Monday morning and it’s back to the office with me this morning. Woo-hoo! It’s going to be an oddly truncated week, I fear; the holiday on Wednesday and then driving to Florida after work on Friday definitely makes me feel the sense of claustrophobia with time; the sense that somehow I won’t have the time to do everything I’d like to do so I don’t have to worry about being off-line for three days or so. Sigh.
I slept really well last night, which was great. I didn’t want to get up this morning–not that I ever do–but the clarion call of the alarm and the knowledge that I can’t avoid it for long gradually overtakes my desire to stay warm and comfortable in the bed. We had some amazing rain yesterday (I made groceries between storms and got home before the rain started up again here; I drove home from Midcity in the pouring rain but it hadn’t gotten here yet), which was nice, and I managed to get some things done around here as well. I still haven’t gotten to the floors yet, but that could just be something I do on Wednesday. I can’t quite wrap my mind around the holiday in the middle of the week, but a day off is a day off, right?
We finished watching After the Flood last night, which had a surprising twist but an unsatisfying ending. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but for a British crime show, that kind of last episode was a little disappointing. Your mileage might vary, of course, but overall it was a good show and we really enjoyed watching. I’d intended to start House of the Dragon last night, too, but was tired by the time the show ended and knew I wouldn’t be able to really give it the kind of attention it deserved, so put it off for at least another day. Paul generally works at home on Mondays, so we’ll be able to get our dragon fix possibly tonight.
I did get some work done on Never Kiss a Stranger yesterday, too. I pulled it apart and broke the scenes down into chapters, and now get to start piecing it all together again. I do think there’s enough story to be a short novel, probably between 70-80k, and I saw lots of places where things could be expanded or new things added; there’s a second story that needs to be woven into the text, which I always knew was missing from the story as a novella, I just couldn’t think of how to weave it in while keeping it novella length, and I think that particular subplot is maybe the most important thing to the entire story? Heavy sigh. I also started creating the characters in more depth, too, and began seeing what new characters were needed for the story. All in all, a very good day’s work. It’s not going to be easy expanding this out into a novel, and I enjoyed what I was doing yesterday; it was extremely satisfying, and again I had to wonder why I always have to force myself to write when I always enjoy it more than almost anything else in the world that I do. It was lovely feeling like a writer again, which is something I’m not sure I’ve enjoyed as much over the past few years. And yes, that is sad. What I did yesterday was mostly editorial and prep work, but it was fun in a way I don’t remember experiencing in a very long time. But that could also be my faulty memory? Stranger things have happened.
I also didn’t read as much of my book as I would have liked. I did find some shorter books to listen to on the way to Florida and back next weekend, which will be fun–I’ve really gotten into this listening on long drives thing, which is a very pleasant development–but I’ll take it with me this weekend to read.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I may be back later with a pride post. One never knows!
John Copenhaver, one of queer crime’s latest (and brightest) stars recently (you should read his books, frankly; I am looking forward to his latest, Hall of Mirrors) wrote a brilliant essay on the concept of writing complex queer characters, and the artistic need to push beyond ‘gay is good’ messaging and not worrying about the question of role models which you can read by clicking here. I highly recommend it–it’s well thought, reasoned, and stylishly written, and the kind of thing I wish I could write.
But reading this essay made me think about my own work, the pressures I’ve had–either real or imagined–about representation and addressing social issues through the framework of queer people and characters, and made me think about the work I do from not only a creative view (which is how i always view my work) but from a cultural, political, and societal perspective. That’s not something I’ve ever really consciously done (“oh, let’s make this political“) but one thing I’ve never done is worry about how straight people might react to my work…primarily because it isn’t really for them that I write my books in the first place. If my work offends straight people that isn’t my problem, nor is their whining about how queer people see and perceive them…and it’s not like there aren’t millions of books designed as comfort reads for cishet white people. I’ve also never understood taking offense at a book. I’ve read plenty of books whose point of view I’ve neither understood nor care to; and I tend to not read anything that I think is going to either offend me or be antithetical to everything I read–I tend to avoid Westerns, international spy thrillers, and war novels, and mostly for the same reason I tend to avoid most cishet white male authors. Your work isn’t written for me, and I can’t imagine westerns to be not problematic1–likewise, I’m not interested in reading about toxic male he-men that are racist rah-rah-rah books to make white men feel better about themselves (you know who you are) and so I avoid covers that pretty much spell out to me what the contents are going to be–women who exist only to be beautiful sex toys, any gay characters are offensive stereotypes and usually die, and so on and so forth; I love my country in spite of its flaws, and that love is strong enough to bear critiques on our nation and the people who run it, so I don’t need to read fiction designed to make me thump my chest and scream AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT at anyone who dares critique the country and its domestic and foreign policies.
If cishet white people enjoy my work, fine. If they don’t, well, as I said it isn’t intended for them in the first place.
first author photo
When I first dreamed of being a writer, it never occurred to me to write about gay characters or themes. I was a child, for one, and for another that child was terrified that anyone might figure out that I wasn’t one of the “normies”, and what I actually was inside was something they’d all view with contempt. When I was a kid I wanted to write a kids’ series, like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys, and even came up with multiple different ones that I wanted to write, and came up with a rather lengthy list of titles for the books (which I still have, because I’d still like to try this at some point before I die), and gradually moved on to wanting to write other styles of books as I got older and began reading more. My addictions to soaps, both daytime and nighttime, during the late 1970s thru the early 1990’s, had me looking at writing more about towns and large casts of characters, and I always wrote a murder mystery into my ideas for these Peyton Place type novels I wanted to write; I also wanted to write Gothic suspense novels, and Stephen King had me also wanted to write mainstream horror novels…and later on, I moved into wanting to write horror/suspense/crime novels for young people.
