Category: New Orleans

Treasure Hiding

Monday and back to the office with me this morning, woo-hoo! Yesterday was kind of nice. It rained overnight and we had a couple of amazing thunderstorms in the morning which cooled everything off (for a quick moment) so I was able to cuddle up under my blankets with a cup of coffee and finished reading Megan Abbott’s amazing Beware the Woman (get a copy now and you can thank me later–I prefer cash), before doing some chores around the house and getting a handle on the kitchen/office mess situation. Yesterday afternoon around one I checked the temperature and it was a mere 78 degrees here. In July, in the afternoon. Madness, am I right? But it gradually started climbing again, as always, but it was a lovely respite from the brutality that has been this summer.

I also read a short story from one of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents, “Lady’s Man” by Ruth Chatterton, which I found interesting as it was nothing more than a little ghost story, set at a country home of none other than Noel Coward! I’m sure this must be the same Ruth Chatterton who’d been a film star in the 20s and 30s; a quick Google search answers the question that yes, the film star also was a writer! How delightful. The tale was told in a conversational style, as though Ms. Chatterton was making interesting conversation at a formal dinner, which made it really fun to read, even though the chills weren’t quite as pronounced as they were in some of the other stories I’ve read in these books. I do love revisiting these old anthologies and stories from another time.

I also spent some time going through my recent journals and marking pages with sticky notes that are applicable to things I am currently working on or thinking about going to work on. I usually brainstorm and think in my journals. It used to be just the act of writing something down was necessary for me to remember it later–which is why I never needed to really consult my notes in the Olden Days–but that is clearly no longer the case. Even writing stuff here in blog posts is no guarantee I will remember it later. It was also interesting because so much of my journal is just me scribbling, free associating names and titles then who the people are who got with both, quotes I like with attribution, and then the most bizarre things that literally make no sense at all; where did this thought come from? Is it original or did I see it somewhere and wrote it down? It’s always fun to see just how schizophrenic my creativity is when I don’t try to harness it. I actually wrote longhand in my journal last night while watching a documentary–I sometimes takes notes in case I want to blog about it later–and wound up writing several pages of a personal essay about my own experience going to Boys’ State in Kansas the summer I turned sixteen. (Yes, I was watching Boys’ State on Apple Plus, which was filmed at the Texas Boys’ State, which was interesting and well done, and a lot like I remembered it being all those years ago in a different state.) That evolved into me writing about always feeling like an outsider, observing from a slight remove, and went on for quite some time, rather indulgently, and I kind of was amused. There I was, feeling like I was creatively stifled and not able to write, yet writing in longhand in a journal, no less. It wasn’t fiction, of course, but it was still a creative expression, a free form exercise in stream of consciousness writing to see where my mind went–and inevitably, as always, I had to take the piss out of myself.

And that led to another page about my difficulties in taking myself seriously, and thus self-sabotaging myself and my career.

It truly is a wonder I have a career, or for that matter, even had one to begin with.

One thing that did come from that free form writing was a reiteration of something I think I may have posted here recently, that I should take just as much pride in my novels as I do in my published short stories. Sounds bizarre, doesn’t it, but my inner editor always wants to find and fix things in the novels, which inevitably leads to me wishing I could have another pass at it, and the reality is I will always feel like I should have taken another pass at a novel manuscript before it went to print. I need to get over that, or to at least keep it to myself and my journals rather than dragging my own work on my blog. I AM proud of my books, every single one of them, and every single one of them was the best book I was capable of writing at the time I wrote it. As I believe I continue to learn and grow as a writer the more I write, I will always think of my past work as something done when I wasn’t as mature a writer and was still learning because I am always learning. And hope to always continue learning and get better, not just as an author but as a person.

The older I get, the more I realize I don’t know, and how much I will never know. It’s kind of humbling, really.

I did decide what the next book I am going to write is going to be, and that’s a good thing. I was pretty sure of what it was going to be, because it’s in my head and needs to come out more than anything else at the moment–but there’s always something else nagging at the back of my mind saying write me write me! It has the potential to be very good, but I still need to figure some things out. I know how it starts and I know how it ends and I know the back story; I just don’t know the middle and how to get from Act One to the start of Act Three; I always struggle with the second act. I started writing it for a friend who was an acquiring editor, it was something I had been wanting to do for a while and he was interested in acquiring it once it was finished, or at least a first draft completed. So, while I was working on two other books at the same time, I was also taking one day every week and writing a three thousand word chapter and emailing it to him. I had completed Chapter Four and needed a transitional chapter that wasn’t boring or expository, so I had to put more thought into it than I had the previous four. This was last fall, when things started to get out of control in my personal life and with everything else, when I started falling behind on everything and my anxiety was out of control and I just didn’t have the headspace or creative energy to spare to figure out that chapter, so I stopped working on it.

But I never stopped thinking about it.

So, now I have to write it. I may continue to send it to him although he is no longer an acquiring editor, but he’s also a friend and I respect his opinion (he is remaining unnamed because I cannot say kind things about him publicly), so maybe I will. He was very encouraging, and sometimes I need a little bit of a push every now and then. I’ve also mentally worked out some of the kinks in those first chapters, too. I think it will be fun to write; I know I was enjoying it when I was working on it before, and it wasn’t like fuck, I don’t want to work on the structure and plot and meaning of this fucking thing, it was yeah, let’s figure this shit out.

That’s a good sign, methinks.

