feeds into that nostalgia thing we are so prone to as a society. I’ve witnessed any number of nostalgia booms throughout the course of my many years on this speck of dust under the fingernails of God we call earth, and while I am not entirely immune to the appeal of nostalgia, I also recognize that we inevitably remember those past times fondly and perhaps not as accurately as we may think. The 1950’s nostalgia boom of the 1970s, for example, spawned American Graffiti and Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and eventually Grease; reignited interest in the music of the time (anyone remember Sha Na Na?); as well as sock hops and poodle skirts and “Ch**ese fire drills”* (which is probably racist, isn’t it?) and all that stuff; like Archie comics were documentaries rather than fictions. But the 1950s weren’t this idyllic time of peace and quiet and prosperity people seem to think it was, brainwashed by decades of sitcom reruns of shows that presented the United States back to itself as a fantasy, a fiction, and created an unrealistic vision and interpretation of what perfection and success were in a land of opportunity–an unrealistic vision that has somehow come to be taken as a reality when it was never anything more than a fantasy. That’s the danger of nostalgia.

It’s not that I oppose nostalgia, or don’t understand it–we always tend to idealize our childhoods, and the time period when we were children. It isn’t that it was actually an easier, simpler time, it’s just that when you’re a child you aren’t worried about or concerned with the things adults are contending with–so you don’t remember those parts. I do remember being a child, with rioting going on and protests and police violence; I remember the murders of RFK, Dr. King, and Malcolm X. I remember the struggle over the Vietnam War. I remember Watergate, and all the scandals of the Reagan administration modern Republicans have completely forgotten about (or if they do remember them, they remember them as “evil liberals conspiring to bring down St. Ronald–who they would calla RINO today. I can’t imagine Reagan being fond of DeSantis, Ted Cruz, or Marco Rubio; but who knows? They remember the 1980s as their ‘golden age,’ so who knows what Reagan would be like today–although I can’t imagine him sucking up to Putin). For me, the 1980’s was about HIV/AIDS and the struggle to come to terms with myself and who I am. The 1980’s also showed me that homophobes literally wanted all queer people to die…and I do not believe the modern day iteration of them is any different than they were thirty or forty years ago. Their messaging is the same, after all–we must save our children from groomers and pedophiles while actually ignoring who the actual grooming pedophiles are–youth ministers, priests, and pastors of their religious faith.

Nostalgia can be incredibly dangerous. Here’s the question I’d like to ask everyone who longs to go back to that “simpler” time of the 1950’s/1960’s: where were all the black people in Mayberry, NORTH CAROLINA? Are we supposed to believe that a small town in the South was entirely white?

Bitch, please.

As I said earlier, I did spend some time last evening reading short stories from my Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies. “A Death in the Family” by Miriam Allen deFord was quite macabre and interesting, about a lonely mortician who grew up as a foster child with no family who creates his own, only to be tripped up in his macabre game when a dead kidnapping victim is dumped on the front steps of his mortuary. Very tightly written and composed, I also like the clever way deFord set the story up to deceive the reader until there’s a big reveal. This story was in Stories That Scared Even Me, and I enjoyed it. I also read some more stories in My Favorites in Suspense: “My Unfair Lady” by Guy Cullingford; “New Murders for Old” by Carter Dickson; and “Terrified” by C. B. Gilford. Carter Dickson was a pseudonym for John Dickson Carr, a very prolific and popular crime writer of the mid-twentieth century; I’d seen books by either name on the racks when I was a kid but I’d never read any of his work. I really liked “New Murders for Old,” a clever story about murder for gain with a complicated twist that I greatly enjoyed–but wouldn’t work in the modern day because it was dependent on someone traveling being out of touch with the rest of his world back home. “Terrified” is a chilling tale of the aftermath of a car accident, where the survivors in one car can’t decide whether or not to kill the dying victim who can counter their testimony about who was at fault, and “My Unfair Lady” is a chilling tale of a sociopathic child who witnesses a murder, and whether she will clear the name of the innocent man who found the body and is the leading suspect, a bit reminiscent of The Bad Seed, which of course is a suspense classic.