It wasn’t until I met Paul, and I found gay bookstores, that I realized I could write gay stories and themes and characters, and I decided I wanted to write gay crime novels, set in New Orleans, and so that’s what I set out to do, starting a novel called The Body in the Bayou, which I had already thought up as a series about a straight Houston private eye–so I made the main character gay and moved it to New Orleans. I threw out the first ten chapters within two weeks of moving here, and started over again.
Promo photo for my old training business
And then I found myself in the conundrum John talks about in his essay so brilliantly; is it okay to have queer characters be the bad guy? Do we have to write all of our stories and novels from a thematic viewpoint that ‘gay is good’? Do we as creators have a responsibility to the community to only present queer people as heroic, or can they be flawed or even bad?
Author photo from 2007
I’ve talked about this before–how the idea for the case in Murder in the Rue Dauphine came to me, and I also worried about how the book would be received because I was explicitly creating a case and a world where not all queer people were good people. It was inspired by a gay man who came to New Orleans, got involved in the non-profit world here, threw a bunch of money around, and then disappeared overnight as his house of cards was about to collapse, stealing a shit ton of money and owing everyone a lot of money. That was when I realized how we always are welcoming to other queer people and we can sometimes overlook red flags and warning signs because you’re working with another queer person. We tend to give other queer people the benefit of the doubt and more chances than we would a straight person…and I wanted to explore that in fiction. Shining heroes without feet of clay also aren’t fun or interesting to write about, either.
Gay isn’t always good.
Most recent author photo, and I definitely need a new one.
And we aren’t doing our readers any services by creating “perfect” characters, either. Neither Chanse nor Scotty is perfect (although Scotty’s definitely an idealized person, I have to admit, but he does have flaws and blind spots) and the main characters in my stand alones are often messy, sloppy people who need to get out of their own way sometimes. Those are the kinds of characters I like to read about–because they are human.
I also find gay criminality enjoyable to read. James Robert Baker’s books were like being slapped in the face; full of gay anger and revenge and bitterness about the homophobic world in which we all exist–but Baker’s messy characters are active; they want revenge on the world and by God they are going to get it. The Ripley books by Patricia Highsmith are magnificent. Christopher Bollen’s A Beautiful Crime was terrific with its messy gay characters perpetrating a fraud.
I think we relate to and enjoy messy criminal queers because they are so relatable to us. There’s no worse feeling than powerlessness, the inability to control your own destiny and life, and always wondering …is it because I’m gay? I’ve gotten angry about this any number of times during my life, and I have always wondered somewhat would this happen to a straight man? and the answer is always no.
But do read John’s article. It’s very well done and thought provoking, and I’m going to let it simmer in my head for a while longer.
Westerns would be a good discussion for another time, actually. ↩︎
We made it to Wednesday! Huzzah! Huzzah! Here I sit with my coffee on my middle of the week morning, and I feel pretty good, to be honest. I was very tired yesterday, but not in the “I can’t even think” way, but rather the “hmm, I feel fatigued” way, which is fine. Yesterday was Sparky’s birthday, and so I gave him extra treats and pretty much played with him for most of the evening until he went to sleep in my lap. He really is a dear, even when he has Big Kitten Energy.
It’s been a bit of a week thus far, hasn’t it? Who knew that Ginni Thomas wasn’t the most awful SCOTUS wife? AND THAT IS SAYING SOMETHING. I saw someone on social media suggesting we change it, as a society, from “Karens” to “Martha-Anns,” since that name isn’t as common and she is clearly the GALACTIC EMPRESS of “I need to speak to a manager.” Madame Torquemada wouldn’t think Isabella the Catholic wasn’t religious enough for her, and clearly she’d love to implement the Inquisition, too. Thanks again to the third party votes who gave us the president who would appoint him for your service–and again for your service in 2016. I mean, what a vicious, venomous little spider she is, sitting in her house brooding over people being mean to her, waiting for the day she can be spiteful–the irony is it doesn’t make her look like the wife of a Supreme Court justice, but the Alitos clearly have delusions of grandeur and think they’re superior to everyone else. Whatever, trash. Don’t call yourselves patriots when you’re preference is to wipe your ass on the Constitution, and I also love that Alito thinks he’s a superior legal mind to, I don’t know, say every previous justice, which is rather telling. He certainly should not be a judge. But again, me and everyone else not white-cishet were screaming from the rafters that 2016 was about the Supreme Court, and as usual, no one listened–and that was also the case with the 2000 election, too. Sigh. It’s the pits, sometimes feeling like Cassandra on the walls of Troy.
I do feel much more lively this morning than I have any morning this week, but that’s got to be the better night of sleep last night–best of the week, in fact. I have to go pick up the mail today, my copies of the new Paul Tremblay should be there as well as another book from my childhood, Stranger than Science, which I am justifying getting because I plan to use it in The Summer of Lost Boys, which makes it research. I started thinking more about the next book yesterday, too, and how to expand this novella out into a novel. I am of course still going back and forth on it; it could be a novel, or it could just be the novella I stick at the end of my short story collection, but I think it would be too long for that. I need to write the introduction for that and finish the final stories and get it turned in. I know that Never Kiss a Stranger is already about 23k words in length, and there are at least two other subplots I need to weave into it, which should make it all the more interesting. I’ve not done nearly as much writing this week as I would have preferred, but there’s still a few days left in the week, so I can hopefully make up for lost time. What I need to do is summarize what’s already done, figure out where to slot in the subplots, and then buckle up and do the work. Next week is also going to be a little odd; we have Wednesday off for Juneteenth, so I have to work two days, be off one, work two more, and then drive over to Florida to meet Dad for the weekend. Their anniversary is next week–the 20th, to be exact, so Dad wants to go visit Mom and then he’s going on down. It’ll be a nice, relaxing weekend, methinks.