I’ve also decided my next read is going to be Kelly J. Ford’s The Hunt. I love Kelly and I love Kelly’s work, so I can’t wait to see what this is about. She has a truly masterful grasp of the rural South, and that voice! Oh, that authorial voice! She takes me back to my childhood summers in rural Alabama, shows those folks with a clear and unblinking eye, and then writes with language so beautifully and magnificently constructed that it makes me feel seen, home, and alive. I have some more fabulous books coming–what a summer for releases! New books to come from Laura Lippman and Angie Kim and Michael Koryta on top of all the treasures that have already been released this year? I’ve got Eryk Pruitt’s latest and Scott Von Doviak’s latest on their way, with a new Donna Andrews right on their heels. I need to stop slacking and get back to reading on top of everything else! Mon Dieu, how am I ever supposed to keep up?

There simply isn’t enough time in every day, is there?

There were also short stories in my journals–either the idea or the openings or an outline–that I’ve never transferred out or transcribed, which also needs to be done. God, there are so many short stories in progress…it’s daunting just thinking about it.

But it was a good weekend. I got some rest and I accomplished some things. I got better organized, with a short way to go, and am proceeding with plans to get everything back together again and start writing again, clearly and clear-headedly moving forward on something I’m really interested in writing, something I’ve wanted to write for a very long time–and it’s enormously satisfying knowing I am finally going to be working on it for real.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. I tend to turn up like a bad penny here and there, now and again.

Seekers Who Are Lovers

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment again, and I am looking forward to a lovely and productive day here. We had a rather marvelous thunderstorm last night–although there was potential street flooding, so hopefully the car is okay–which was nice. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a thorough cleansing rain like that, which is part of why the heat index has been so miserable lately. The temperature has been hot, and the humidity about what it usually is–not humid enough to rain, but so close it’s miserable. I had planned to barbecue last night, despite the heat, but when I was getting ready to start putting everything together was when I realized it was not only raining but pouring. There was also magnificent, long lasting rolling thunder claps that lasted for seconds; the kind where it sounds like the sky is splitting apart. So, I made pizza instead for dinner, and hopefully will be able to cook out this afternoon. The power also went out overnight–I slept well again last night, to wake up to blinking clocks everywhere. It was out for maybe about twenty minutes, based on the emails from Entergy letting me know an outage had occurred (how does one check one’s email without power? A mystery for the ages) and the follow up announcing the restoration of power was sent about twenty minutes later.

I ran my errands yesterday, including making groceries and dropping off boxes of books at the library sale. I cleaned and organized and filed most of the rest of the day, finally getting the office area whipped into some semblance of order that’s not only workable but close enough to being finished that it won’t take long to do so that I can finish it over my coffee this morning and while taking breaks from writing this–although these things generally tend to be fairly stream of consciousness. Today I am going to make a to-do list for the week, update the bills list and make sure everything is current, and I’d like to make some progress on the rugs in the kitchen. The living room looks much more bearable now that those boxes of books are gone, and I think I need to thin out the beads next as well as do some additional book pruning. I cleaned out some drawers yesterday, getting that project under way, and I also need to go through my last few journals to mark the places where I made notes on the things I am thinking about writing now. I’m also trying to decide what the point of whatever it is I want to write next will be. I’d like to write something for the Malice anthology, but the deadline looms and I don’t think I really have anything I can whip into shape in merely one day, which means I am going to need to write a draft and figure this story out as I go–the idea is very amorphous, and I’ve not been feeling terribly creative yesterday, which could prove to be a most frustrating writing experience. There’s another one I’d like to revise and work on–I am feeling connected to it, and to its voice, but again I am trying to figure out what I am trying to say in the story. I need to reread all of these things, of course. I need to reread lots of things so that I can get a grasp of them again so I can find my way into writing them. I actually started two books this past week, can you believe that? Like I don’t already have enough things in progress already that I need to start two more? I wrote the first sentence of each book, and stopped there. I know what I want to say in both of them, and where I want those opening chapters of each to go, but I’m not sure precisely how to say it.

I also got deeper into Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman, taking it slowly and savoring the experience as the rare treat and pleasure reading anything written by Abbott always winds up being. Each book is different in content, yet variations on a theme; I think future literary scholars will look book on her canon and study it as the incisive social commentary it is, about what it is to be a woman as well as how it is to be one, the strictures and compromises, the struggles between expectations and reality, all wrapped up in a lovely bow of beautifully constructed sentences that are complex in their very simplicity, and razor-sharp observations and insights into the strange tangle of emotions and contradictions that make us all so tenderly and sadly human.

We watched a tragic gay romance movie last night, Firebird, which was based on a true story from the days of the Soviet Union and its homophobia (still a thing in Russia to this very day, never forget). It was very well done, but it was also sad as such stories always are, with the kind of bittersweet ending where the truly conflicted one ends up dead and the one who isn’t moving on with his life stronger for the experience. So, no, not the feel-good gay movie of any year, by any means, so after that a few episodes of Awkwafina is Nora from Queens was just the ticket back from that downer.

Also, when I was dropping off books at the library sale, since I had cash on me (which is a rare thing) I checked the children’s section for series books I collect (I do this periodically, but only when I have cash on me) and I scored today with four books at two dollars apiece, and I had exactly eight dollars on me. I got three yellow-spined revised text (important) Nancy Drews (The Secret of Read Gate Farm, The Sign of the Twisted Candles, The Clue in the Crossword Cipher) which was the style when I started reading them so those are the ones I want. I already had copies, but the ones I already had on hand have been damaged over the years, and these were in excellent condition. I also got a tweed original text Hardy Boys The Mark on the Door, which I’ve never had a copy of (I only ever had the blue spine revised text) and have never actually read. There was no dust jacket, but it’s in really good condition. It’ll be fun to read it; per the fan groups, this was one of the books written during the time the original writer had left and the new ghost writers weren’t as good; and the plots tended to be a bit on the insane side sometimes. I am rather intrigued to read it–since they were all revised to get rid of offensive ethnic and racist stereotypes and language, it could be eye-opening.