I didn’t do as much cleaning and organizing as I had hoped to do, but I did launder all the bed linens and finished the dishes. The kitchen still needs some work done on it, which I think I’ll most likely do this morning once I get this finished and posted. I plan on writing and reading and cleaning for most of the day, but I do have to run an errand later this morning–my copy of Angel Luis Colon’s new juvenile horror novel, Infested, was delivered yesterday, and I also need to determine whether or not I need to stop and make groceries as well. I am low on a couple of things, but I don’t think I actually need a whole lot of anything. I have been enjoying yellow-meat watermelons lately; a relic of my childhood summers in rural Alabama that I’ve never really seen out of that context or anywhere else. Rouse’s sells them now–personal sized and seedless–but it’s been my experience that the personal-sized seedless watermelons don’t taste as good as regular watermelons and have very little flavor of any kind. The last time we went to Costco (we need to go again once Paul gets home) we’d bought two of the personal-sized seedless red ones; they come in a net bag in pairs. Those watermelons were two of the best I’d had in I don’t know how long, so this week I took the plunge and bought one of the yellow ones this week. Constant Reader, it was delicious, if not the best watermelon I’ve had in years. I finished it off last night, but had bought another the other day. So, I think one of my chores for this morning is to clean out the kitchen cupboards, and throwing shit away so I can determine what exactly I need and if I do, in fact, need to stop at the grocery store when I go get the mail.

I also binged the second season of Heartstopper, which was absolutely delightful and charming, as I expected, even as it entered the darker territory the books dealt with. It’s still incredibly sweet, and it handles the darker turns much better than I could have hoped; the books certainly did, even as the darker material made you love and root for the characters more, it’s still a bit heartbreaking because I love those kids so much (Nick, Charlie, Tara, Darcy, Elle, Tao, and Isaac) that I want to wrap them up and protect them from the world. As I watch, I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to see a show like Heartstopper when I was a teenager…at what an incredible difference something like this could have made in my life, which is why shows like this are so fucking important. I just hate that they only give us eight short episodes per season–and yes, Olivia Colman is back as Nick’s mom. (One change from the books to the show I don’t like–while I understand it–was the elimination of Charlie and Tori’s younger brother. Sure, he’s not necessary, as the show proves, but I think the way he reacts to Charlie and Nick, and how much he loves them, would be kind of lovely, if not needed.)

I also thought about the book some, as well as reading all those short stories have helped give me some ideas about my own short stories in progress, and how to fix and finish some of them. I would love to get two chapters of the book written this weekend and to finish two short stories, but I don’t know. I’ll probably wind up feeling lazy and spending more time reading than I should, and of course, I have the new iteration of Real Housewives of New York to finish, as well as the third season of Superman and Lois, and My Adventures with Superman, but I am going to try to put off watching television until weeknights, when I am tired from being at work.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I need another cup of coffee, and I should put the clean dishes away. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back at some point!

**It is racist: I checked on wikipedia: “Public use of the phrase has been considered to be offensive and racist. In 2017 a candidate for office in Nova Scotia, Matt Whitman, apologized for using the term in a video and subsequently removed the video.[10] In 2020, Washington state Senator Patty Kuderer made an apology for using the term in a hearing; Linda Yang of Washington Asians for Equality stated that the term was racist and filed a complaint with the state.[11] Kuderer apologized before any formal complaint was filed.” There’s an entire history of how the term began and how it was used, but I have found if a term or a phrase that’s a part of the popular culture references a group of people or an ethnicity or a race, it’s usually not a good thing; in this case, it means something useless–and let’s face it, everyone getting out of the car and running around it while stopped at a red light is pretty stupid and useless.