I’m not even going to take my computer with me. I’ll be ignoring everything until I get back.
Today is also the anniversary of the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, God rest their souls. That resonated because of course it was a dance club, and I had images of it happening here at either Oz or the Parade, which is chilling–and I really hated that the reboot of Queer as Folk was set here and a club shooting was central to the story. Has there been a true crime book about that yet? I feel like someone should, but not me. I am not the right person to do true crime, because I write fiction, I’d probably be unable to resist the urge to twist facts and evidence to fit any theories I might have, and that’s a disservice to the victims. I have thought, numerous times, about the possibility about writing a true crime book based on this case I am following in Oklahoma–without actually talking to any of the people or visiting the area–because one of the more interesting aspects of it all is the reaction, and how it’s all playing out on just this one Facebook page I joined. It still doesn’t make sense that the investigation was so fouled up from day one. How did anyone ever accept the theory that he was hit and killed by the side mirror on an eighteen-wheeler, and besides, I don’t care how drunk you are–there are conflicting reports on how drunk he was, but the autopsy did say .14 blood alcohol content–you’re not going to be unaware of an eighteen-wheeler coming up behind you on a country highway. And there was no wreckage or debris of any kind where the body was found. Sounds intriguing, doesn’t it? At some point I’ll probably write a blog entry about this case, but I don’t think, as much as I believe I could base a compelling novel in it, that I’ll eventually do so unless I can come up with a artistic thesis (that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?) for it.
It’s funny how writing is like just about everything else in my life, isn’t it? The more I do it the better I write, the more I enjoy the other parts of my life, and if I take a break from it, it takes a while to shake off the dust and scrape off the rust and reactivate my creativity and my writing muscles. I also forget how to write a book sometimes, and that becomes a bit scary until I start remembering things, like oh yes you always have a point to the book you’re writing and you know what theme you want to explore, or I’ll remember something about the process and wonder if I’ve always done it that way because I don’t really remember. I am also finding I am forgetting a lot of the scenes and characters and plots of some of the books I’ve written, which is even scarier–what if I repeat myself, like with Scotty’s predilection for getting into car accidents? Heavy heaving sigh. This is why being a writer is an exercise in madness, really.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a delightful Wednesday; there may be a pride post later on; one never knows.
Tuesday morning and my alarm went off this morning–as well as the cat alarm–and so I am up, swilling coffee, and looking forward to my day. I did stop on the way home yesterday to get the mail and went to the gym to do Rehab. It was remarkably smooth, too–I was able to drive there, park easily, get in and out relatively easily, and get home. I feel a bit tired this morning, which is no doubt due to the unexpected rigorous exercise I put my body through last evening, so there’s definitely some muscle fatigue going on. We watched The Hit Man on Netflix, which was interesting and clever enough, and it was filmed in New Orleans–and that was the way to film in New Orleans; AKA, they just filmed it here like it was anywhere else, and didn’t feel the need to “Nawlins” it up (by which I mean constantly saying New Orleans, sending the characters out for beignets all the time, occasional mention of the Saints, etc etc etc), and there was only one scene where I was like, “if you work at UNO and live in Gentilly, why would you drive home via Liberty Circle?” It was a pleasant way to spend the evening, and it was a cute film; actually based on a true story here locally about an undercover cop (really a side gig) who played hit men in sting operations to arrest the person hiring him, and he’s actually good at it. Check it out, it’s a pleasant way to spend two hours.
I did spend some time writing yesterday, which felt good; I am now going to let that sit for a few days before marking it up with the proverbial red pencil (when I first started, you did use a red pencil or ink to mark up your manuscripts) and I am now going to start pulling Never Kiss a Stranger apart in order to piece it back together as a novel. I mean, why not? I love the main character, I love the minor characters, and the story itself is one I really want to tell and share with the world.
I also picked up the mail, and now have my copy of Summer of ’42, which I am hoping to reread relatively soon.
Hilariously, Harrison Butker (aka Hairy Butt) was in the news again lately for “saving” a teammate’s life, who’d gone into cardiac arrest. Turns out all he did was run for help–which, as someone who has been certified in CPR since 1997, I can tell you is the wrong thing to do. You’re supposed to call for help while starting CPR and ordering someone else to go for help, or to keep calling until someone comes. You’re never supposed to leave the person alone; seconds are critical and the longer before compressions starts the more unlikely it is they will be successful, not to mention the cessation of oxygen flow to the brain. Even if he was the person who was sent for help, it was hardly “his” heroism at play here; it’s really not all that heroic to go look for help when someone is having a medical issue. The irony that he got a female trainer to come out and save the man’s life–while getting the headlines for himself about his “heroics”; in many of the pieces the actual trainer’s name wasn’t even mentioned as they masturbated Butker’s fragile ego, as though saying to all of us who found his graduation antics in incredibly poor taste “see what a great guy?”
Given the other option was to let the man die, he literally did the bare minimum, but we’re supposed to call him a hero? No, heroes are my co-workers who run outside to administer NARCAN to an overdose and save lives. It’s become so routine now that no one even thinks about it, but watching my department immediately slip into crisis mode and work together quickly and efficiently to save a life is very impressive, and way more than Hairy Butt ever would do; he’d probably think the OD was God’s will or something.
The bar really is set low for cishet white men, isn’t it? They need praise for everything.
Sigh. The poor, sad, oppressed straight cis white man, right?
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Wish me luck, and I’ll do the same for you, Constant Reader, and there’s going to be a Pride post later, I’m sure.