I’ve also been reading Matt Baume’s marvelous Hi Honey I’m Homo, and am now up to the chapter on Dinosaurs, which I never watched. It’s really a fun book about how queer representation began and evolved over the years, as well as documenting the pushback against that representation (newsflash shocker: evangelicals have been coming for us every step of the way), and it’s written in an easy and accessible style that flows well. I’ve enjoyed his Youtube content, and I’m delighted to see that the book is in the same vein and just as well done. Highly recommended, and definitely more to come on that when I’ve finished reading the entire thing.

And now to my easy chair, to spend more time with Megan Abbott. Have a great Sunday, Constant Reader, and I will check in on you again tomorrow.

Essence

And here we are, on a very hot Saturday July morning in New Orleans, feeling rested and relaxed, which is becoming the norm and I have to say I really quite like it. I think some of it has to do with the lessening of stress and anxiety with the lightening of my over-all schedule; it’s nice not being constantly busy and always feeling guilty (anxious, stressed) about the things undone when I had to call it quits for the day from sheer exhaustion…and then of course that stress/anxiety/guilt made it impossible for me to sleep. I even cut back drastically on my caffeine intake during this period–cutting back to only three cups of coffee (which is probably still too much, really) and only one 16 ounce bottle of Coke per day. It’s helped my sleep some–and I am not willing to up my caffeine intake to find out, either–but I’ve been sleeping so well the last few weeks since I recovered from the trip that I am almost not afraid talking about it will jinx it…but the streak continued again last night. I’m not sure what the difference is–probably the reduction in stress and anxiety.

Finding out that my mother suffered from anxiety was also incredibly helpful. Finally, at age sixty-one, nearly sixty-two (less than a month away), I realize that I, too, suffer from almost crippling anxiety, but never realized it because it’s just my reality, if that makes sense? Everything stems from anxiety: the self-deprecation, the not taking my work as seriously as I should as well as being dismissive of it rather than proud, the issues with public speaking–all of it stems from anxiety. But that’s because it’s always been for me, I just figured, as one would, that it was normal and everything else has the same issues because that’s all I know. The Xanax has helped somewhat with reducing my anxiety or lessening it enough for me to be functional, and now recognizing that it is an actual chemical brain condition that I’ve had most of my life has opened my eyes in many ways, and I am trying to rewire my brain to accept and understand that anxiety causes me to want to self-destruct at times. I wish I had known this about twenty years ago, even forty, but would it have made a difference?

Yesterday wasn’t a bad day, really. I woke up later than usual (same this morning, staying in bed until just past seven thirty like a lazy slattern) and feel very rested. I spent most of the day going over forms doing Quality Assurance as well as did some on-line trainings. Once the work day was over, I repaired to my easy chair with my journal and scribbled notes in it for awhile until Paul got home from the gym. We watched this week’s episodes of Minx (smart adding Elizabeth Perkins to the cast for the second season), The Crowded Room, and Hijack, and moved on to some more Awkwafina is Nora from Queens, which is rapidly becoming one of my favorite half-hour comedies of all time (the queefing episode is a non-stop laugh riot, seriously).

Today I want to spend some more time on a kitchen cleaning project, in which I am cleaning out the drawers and the cabinets in the kitchen. Things tend to accumulate around here, and there are things that get tossed in drawers that I’ll never need, have never needed, and just held on to for some reason unknown to my conscious brain. I also want to work on the kitchen rugs (which never stay in place, ever) and the floors a bit more. I need to purge more books, too, and work on the kitchen. There’s a mess now because I cleaned out some things already and now that stuff is scattered all over the kitchen and I need to either find a place for it all or toss it, I also am going to spend some more time with Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman over my coffee and perhaps a few more Alfred Hitchcock Presents short stories before I run today’s errands: groceries, mail, library sale to drop off books, and maybe a car wash. The tire pressure light has been on in my car since I drove home from Kentucky, but the heat has been so intense I’m not sure I’ve been able to get an accurate gauge reading of the tire pressure; I’ll probably swing by the gas station before doing any errands to try equalizing the pressure again. I also want to spend some time trying to write today–whether it’s a new book project, a revision of a short story, or even a brand new short story entirely (that Malice anthology deadline is approaching), but I want to get back into writing again, flex and stretch those creative muscles that have been so dormant for so long.

I got the table of contents for another anthology that I am appearing in, School of Hard Knox, edited by the amazing Jeffrey Marks and coming from Crippen & Landau. The author of the Father Knox crime series, back from the Golden Age, had come up with a list of ten rules that should never be broken by a crime/mystery writer; we each chose a rule and wrote a story breaking it. Mine was “no supernatural events or beings”; which was kind of perfect for me. I dug out an old Alabama/Corinth County story that had been moldering in the archives for decades called “The Ditch,” which I revised and rewrote and made much stronger. I was pleased when the story was accepted, and I was even more pleased to be told that the copy editor thought my story was “powerful.” (I’ll write more about the story, and the anthology, when its release date is imminent.) I also got paid for my story “Solace in a Dying Hour,” and cannot wait to get my contributor copies of This Fresh Hell. I don’t know why I get so much satisfaction out of selling and publishing short stories; but subconsciously I think of each sale/publication as another knife into the corpse of that wretched college writing professor who told me I’d never publish. Given how revenge and “I’ll show you” will always drive me to prove someone wrong about me, I’m starting to think that professor may have been a blessing? I’ve certainly proven him wrong with over forty novels, fifty short stories, and over twenty anthologies edited, not to mention countless articles, interviews, book reviews, and essays I’ve published over the years.