Monday morning and back to the office with me today; huzzah? It was a nice, lovely weekend around the Lost Apartment, one in which I felt really good about my writing life and resettling into what is the new normal for my life these days. I’ve kind of gotten off the treadmill of endless deadlines and volunteering, and all this lovely extra free time has been spoiling me a bit, which is why I’ve not really been getting anywhere with my writing lately; I’m not used to the luxury of time, and now instead of scheduling my days to within an inch of their lives…I don’t have to do that anymore, and it’s nice. I need to adapt to reading every evening again, and doing some writing before calling it a day and repairing to my easy chair.
I actually overslept this morning. I set my alarm, but forgot completely that the power had been off, taking my alarm setting back to 12:00. Fortunately, Sparky was hungry, and he is relentless when he’s hungry (of course, he has no ability to feed himself, so ignoring him to sleep a little longer is actually kind of mean), and I looked at the clock and was like oh shit that was a close one. So he saved the day, kind of, which is always appreciated. As I sit here swilling coffee, I still have time to get to work on time this morning, despite having to assemble the carrot cheesecake and put the frosting on (I also need to make the frosting; I’m just doing homemade whipped cream–you can never go wrong with whipped cream, ever), and then load it into the cake carrier and hope I don’t have to suddenly slam on the brakes in the car. It’s generally not a great omen to start your work week by oversleeping, but I feel fine and I’ll get to work on time. The morning feels a bit off, but it’ll straighten itself out before long, I am sure. But I made the cake yesterday and pretty much have the mess already cleaned up, so there’s not too much to do once I get home from the gym today. I am thinking about making meatballs when I do, but I don’t know how much trouble I want to go to after the gym (yes, I am stopping at the gym on my way home from work; I even brought clothes to change into), and then it’s home to do some more writing.
I pretty much have decided that the next thing I am going to work on is Never Kiss a Stranger, and I am going to take it from novella to novel. It simply doesn’t work as a novella; one of those “way too much story to condense here” but we’ll see how it goes. I am not limiting myself on how long it’s going to be, and I am also not going to force it to be a novel, either. If there’s only enough story for forty thousand words, I’ll write another and combine them into one book. I also think the Chanse story I was going to write as a novella might actually be a novel, too. I also have another Chanse novel idea that I am going to explore, too. I am also not limiting myself to the Murder in the titles anymore, either.
The “christian” author who came for Dolly last week is really sorry she made everyone mad by claiming Dolly is not a good person because she doesn’t call out sin. Ericka Andersen isn’t sorry for any of her foul, unchristian values and beliefs; she’s just sorry she used Dolly as her example–which is hilarious; her entire piece is predicated on Dolly and her goodness; there’s really no one else she could have used. The backlash is everything she deserves and more; The Federalist also needs to apologize to everyone for running that disgusting hit piece, and whatever editor okayed it is too stupid to work as an editor at any time. Imagine signing off on a piece attacking Dolly Parton for not being Christian enough! Everybody loves Dolly; her icon status is only limited because we haven’t reached the stars yet with the good news of Dolly. Ericka Andersen–an admitted alcoholic who only got sober thanks to God (which begs the question, didn’t God make her an alcoholic? She clearly didn’t learn the lesson She intended Ms. Andersen to learn from her struggle with alcohol)–is the absolute worst kind of Christian, and I hope this follows her for the rest of her life.
Christ, not even Newsmax or OANN would have signed off on that piece. Jesus.
I did have a lovely weekend. It was extremely hot all weekend, so I spent most of the weekend indoors as much as I possibly could. Going to make groceries yesterday was absolutely miserable. I also need to get a window screen thing for my car; it gets so hot inside that it’s miserable getting inside after work, or any time during the summer. The car was so hot yesterday that when I closed the hatch after unloading the groceries I touched the metal and pulled my hand back, almost certain it had been scalded. It was not, but I used the handle after that–and even it was hot to the touch. Yay, and it’s not really summer yet!
We did watch more of The Acolyte last night, and followed that up with Easy A, the movie where I originally fell for Emma Stone, and the movie is very interesting, particularly from a “teen movie” perspective. It owes some to The Scarlet Letter, of course, and maybe what I should do at some point is a “teen movie” blog; how it evolved from the beach movies and Disney family comedies (think Kurt Russell as a teenager) to the teen sex comedies and John Hughes and so forth. But Easy A could have never been filmed back in the 60s and 70s, and probably not even in the 80s or 90s–because female-centered sex comedies are rare, and her character would have been seen as a “bad influence” on teen girls of the time. But the movie also parodies teen rom-coms, too, which elevates it over your average teen movie.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, everyone, and I’ll probably be back later.
Yesterday was an odd work-at-home Friday. Our power went in and out a few times during the day, and that threw everything off–laundry, work, plans for the day. But it did gradually and eventually all get finished in the end so Paul and I could spend the evening riveted by Under the Bridge. We only have two episodes left and it’s soooo good, and so delightfully queer-which was a delightful and unexpected surprise. Lily Gladstone continues to own the screen, and I can’t wait to see the final two tonight when Paul gets home from tabling at Pride for Saints and Sinners.
I slept really well last night, which was marvelous. I woke a bit later than I originally had intended, but that’s okay. I want to get some more cleaning done around the house this morning before I take books to the library sale, pick up the mail, and make groceries; then I intend to get some more writing done today. I did some more thinking about it last night before Paul got home, and I think I almost have the voice right. I also did some more research while he was at the gym–nothing like reexamining pop culture and the news during a distant time period (note to self: TV Guide archives must be checked as well), because it brings back memories, which also helps put me in the right mental place to write and create the story. I also kind of know how the story is going to go, and I also came up with another idea for the beginning, which I also really like. (I just had one of those imposter syndrome moments, where my brain suddenly panics and thinks, that isn’t going to work. Sometimes I really hate my brain…
During one of the power outages yesterday I decided to use the time productively and walked to the gym to do rehab exercises. It made sense when I thought about it–I mean, without power or Internet I can’t work, so utilize the time, right?–but after getting damp with sweat walking over there on a “feels like 105” afternoon, sweating more during the rehab exercise, and getting soaked with sweat walking home to a house without power that was getting hotter wasn’t perhaps the wisest choice? The power was still out for about an half hour or so at that time, so I took a very quick shower while the apartment began cooling down again and felt ever so much better. I also don’t feel exhausted or tired this morning, so maybe physically I am beginning to get back my stamina and getting back to normal, which is terrific. I was starting to worry that I was never going to do so, and I am nothing if not incredibly impatient.
I also watched Ode to Billy Joe yesterday (the film is on Youtube for those inclined to watch it again) because I’d been looking into Robby Benson for a Pride post, as he helped me understand that I liked men instead of women–so, so beautiful–and I realized I’d never watched this movie….and the movie, it turns out, is what fleshed the song out to give us a reason why Billy Joe jumped off the bridge; he’d been with a man, and the shame drove him to it because it was such an ugly thing to be that suicide made the most sense as an option. I’d heard the theory that he killed himself for being gay before, but didn’t realize it came from the movie…and the novelization of the script was written by Herman Raucher, who’d also written Summer of ’42, a coming of age novel and movie that were also kind of formative for me. Looking into it, it was released in the summer of 1976. We moved to Kansas that summer and the movie didn’t play locally, and I’d never watched any of its television airings. Anyway, the movie was interesting but there were lots of parts to it that didn’t play well for me today–I am always prickly about the way films have rural Southern people talk–but keep an eye out for my Robby Benson post if you’re interested in him.
I do feel good this morning, which is nice. I’ll go get cleaned up in a bit, but am going to work on either entries or the prologue this morning. I also plan on doing some rereading of my own work today–I am definitely moving Never Kiss a Stranger to the top of the to-write pile, because I am not entirely sure about the y/a I want to turn from novella into novel; I’m not entirely sold on the plot, to be honest. I also want to work on the kitchen this morning, too; I did buy the wrong vacuum cleaner (mine is a rug cleaner; so I can put water and shampoo in it to clean the carpets too, but it does work as a very powerful vacuum, so I’ll go ahead and use it–and maybe next weekend, I’ll clean the Oriental rugs with it.
Yesterday the right, through The Federalist, decided to come for Dolly Parton and basically call her a false prophet and a “danger” to Christianity. The recovering alcoholic who wrote the hit piece, Ericka Andersen, is about what you’d expect: a self-righteous born-again Christian who thinks she knows the faith better than anyone who ever lived or ever will live, which of course is apostasy, but she’s a soulless troll who got the attention she wanted. Andersen’s social media is now completely shut down as she is in the find-out phase of coming for Dolly. Dolly has not only given the world decades of amazing music and entertainment, she is also one of the most generous people alive, using her money and her fame to do good works in the world and is always kind and understanding and sympathetic; the woman literally loves everyone even her harshest critics. If ever there was an example of what it is like to truly follow the Christian path, it’s Dolly Parton–but you know, giving kids free books, donating millions of dollars to charity every year, and her incredible generosity to her employees at Dollywood? Sorry she won’t condemn people you don’t like, cosplay Christian piece of shit. And for the record, Megan McCain is married to the head of the Federalist Society–which is all anyone needs to know about what utter and complete garbage they are.
Seriously, they’ve come for Taylor Swift and now Dolly. Next thing you know they’ll come for Cher–which is something I would love to see them try.
And on THAT note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, and I’ll be back later, okay?
Tuesday morning and trying to get awake fully; my mind is awake and my body is, but I still feel a bit groggy. I slept well, which was absolutely lovely, and am sitting here swilling coffee and getting mentally prepared to face the day. I have to run errands tonight after work (prescriptions, mail, gym), and then I am going to come home and just chill for the evening, maybe do a little writing. I didn’t do any last night, because I wanted to watch the regional final (LSU lost in extra innings to the fourth ranked team in the country and could have won), after which I didn’t do much of anything just puttered around the kitchen doing chores until it was time for bed.
The LSU loss was disappointing, of course, but the Tigers made a helluva run in the post season. Just three weeks ago, no one thought they’d even make the post season, let alone get to a regional final. But then they had their amazing run in the SEC tournament, eliminating top ten teams left and right before giving Tennessee a run for their money in the final. So, well done, guys! Sure, another world series run would have been fun this year, but not having one does in no way diminish or undermine how magical last season was, or make it any less wonderful to remember. GEAUX TIGERS, and we’ll see you again next spring….and now it’s time to start gearing up for football season, which isn’t that far off. Woo-hoo!
I’ve been posting my Gay Moments in Greg’s Life entries, which has been kind of fun doing. Right now, I have several drafts in progress about dancing in gay bars, circuit parties, and body culture–which all will be interesting to write–and of course at some point I will probably write about HIV/AIDS. I enjoyed writing my Pride entry and the ones about The Other and Starsky and Hutch; probably will do Robby Benson, Playgirl, and Gordon Merrick at some point, too. I also will probably do some others, but right now I can’t think of what they might be. I’ve also started posting these longer form posts to Substack, too–if you’re reading them here, I don’t imagine there’s any need to read them there–but I think I need to start building up things; I don’t know if social media numbers or Substack followers or anything like that will matter in the long run in publishing. No one ever really knows what publishers are looking for or want; their criteria is ever changing but what isn’t is that the accountants also have their thumb on the scale. It is to my everlasting disappointment that my career started right when the industry began to substantially change from what it had been since the Depression to the disheveled mess it is now. At any rate, I think Substack is the place for me to post my personal essays, which is much easier than trying to find a place to publish any of them. Set a goal of perhaps one per week after the Great Moments in Greg’s Gay Life, or my pride celebratory posts are completed.