Anyway, here is the TOC for School of Hard Knox:

Introduction – Jeffrey Marks
Not Another Secret Passage Story – Donna Andrews
A Matter of Trust – Frankie Y Bailey
THe Dinner Partty – Nikki Dolson
The Intruder – Martin Edwards
The Ditch – Greg Herren
Dichondra – Naomi Hirahara
Baby Trap – Toni LP Kelner
The Stolen Tent – Richie Narvaez
The Rose City Vampire: An Accidental Alchemist Short Story – Gigi Pandian
Chin Yong Yun Goes to Church – SJ Rozan
The Forlorn Penguin – Daniel Stashower
The Island Boy Detective Agency – Marcia Talley
Ordeals – Art Taylor
Knox Vomica – Peter Lovesey

Look at those names. I am so honored and thrilled to be in an anthology enabling me to share the interior with these amazing, glittering names. More on this anthology as things develop–release date, cover reveal, etc. I’m very excited to be in this book, which will be a strong contender for Best Anthology short lists next year, as well as the stories making Best Short Story shortlists. I’m particularly proud of my story, to be honest. I think my metier in writing is writing about Alabama, to be completely honest. I know I am known as a “New Orleans writer,” and to be sure, my greatest success has come from writing about New Orleans, but I feel more drawn to writing about Alabama now that I am in my sixties. I am sure some of it has to do with losing Mom–somehow, it’s like writing about Alabama keeps me connected to her in some weird, complicated and twisted logic only my brain is capable of making, but it’s true.

I’ve also decided that I am going to submit to the Nashville Bouchercon anthology, even though I am not going. The theme, being Nashville, has to do with music, and its being edited by the incomparable Brendan DuBois, who is a fantastic short story writer and has found enormous success as a co-writer with James Patterson (I also like Brendan; we served on the MWA board together and he’s really a great guy). I would love to be edited and work with Brendan, and I think the story I’m going to write for it is “The Blues Before Dawn,” a period New Orleans story from before the first world war, which I’d been thinking about turning into a Sherlock Holmes in New Orleans story. That might make it stand out from the rest, one never knows. It also could get selected out by the anonymous readers who could be homophobic–it happens, and one can never be sure if your story isn’t good enough or if its homophobia–another joy of being a gay writer of gay stories.

And on that note, I am making another cup of coffee and going to read Megan Abbott for awhile. Have a great Saturday, Constant Reader, and I am sure to be back again later.

Serpentskirt

Work-at-home Friday has rolled around again, and I was able to sleep a little later this morning, which was marvelous. The heat continues to be extreme here, and we’re in yet another heat advisory. I can only imagine what my power bill is going to be next month–but it’s worth every penny. I cannot fathom living here without power in weather like this.

Yesterday wasn’t a bad day by any means. I came straight home from work and lugged in my homework and laptop around the workmen (their business name has “patriot” in the title and their truck is painted in what can best be described as “Old Glory porn,” so I avoid them as much as possible) who are installing new gutters on the house. A locksmith is coming this afternoon because the handle on the deadbolt broke off–it still works, but it needs to be repaired–and we are probably going to get our new refrigerator ordered this weekend. I’ll need to do some cleaning and rearranging and so forth, but it will be nice to have a new one that works properly and has a freezer on the bottom instead of the top (I think I found one that will actually fit). I was a bit sad when I got home from work because that was my time with Scooter–when I got home before Paul got home. I felt antsy as I sat in my chair, realizing that I can’t justify sitting there watching videos on Youtube because no one needs my lap to reassure himself that I will always come home. I felt guilty because I didn’t have the excuse of a sleeping cat to continue sitting in my chair and relaxing after work!

We watched this week’s episode of The Crowded Room–seriously just give Tom Holland the Emmy now–and then another episode of something delightfully charming and funny that we’re late to the party to watch, Awkwafina is Nora from Queens. Oh my God, what a hilarious delight this show is, and Awkwafina is hilarious. She has stolen every movie she’s in that we’ve seen, and as I scrolled through MAX (I hate that rebranded name) it popped up the other night, and we started watching. B. D. Wong is terrific as her father, and the actress who plays her grandmother is hilarious. And every episode is relatively short, about twenty minutes–we’re always looking for a shorter show to fill in the final half hour of every evening before I go to bed; depending on when Paul gets home and finally unplugs for the evening and we get started watching for the night. (I also generally like to do some touch-ups and do some winding down before going to bed around ten, so I always want to turn off the television around nine-thirty.)

I have to run an errand for Paul this morning, and other than that I am most likely not leaving the house today. I do need to make a grocery run at some point, but I want to take books to the library sale, so perhaps I can do all of that tomorrow. I want to get some cleaning done around here, and if I am going to submit something, anything, to the Malice anthology for 2024 I would need to write it this weekend. Heavy heaving sigh. I don’t know. I’ve not felt particularly creative lately. I went over the copy-editor notes for the secret book (as soon as I have a cover, I’ll share it along with more information about the book itself) and turned them in yesterday, and I did try to write something last night. I didn’t get very far because I think my batteries still need recharging. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and words will start flowing out through my fingers onto the keyboard and onto the screen. There are some other stories I want to pull out and work on as well; I think its still adjustments to my new schedule, too, that are causing some of the problems. I don’t know how to explain it, but in some ways I feel like there’s been a cloud in my brain since about 2020; for three years I never really had a moment to rest or relax without the constant anxiety that I was forgetting to do something important. Between the pandemic and long COVID and my volunteering around my day job and trying to maintain my writing career during a time of vast uncertainty, it’s a wonder I didn’t have a breakdown of some sort…but I know at one point I just began running on accessory and lost all track of time and purpose and pretty much everything. I feel like I’m waking up at last, if that makes any sense (and it probably doesn’t, which is fine; I know what I mean).