Something to consider, any way.
I know Substack is evil, but isn’t everything nowadays? The glory days of social media are, I think, finally past us; Twitter (fuck you, Musk) and Facebook aren’t nearly as much fun as they were over a decade ago, and kind of feel like some pointless obligation and reflex activity that really isn’t what’s cracked up to be anymore. It never really was, to be honest, and it was a horrible waste of time more than anything else, really. It also creates a bizarre illusory reality that bares no resemblance to real life. How many times have I been excited to meet someone because we’ve had a lot of fun interactions on-line, only for them to be like “who are you?” I noticed this early on, back in the days of Livejournal’s heyday when everyone blogged (and here I am, twenty years later–this blog will turn 20 on 12/26/24); you don’t really know someone from on-line social media interactions, and you’re certainly not friends. Needless to say, it was a learning experience (I never have really understood friendship, in all honesty; what I think it is clearly is not what other people think it is, and maybe that’s a me problem–which is why I always have so many walls I can withdraw behind, so many masks I can slip on; when you grow up queer in a homophobic society, you develop lots of coping mechanisms), and I always now just say “we know each other on-line” instead of “oh I love her! We’re friends”.
Now that social media has turned into what it is, I am not on it as much and…I don’t really miss it? And it’s very noticeable how much time I used to waste on it.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Hope you have a lovely Tuesday and who knows? I may be back later.
Monday morning, and back up before dawn to get ready to head into the office. Huzzah! I slept really well last night, and had no trouble getting up this morning, which I was a bit concerned about given how much sleep I was getting over the weekend. But I feel awake and conscious and good this morning, so that’s very promising.
LSU won both games yesterday (13-6 over Wofford; 8-4 over North Carolina) which puts them in the regional final, winner take all. I flipped between the games and whatever we were watching yesterday (we finished Anthracite, and caught up on Interview with the Vampire), which was nerve-wracking as always whenever LSU plays (I don’t stress or get anxiety over the games anymore–thank you, new meds–so I can enjoy it more, but yesterday I couldn’t bear the tension). I”m not entirely sure I am going to watch tonight’s game, either; I guess it depends on when it is. I also spent some time yesterday reading (The Rival Queens) and writing. I managed to get two or three blog entries posted yesterday, too, and I like that I am doing this “Great Gay Moments in Greg’s Life” type thing. I did Starsky and Hutch and an overall, general “meaning of Pride” post, and I feel pretty good about both of those this morning. I also worked on the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys, which I will try to get more work done on that today.
The weekend was good, to be honest; I felt good all weekend (if lazy–the thunderstorms had something to do with that, and yes, we had them yesterday too), and while I didn’t get everything done that I would have liked to, I’m pretty okay with it. Today is forecast to be cloudy but without rain, which hopefully will make it cooler–or at least not feel as hot. I spent most of yesterday under my blanket in a chair, which was marvelous. When Sparky wasn’t being Demon Kitty he would sleep in my lap, which was very sweet. It won’t take me long to catch up on my emails, either–I’m doing a pretty good job of staying on top of those, too–and I’m pretty much caught up on my day job duties, too. I’m behind already on the writing schedule I set for myself this year–but the beauty of that is that it’s my deadlines, and no one else’s, so missing them isn’t affecting anyone other than myself.
I also scribbled in my journal a lot this weekend, which is very cool to be doing again. Overall, I am feeling good again these days, which is great. I’m starting to feel connected to my writing again, and remembering that I don’t have to kill myself to get some done is not a bad thing, either.
This morning’s coffee is quite tasty, too, I might add.
All right, it’s time for me to get cleaned up and head into the office. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back later. If not, GEAUX TIGERS!
That M People song was released in the mid-1990’s, and has become kind of a queer anthem in the time since. It was used in the original American adaptation of Queer as Folk, and it gets played a lot during Pride Month. I loved the M People; I have one of their CD’s and they were prominent on my dance soundtrack of 1994-1996 (“Sight for Sore Eyes” is still a great song I have on Spotify playlists today), which is also a time I am writing about (sidebar: maybe “Never Kiss a Stranger” is a novel not a novella), so it stays fresh in my head.
Pride is a direct response to shame–because so many of us were forced to live in shame about who we are and just existing for so fucking long, we now choose to come out and be proud rather than ashamed of who and what we are, despite the bigots who continue to try to legalize oppression of us while all we really want is to be left alone to live our lives in peace. I will never be made to feel ashamed of myself for who I am any more. And no, I’m not sorry that my existence bothers some people because you know what? Their existence bothers me–-but the primary difference is I am not trying to force them to stop existing or even to like queer people.
Pride is of course one of the seven deadly sins for Christians—Proverbs 16-18: Pride goeth before destruction, And a haughty spirit before a fall. Better it is to be of a lowly spirit with the poor, than to divide the spoil with the proud.
So, the use of the way “pride” for our month of celebration inevitably brings out the faux-christians, screaming about sin and…but as I said, our pride is the opposite of shame, and we are reclaiming ourselves and refusing to be shamed for who we are anymore. And yes, the shaming always comes from christians cishets (I prefer the French pronunciation shah-SHAY) —you know, the ones who are supposed to love without question? And ultimately, my life and my sins are between me and God—and none of your fucking business.
But this post is for those of you who stubbornly refuse to get it: my sexuality doesn’t impact you AT ALL.
Why do they need a whole month? Veterans only get a day is one of my absolute favorites. First, the use of “they”, while politer and not quite as insulting, is really no different from the ever-popular bigoted “you people”; so I guess props are in order for being slightly more polite (although I suppose if they knew it was politer they’d use you people, or to be grammatically correct, those people)? As for veterans only getting a day while we get a month, well, I don’t seem to recall legislation being passed on any level of government legalizing discrimination against veterans. (Although the way our government treats its veterans is disgraceful–and as always, the war hawks who love to send young men and women to risk their lives, mental health, and limbs for a foreign policy predicated on ensuring corporations make as much money as humanly possible will always vote to cut or eliminate veterans’ benefits while waving Support the troops! banners and flags–because they are nothing if not craven, vile, and completely soulless.) The combined efforts of government and medical science were applied for years to criminalize and stamp out the existence of queer people. Homosexuality was still considered a mental illness (!!!!) until I was twelve years old. How precisely does one grow up well-balanced mentally and emotionally when you are repeatedly told that what you are is actually insane? (And coming from a family where mental health issues are genetic…and knowing that I had my own mental health issues already wasn’t helpful; I thought for a long time the two were connected.)
And for the record, May is Military Appreciation Month, and the fact they don’t know this makes a mockery of their religion, their intelligences, and their feigned concern for the military.
If the cishets had to put up with, for one day–a mere twenty-four hours–what queer people do every day, they’d become homicidal.
And telling people they cannot legally discriminate against a fellow American citizen is not forcing them to accept and/or like queer people; it’s merely telling them they must treat queer people with the same respect they’d treat anyone (oh, the horror). The entire point of this country, from its beginning (although it has often failed to live up to that ideal) is that every citizen is equal in the eyes of the law–regardless of anything that might make them slightly different, especially when the difference is so slight as to not be noticeable. I don’t know why this is so hard for people, I really don’t. (And yes the convictions of Greg Stillson last week affirmed this guiding principle for the nation and his worshippers choosing to not accept that is more example of their utter contempt for this country, period. Some ‘patriots’.)
And if you don’t want to be compared to Nazis, then stop coming for marginalized groups and scapegoating them. Your dishonesty is not only un-Christian, but inhuman. It is not for other humans to judge sin; that is, per your own Holy Book and what you theoretically believe, reserved for a God who is very jealous about what is His and what is not. I believe in Christianity as a game-plan or road map to being a good person and doing good things in my life; I do not believe in talking snakes or trumpets so loud they can make walls collapse or that having heatstroke on the road to Damascus was actually divine intervention. I do not believe Paul had visions of Jesus, so anything written by him in the New Testament is suspect and not gospel.
I am also willing to account for that, if need be, if there ever actually is a Judgment Day. But what I believe is between me and God. To paraphrase Cher, I account to three people: myself, Paul, and God.
What I do know is that if there is a God and such a thing as a heaven, going to church three times a week while acting like a hateful piece of trash the rest of the week ain’t getting your ass into your heaven. You’re literally doing the bare fucking minimum, and those three hours or so you’re spending in church are just a waste of your time because you aren’t learning anything or striving to be better.
And any heaven that welcomes people like Phyllis Schlafly, Anita Bryant, Maggie Gallagher et al is not my idea of heaven; spending eternity with those people would be Hell.
This year, Pride seems all the more important–certainly more than it has in years. I haven’t been to Pride in a very long time–I’ve been to a lot of Prides over the years–and probably won’t attend this year either; it’s too hot for one, and the older I get the less I like being hot, sweating, and tired in crowds.
I hate to break it to the homophobic trash, but nothing you say is original or something we haven’t heard a gazillion times before. I’ve said it before and will say it again: fuck all the way off. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when you aren’t concerned, for example, about the need to teach kindergartners what to do if there’s an active shooter in their school. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when the states passing the worst anti-queer laws are the same ones where child beauty pageants are the most popular. Where is the outrage about sexualizing children in that instance, Moms for Liberty? Yes, painting a six-year-old’s face like she’s a streetwalker and dressing her provocatively for a chance at a sash and a trophy is absolutely one-hundred-percent okay with you? These are also the same states that allow underage marriage and have almost complete abortion bans.
Moms for Liberty is just another incarnation of the hate group One Million Moms (who never ever had more than fifty thousand members); which is why I always say queers can never completely trust a lot of straight white women. (Let’s never forget that straight white women gave us President Donald Trump. Ever. This should be their everlasting shame.)
It’s also going to be interesting to see what companies and corporations will be making a play for queer dollars during Pride Month, while donating money to anti-queer politicians and stay silent when all these horrendous laws are being passed. Target? Anheuser Busch? Miss me with the rainbows and pride statements this year. You have a chance to stand up when it mattered and instead you turned into pathetic sniveling cowards waving a white flag–proving that your so-called “commitment” to equality and my community was nothing more than a disgusting, shameless attempt to attract queer dollars and the money of our allies. Shame on you both. I don’t drink beer, but when I did I drank a lot of Bud Light in gay bars because of their support of the queer community. But when they had an opportunity to take a principled stand for equality and against bigotry, they crumbled like a finely aged feta. Same with Target, which was even sadder because they had been so supportive. But I will never step inside another Target and I will never order from their website. My Target credit card will get paid off as quickly as possible so they make as little money from me in the future as possible, and I have already cut it up because I will never support that shitty, backstabbing, cowardly piece of shit company again.
I’ve always kind of had an issue with the corporatization of Pride over the years. Yes, I get it; they are usually non-profit organizations who need to raise money to pay expenses and put the show on. You need donors for that–as every nonprofit does–and so the swing to wooing businesses and multi-billion dollar corporations began…as well as the complaints about the merchandizing of Pride. But Pride was, and always has been, an event to celebrate every color in our rainbow and to show the world that we’re here and we aren’t going anywhere; we are not ashamed nor will we be shamed. We aren’t going back into the closet for anyone. Period.