I also have a lot of blog entries that have backed up; drafts I’d like to either delete because they are no longer timely (seriously, some are years old) or finish because, well, I like to finish things I start.

Yesterday I guess was the day of the moon landing anniversary, as it was all over social media along with remembrances. I vaguely remember watching a man walk on the moon on television; it was a really big deal at the time even if I was only seven–my parents were so awed and excited by the event that I remember both my sister and I being very solemn about the entire thing, even if we didn’t fully grasp the monumental achievement we were witnessing. It’s really a shame the way our space program has been allowed to decline, both in funding and importance to us, in the years since. I also remember the Watergate hearings, and childishly being irritated that it was being broadcast on all three networks so nothing else was on to watch. I was too young to appreciate that I was witnessing history, and too steeped in my parents’ values and beliefs to recognize fully that Nixon wasn’t being persecuted but rightly investigated for criminality and abuse of power. (Nixon wishes he had Trump’s loyal-to-the-death fan base.) This was around the time I began questioning my parents’ values and beliefs; it was around this same time I was baptized into the Church of Christ for more indoctrination and self-loathing only to have the opposite-than-desired result. I also have begun realizing that I don’t remember as much of my childhood on the south side of Chicago as I thought I did; most of that is blurry and foggy, which is unfortunate.

I was trying last night to find the right opening for a book project I want to write called The Summer of Lost Boys, with no luck getting the words i’d formed in my head onto the page. I also tried writing the opening for Voices in an Empty Room, with no luck there, either. I then tried to start a short story, and it too, got me nowhere before I finally gave up in utter frustration and repaired for the evening to my chair.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning, if not sooner.

Violaine

Oh, I got my final panel schedule from Bouchercon over the course of the weekend; as expected, I got my Anthony nominee panels only–but there are three of them, he typed modestly.

You can find me at:

Thursday, 2 pm: Best Humorous Mystery panel, moderated by Janet Rudolph, with Catriona McPherson, Jennifer Chow, Raquel Reyes, and Ellen Byron.

Friday, 9 am: Best Anthology panel, moderated by Holly West, with Art Taylor, Josh Pachter, and Mysti Berry.

Friday 1 pm: Best Children’s/ Young Adult Panel, moderated by Alan S. Orloff, with Fleur Bradley and Lee Matthew Goldberg.

Not bad. I have to get up early on Friday morning, but the others are at times when I am usually coherent and functional, which will be incredibly cool. I also am finished with everything by Friday afternoon, so I had all day Saturday free until the Anthony Awards presentation that night. This year, I get to lose three times, as opposed to my two losses at last year’s. There is, however, no disgrace in losing to any of my fellow finalists, as I like and respect them all very much; they all are great people who do phenomenal work and they all deserve much more recognition than even this will give them. And that Best Humorous panel? I think I shall say nothing and simply sit there being entertained by the quick wits of the four comic geniuses I will be on stage with.

Coming home from work last night was just as sad as I thought it would be. I ran errands after work–mail, grocery, gas–and had bags to carry and so forth. I was putting the groceries away when I realized I was listening for Scooter to come downstairs. I shook that off, put everything away, and then went to sit in my easy chair like always to rest for a moment before doing something else productive–I have a sink full of dishes–and as I flipped through Youtube channels I was bored out of my skull…and then realized there wasn’t any need to sit in my chair because Scooter didn’t need or want my lap anymore. That made me tear up, so I watched highlights of the College World Series, but watching Florida lose (almost as much fun as watching LSU win, which makes the College World Series final from this year almost more than I could hope for as a happy place for me) but it didn’t shake off the gloom… and I also realized I was staying in the chair so as not to disturb sleeping Scooter, who wasn’t there. I cried a bit and got up to start doing some more things around the kitchen. Paul came home from the office, and he was sad because Monday was a work-at-home day for him as a general rule, but he spent the morning missing Scooter so he went to the office after his trainer. I’ve been looking at adoptable cats on-line, but of course I want them all. There’s a gorgeous fourteen-year-old ginger that I am sure is going to be hard to adopt, but much as I would love to give his final years a good home losing another one so soon would be too hard on both of us. We need a cat that’s going to give us at least thirteen years!

But then I think do I have another thirteen years? Which I don’t like to do, because it will talk me out of having a cat because I don’t want to die on my cat. Sigh.

Yesterday turned out to be okay at the office, in case you were wondering how that went. There’s no telling, of course, what is to come down that road, so as Mom always said, why borrow trouble worrying about it? I’ll be coming straight home from work tonight; I have tomorrow off for doctor’s appointments so I don’t have to get up early and there’s certainly no need to run any errands since I can run them tomorrow. It’s a bit weird and awkward around there–I think the entire department is a bit in shock–but we’ll see how it all goes. The only constant is change, right?