It’s always amused me to listen to people complain about Pride, with the leathermen and the kink fetishists and the drag queens. “I don’t want my kids to see that!” Then keep your fucking kids at home. Any Pride that turns it back on any part of the community is notPride. I’m tired of being penalized because other people have had children—your children are NOT my responsibility.
I already pay taxes to educate them.
I also hate the shaming of kink; the attempt to remove drag queens and the leathermen and so forth from Pride celebrations because that makes the straights uncomfortable frankly disgusts me. Just because some queers have issues with kink—well, that’s their problem, and if anything, we all should be grateful to them. The leathermen and drag queens were out and proud when a lot of their current critics cowered in their closets, while the kinksters and queens were out fighting for the rights of the cowards, creating a community and a world in which they were free to come out…only to want to drive the people responsible for that freedom and community out of Pride. “I want to bring my kids to Pride but I don’t want them to see that.”
What the fuck, people? Don’t you understand that the only reason you can be queer in public with your kids is becauseof the very people you don’t want your children to see? It’s bad enough the straight use “the children” to try to take away our rights; it’s even worse when people within our community try the same tactics. I don’t know, maybe reexamine your own internalized homophobia rather than trying to reshape the community?
The original Prides were protests, and the original parades were protest marches. Seeing how Pride has, over the years, sold its soul and meaning to corporate sponsors saddens me. Those sponsors are mostly interested in queer dollars only (see: Target and Budweiser) and not in actually supporting the community and our rights (see: Target and Budweiser); you can tell by how quickly they back down when the Christofascists have a problem with their support of our community (see: Target and Budweiser).
That shallow support is unwelcomed and unwanted and very transparent.
Learn your history, queers. It wasn’t that long ago—during my own lifetime—that our sexuality stopped being considered mental illness. We’ve come pretty far in those fifty years, but we have a long way to go and the fight is not over. So, come out to Pride, and celebrate our hard-won freedoms. Be visible; because that visibility might help someone else come out and stop feeling shame. Create and live and love and vote and above all else, maintain queer joy in your life.
Because all of those things? Well, they’re also victories.
The big news of yesterday is that I actually revised, copy-edited, and finished a short story last night. Woo-hoo! The deadline for the anthology is not until this weekend, but I think I’m going to reread it one more time and then go ahead and pull the trigger. The last story I sent out was rejected, so a sale would be nice this time around. But if not, I’ll just put my nose to the grindstone and try, try, try again. I can always put this into the collection–and writing the introduction to the collection is on my to-do list for this week. I think June is going to be here sooner than I was thinking–the holiday really has messed up my already fucked-up sense of time–which isn’t ideal, but it’s fine. I want to get this one manuscript finished in June–and maybe the collection, too–and then I can move on to my next manuscript.
See? I am starting to feel ambitious again, and that’s been a long-time coming.
I slept very well last night, too, which was a very good feeling and of course tomorrow I don’t need to set the alarm as it is Work-at-Home Friday for one Gregalicious. We started watching a new Netflix show called Bodkin, which is really quite enjoyable–the first episode wasn’t terribly promising, but it really takes off in the second episode and continues to build. It also has a lot more depth than it seemed to at first, and I am looking forward to getting deeper into it tonight. I also am going to try to do some more reading this evening, after doing some more writing. My next goal is to revise the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys–probably tonight–and then tomorrow after work-at-home duties I’ll work on finishing the revision of “When I Die,” and this weekend I can get to seriously working on my next book. I came up with a very ambitious writing plan for the rest of the summer; so we’ll see how that works out. But–Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, it’s also completely do-able. There will be times, I know, when I will need to rest and not risk burn out again, and that could affect the schedule. The key is to be flexible, and not get down on myself, for therein lies the path to crippling anxiety and creative paralysis.
But damn, it feels good to feel excited about writing again rather than seeing it as an odious chore…especially when life sometimes feels like everything is an odious chore. I still have to try to fix the garbage disposal, which is irritating not to have, and I still need to really do something about the floors. I think if and when I get my tax refund, I am going to use it to buy a new vacuum cleaner, one that is heavy duty and not only will work, but continue to work with little to no maintenance. I don’t know what is wrong with my current one, but I am going to go through the manual and see if I can’t figure out how to get it to work properly; if that fails, I’ll be getting a new one. Big plans for my weekend, right? The excitement really never lets up around here, let me tell you.
The Louisiana lege, in an effort to create a state more repressive than Puritan Massachusetts, passed two bills yesterday targeted at queer people: a bathroom bill, and a “don’t say gay” bill, which are now heading to our Christo-fascist governor’s desk to be signed…and thanks to the illegitimate Supreme Court, these laws will likely be upheld. Thanks again, protest voters in 2016. So glad Hillary wasn’t “pure” enough for you–and everything she warned about that summer has fucking come true. I will never forgive protest voters in 2016, and no one else should, either. There is no telling what other horrors Republican state legislatures and governors are going to do, now that they know they have a joke court upholding all of their un-American and un-constitutional laws. Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas are making a mockery of the Constitution and legal ethics, and John Roberts either doesn’t care or applauding them behind the scenes–so he is also unfit for office. That’s three who need to go right there–and Kavanaugh, Gorsuch and Barrett shouldn’t even be there in the first place. So, hey, Susan Sarandon–miss me with your fucking ally-ship to my community, you narcissistic bitch. I will never watch anything with her in it–and that means never seeing some classic movies that mattered to me again, and frankly, I can live with it. Glad you don’t vote with your vagina.
And on that note, I am going to bring this to a close and head into the spice mines for my last day in the office this week. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader–unless you’re a Louisiana Republican, in which case you can rightly and justly fuck all the way off.