I started doing some more research for a short story I want to write about an urban legend–it’s for my Sisters’ chapters next anthology–and I realized yesterday that I don’t have to do something Louisiana based, and it’s not like there aren’t plenty of urban legends in Alabama. I got another Alabama history book in the mail yesterday, Hidden History of North Alabama by Jacquelyn Procter Reeves, which is mostly about urban legends and secrets from the past of the north part of the state. Where we’re actually from is more central than north; the foothills of the Appalachians, if you will. There were some horrible atrocities committed on Union sympathizers in that part of Alabama by the Home Guard–I’ve heard and read some truly horrific stuff, seriously–which might be a good urban legend to write about. I’m having the best time looking into both Louisiana and Alabama history; it’s so much easier to write about a place once you know more about it; the more you know the easier it gets, hence research.

I’ve also been reading Matt Baume’s Hi Honey I’m Homo, which is about sitcoms of the 1970’s and their fledgling attempts at gay representation. I already have been enjoying Baume’s Youtube channel for years–queer rep in culture–and I’m also really loving his book. It’s fun revisiting these shows and remembering how closeted gay teenaged me watched the shows for their queer content, eager to see if that was, indeed, who I was as a human being. I’ll talk about that more when I blog about the book–some of the rep was good, some of it was confusing–but it is fun revisiting these shows from a present day point of view and perspective.

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.

Bluebeard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summerhead

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cico Buff

Saturday morning in the Lost Apartment and it’s a somber bit of a morning here. I’m still sad and a little in shock that Scooter declined so quickly, but in retrospect I am glad it was fast and he didn’t suffer for long. Skittle’s slow decline into death lasted months, which was terrible and heart-wrenching and soul-shattering. I decided that I am going to take the weekend off–no social media, no emails, no nothing. I am going to, of course, write blog posts–I will always try to write blog posts–but I am going to clean and organize and read and think and watch movies and television shows and so forth. This hasn’t exactly been my favorite year so far–how can a year in which you lose your mom and cat in less than half a year be a favorite of any kind–but it’s not been an entirely bad year, either. My life has always gifted me lovely wonderful things while at the same time gut-punching me with something awful; the other night when I realized i was caught up and/or ahead of most everything, I also thought which means something bad is going to happen–which is terrible, but I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially when good things happen to me.

I got some more Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies in the mail yesterday (Stories That Scared Even Me, Stories for Late at Night, and Stories Not for the Nervous), and I think it’s time to dial back on buying them, at least until I start getting most of them read. But to take my mind off my sadness I think I need to read a novel, so after I get the kitchen cleaned and organized a little better, I think I’ll probably curl up with Beware the Woman by Megan Abbott at long last, and spend the weekend with her. I think spending a nice, relaxing weekend is just what the doctor ordered, and you know, it’s long past time I did a really thorough clean of this place, and it shows. The condition of the apartment has deteriorated (primarily due to my laziness coupled with a general exhaustion I’ve felt the last few years) to the point that I hope there’s no afterlife; because if my mom can look down from heaven and see how slovenly I’ve kept house for so long…yeah, she’d be haunting me for sure. Several years ago I did finally realize that I am super-hard on my housekeeping skills because Mom was über clean; her house was always spotless and everything was where it went. Messes never lasted for more than five minutes in my mother’s house. She’d finish cooking and there wouldn’t be any mess left behind; something I’ve only managed a few times throughout my life…and yet it always felt marvelous when I was able to pull that off.

I also just realized/remembered that our anniversary is this coming week; the 20th, to be exact, will mark twenty-eight years of the Greg-Paul relationship. Twenty-eight years. I never dreamed that I’d ever find someone compatible to me, let alone have a relationship that would last almost three decades (if we can survive another two, we’ll make it to thirty), but I suppose I can do an “ode to Paul” on our anniversary, so I’ll table this talk for now. I do need to get him a gift; and I know exactly what to get him; I just have to remember to order it today so it may arrive in time…if it doesn’t, no big deal. We’ve both become rather lackadaisical about anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays at this point. They just are, and being together and still happy is the real gift.

Yesterday after I got home from the Cat Practice, I watched a true crime documentary that was interesting from a domestic suspense perspective; it was one of those “I didn’t know I was married to a predator” stories that I’ve always kind of wanted to do from a gay male perspective; lots of things to unpack, discuss, and talk about there. After the documentary, I put on the final game of the College World Series so I could watch LSU win it all yet again–mostly for background noise, really, while I waited for Paul to get home. After that, I was scrolling through Prime looking for something light and funny to take me out of myself, and wound up watching The Beverly Hillbillies, which is silly and fun and funny–still funny–but was so hated by critics and reviewers, despite resonating with viewers and being a Top Ten hit show its entire run. I never understood it myself, and remembered watching when I was a kid. My memories of the show airing weren’t strong, and so it was easy for me to go along with the mentality that it was low humor and tacky and clichéd and bad. I started watching reruns at some point as an adult, and was startled to see how misunderstood the show was; I may have to write about it sometime because it struck me as a particularly biting social satire on American culture and society. And it’s still funny; and the Clampetts are never the butt of the joke; the joke is always on the “city folk.” (Even while grieving, I still think about writing.)

I also listened to The Drowning Tree while doing my data entry; it’s really quite marvelous. But then Paul called with the news from the Cat Practice and that was that for the day. I’ll have to use some paid-time-off to make up for the afternoon hours I lost to handling the Scooter situation.

And on that note, I think I am going to go ahead and head into the relaxation zone rather than the usual spice-mines. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and if you have a pet, give them a big hug for me.

Theft, and Wandering Around Lost

Work at home Friday!

Not that I mind going to the office, of course, but I love working at home on Fridays because I don’t have to get up early. Although that hasn’t been much of a problem this week, in all honesty; I’ve not had to force myself out of bed one morning this week, not have I dragged and been tired all morning. I’ve slept well every night this week (probably just jinxed it) which has made a significant difference. I think perhaps my theory yesterday–the release of stress and the absence of anything causing me anxiety because I finally caught up–has probably had a lot to do with why I was able to sleep so deeply and well this week. Now, hopefully this weekend I can start making progress on a deep clean of the apartment, prune out some more books, and perhaps get some other things started. I’ve kept up for those most with the daily shit I always let pile up–laundry, dishes, filing–so I won’t have to spend much time this weekend getting that shit caught up, which is kind of nice; I am not behind going into the weekend.

I really need to do something about the cabinets, to be honest, and perhaps it IS time to reorganize the counters. And maybe we can order our new refrigerator this weekend. One can but dream, I suppose. I slept late this morning, which felt great, but we’re both a little concerned about Scooter. He’s not himself these last few days, and so we are thinking about taking him into the vet to get him checked out. He also hasn’t been howly-bitchy lately, either. He gave me a rather weak attempt at a fill my bowl you cretin this morning, but it was more sad than demanding. He is about fourteen, which I’ve been thinking about lately (sorry, death of loved ones is much on my mind this year, sue me) but I was dreading having to have the conversation about “we may be losing him” this soon. Last night when I got home from work he slept in my lap briefly but then gave up and went to lay on the floor in front of the dryer in the laundry room–he always likes it in there were one of the appliances (whether dishwasher, dryer, or washer) are in operation, I think the vibrations on the floor appeal to him and soothe in some mysterious cat-fashion–but I was doing chores and not paying attention to anything, then realized oh you should play Spotify through the computer and that was when I noticed that I had my iMessages app open on the computer and Paul had texted me around three to call him. I finally did when I saw the text around eight last night, and that was when he told me his concerns about Scooter, which while it saddened me that it wasn’t just my imagination, I was also glad that I didn’t have to be the one to bring it to his attention and talk him through it. He does seem better this morning, but I think we still need to take him to the vet to be checked out. Who knows? It may not be something fatal, but something that medications can clear up. It’s just that he’s so old; we’ve had him for almost thirteen years and they said he was two when we adopted him, which would make him fifteen. He’s such a sweet thing. And no matter how many times I tell myself well if we lose him we can rescue another cat from a grim existence inside a cage , and give him a great life, but that doesn’t help all that much, really.

The trade-off for the great joy a pet can bring you is the sorrow of losing them. On the other hand, I also wouldn’t want to outlive a pet, either; stories about pets whose owners/parents died on them always break my heart. I still mourn Skittle and my childhood dog, Sandy–and Sandy crossed the Rainbow Bridge when I was nineteen, so over forty years ago.

I’m going to try to keep my sadness at bay–Mom always said worrying was just borrowing trouble–and focus so I can be productive today and not get behind on things the way I was before. And work makes for a marvelous way of escaping sorrow, when it isn’t paralyzing.

I did get started last night on the pile of dishes and some laundry last night, which I need to finish this morning, I have work at home duties to do and a couple (how lovely that sounds!) of emails to answer. I want to finish writing some more drafted blog entries that have been there in my drafts forever–or delete them, accepting the fact that I will either never write the entry or it needs to be a longer form personal essay or its no longer topical. Clean the drafts out, Gregalicious! I was also a little pleased with myself for finishing two other draft entries yesterday–one about writing Games Frat Boys Play and one about my story “Solace in a Dying Hour”–the anthology This Fresh Hell, in which it appears, dropped yesterday and you can click on the title link there to order a copy–isn’t it lovely how I try to make things easier for you, Constant Reader?–so I am making progress on that front. At one point I was trying to write entries about each and every one of my books; I got away from that when life got out of my control yet again, and it’s not a bad idea to go back to this stuff. I think I had also stopped with both Need and Timothy on deck; I am going to try to get back on track with that. Hell, the older entries about Scotty and Chanse books might even be on Livejournal, of all places. (Ye olde blog is still up and findable over there; I used to take the entries private after a few months because the blog had been plagiarized a few times; but I think the last year or so are still up.) I’ll have to check to see. But I’ve been keeping Queer and Loathing in America since December of 2004; next year I’ll reach my twentieth anniversary of blogging. (!!!)

I also worked on organizing and cleaning up electronic files, which is much more time-consuming than one might think–as much as I love being organized, that sadly doesn’t carry over to my computer files, the cloud or the back-up hard drive. Ever since I discovered I can do file-searches for when I need one, I allowed it to get completely out of control, which was an enormous mistake that I regret to this day. There’s a lot of treasure in my files somewhere–ideas, thoughts, inspirational images as well as images from history that may be of use at some point with some book or story. The problem is I keep finding more things every day that I think well this will come in handy when I write X and so it goes into the files. I hoard books, paper, and electronic files, apparently.

I also realized yesterday that the new short story collection–which now sits at over seventy-seven thousand words–was missing a published short story, which, when added to the document, will take it over eighty thousand, which to me is the bare minimum for such a collection; so I could actually go ahead and add it in and send the collection off to my publisher to see if they want it or not. I’d want it to be at least ninety thousand, though, so I’d need at least two more completed stories for it out of the files. Something to ponder.

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

Highway to Hell

I realized the other night that, of all things, I take more pride in my short stories than I do in my novels. Isn’t that strange? Novels are, in theory, much more difficult to write than a short story–even at its barest minimum, a novel should be at least fifty thousand words while short stories generally cut off around a thousand. I think it’s because I still carry the scars from that asshole writing professor in college. I always struggle with short stories, and always have; I used to say that if I wrote a successful short story it was completely and entirely by accident. But writing erotica was an excellent tutorial in short story writing; in what other type of short story is “beginning, middle, end” so clearly delineated?

My first short story that got published outside of the realm of erotica was “Smalltown Boy,” which was published in 2003, I think. It’s still one of my favorite stories of my own; it’s an Alabama story and I am still very proud of it. I used to think I’d never get a short story published anywhere that wasn’t erotica, so when my stories started getting acceptances and published in non-erotica markets, it was very cool.

I like writing short stories because I can encapsulate an idea in that short form rather than writing an entire novel. I can also experiment with voice, style, theme, setting and story. I have any number of stories that don’t work but are completed; I have a lot more than were started and stalled because I didn’t know how to finish them. I think I have around a hundred short stories or so in progress; I actually counted a few years ago because someone asked and I didn’t know the answer.\

Several years ago, an Australian crime writer I’ve known for decades reached out and asked me if I would contribute a story to an anthology her publishing company was producing, The Only One in the World, which was a Sherlock Holmes collection–but the only rule was you couldn’t set the stories in London, period; I had never written anything close to a Holmes story and have never really been much of a Holmesian (I do love Laurie King’s Mary Russell series), but it was a challenge so I said yes–because for me, I love writing challenges because they push me out of my comfort zone and make me try things I might not ordinarily try. That story became “The Affair of the Purloined Rentboy” (still one of my favorite titles of all time) and it was a lot of fun to write, and I enjoyed the hell out of myself writing it…to the point I’ve considered revisiting my Holmes and Watson in 1916 New Orleans, several times.

Last year, the Sherlock editor, Narrelle Harris, reached out to me to see if I’d write something for a new anthology, The Fresh Hell, and there was a list of horror tropes we were given to chose from. Being from Louisiana, how could I not pick “haunted bayou”?

And so I started writing a story that became “Solace in a Dying Hour.”

Madeleine Chaisson opened her eyes and knew that the next time she shut them would be the last.

She cocked her head to listen. Even amongst those few (some say blessed, others cursed) who could hear them, most would describe the strange sounds they made as they danced about the dark, still waters as whistling. But Madeleine was special, different, not like the others.

She heard them clearly. She knew they weren’t whistling. They were singing.

But the sound she heard now was just the gulls over Bayou St Ferdinand shrieking as they swooped and flapped their wings looking for morsels of food. 

Dirty scavengers, she thought with a scowl. She hated the gulls; had since she was a little girl growing up in this very house.

How much gull shit had she cleaned off the dock during her long lifetime? Papa would backhand her if he saw any of the dried white splotches with black pellets on the dock when he brought the boat back in from a day shrimping out in the Gulf.

‘It rots the wood, you lazy cochon,’ he’d say in his sing-song southeast Louisiana Cajun accent while she rubbed her stinging cheek. ‘And who will have to rebuild the damned thing when it collapses? Don’t I already work hard to keep you clothed and fed?’

Even with him years in his grave, after she began wondering if that was even true, she’d still take the bucket out and scrub the gull shit from the weathered old wood.

If I were a witch like they always said, I could have snapped my fingers and cleaned it, she thought with a snort.

The new anthology debuted today, and it is available on Amazon and other sellers here in the United States; here is the link to Bookshop.org : here. This link is to the trade paper; there’s also a much more expensive hardcover edition as well if you disdain paperbacks.

“Solace in a Dying Hour” is another one of my south Louisiana stories. It took me a long while to get to the point where I was comfortable writing about Louisiana outside of New Orleans (don’t ever ask me about the colossal error in geography I made in Bourbon Street Blues…I SAID DON’T ASK!); I think my first was “Rougarou.” I also wrote and published “A Whisper from the Graveyard” since that one, and this is my third. I’ve started building a fictional world of Louisiana outside of the city over the last seven or eight years or so; it could be longer since I no longer have any sense of time anymore. I have revisited rural Louisiana in books like Need, The Orion Mask, and A Streetcar Named Murder; I have more stories and books I am going to write about my fictional rural Louisiana; I’ve also fictionalized the north shore several times already.

“Solace” is an homage of sorts to two other stories I really loved, “Do the Dead Sing?” by Stephen King and “An Unremarkable Heart” by Karin Slaughter. Both involve someone lying in bed dying, and reliving some pretty horrible things that happened over the course of their lives. I had been studying Louisiana folklore and legends for quite some time, but it was around 2017 or 2018 that I started really doing a deep dive into Louisiana history and culture. A co-worker had moved to Houma, which is deep in the bayou country, and she was doing the same. She was who suggested I write about le feu follet, the swamp lights some see. There are numerous definitions and descriptions of who and what le feu follet actually are; I decided I wanted to use the lights and the whistling aspects of their legend, and I wanted the story to focus on a woman who’s lived a very hard life and been through some things…but who could not only see le feu follet for what they actually are and appear, but could tell that they weren’t whistling, but singing. I also kind of based her on my maternal grandmother, a very quiet woman who never showed emotion and never complained about anything; things were what they were and you just dealt with them, period. I wanted to get that sense of quiet strength that you can usually only find in rural Southern women, that practical pragmatism that has gotten them through hard lives and a lot of tragedy.

My maternal grandmother was pretty amazing, really.

I am very proud of the story and how it turned out; the anthology itself is amazing, and the cover is gorgeous. I hope you enjoy it should you choose to check it out.