Category: short stories

If We Make It Through December

I finally slept last night, and it felt amazing. I could have easily stayed in bed for another two or three hours, but that 9-to-5 is calling to me (well, 7:30-4:30, but you know what I mean). I was worried that I was getting sick–surgery recovery, medication changes, not being able to sleep, dehydration, occasionally feeling slightly feverish, and some occasional nausea (while eating, so I wasn’t eating as much, either. My COVID tests were always negative (still are, this morning), so I have to put it down to simply being exhausted from not being able to sleep, because this morning I feel good, if a bit sleepy. Everything was dragging ass last night when I got off work; but I made myself run the needed errands on the way home, and thus today I am really delighted to know that I can come straight home from the office and get caught up on some other things. I also did some chores, despite feeling like I was at death’s door by the time I got home. (And I am so glad I bought that wagon; it makes life so much easier and I will continue to use it even after the brace is gone and my arm is healed.)

Insomnia is the worst. I don’t know how people who have it chronically manage, seriously. One night is bad enough, but a couple of nights in a row is enough to completely derail me, so I cannot imagine having it every fucking night. I mean, it wouldn’t really take much to drive me over the edge anyway–I always have such a delicate grip on my sanity as it is, without having further contributing factors. I was too tired to read last night, so I figured doing chores was the right way to go with everything last night. I did think about the new book I am writing, so even though I didn’t add to my word counts yesterday, I did think about where the book needs to go, and thinking about what I am writing and puzzling out the plot and where the book needs to go next counts. We also finished Big Vape last night, which was really interesting and made me think about a lot of things, and started A Murder at the End of the World while we wait for Prime to drop season two of Reacher, which is finally launching this Friday (huzzah! I love Alan Ritchson, and have since he first appeared as Aquaman on Smallville), and of course the bowl games are also starting this weekend–but there really aren’t many this early that I care about watching; most of the bowls end up serving as background noise while I do other things–clean, prune the books, write in my journal, read, edit pages–but seriously, now that I’ve slept well for one night, I feel like I can conquer the world again, and I’ve not felt that way in a very long time. It’s a nice feeling, really.

This year has been, as I said, a rollercoaster that doesn’t seem to be coming back to the station any time soon, and this wild up-and-down ride this year has made me reflect on who I am, why I am who I am, and reset my brain and attitudes about a lot of things because once I realized oh this is why you’re like this and that and so forth I could dissect, and rethink those attitudes–a lot of which was childhood training about how to approach life, which I inevitably took to extremes. Be humble and don’t brag became self-deprecating to the point that I would think or say things about myself or my career that would be horribly offensive if said by someone else…because in my chemically-unbalanced brain, criticism won’t bother you as much if you preempt it, which is the same weirdly off mentality that led to the complete lack of self-esteem about my body and my looks and my intelligence and well, pretty much everything….which means that I was always looking for affirmation from others, and when it didn’t come, it simply confirmed the negative things I was thinking and/or saying about myself.

There’s nothing wrong in being proud of yourself; as my friend Laura says, “Sing out, Louise!” because the obverse of the way I think about negative commentary (“need to fend this off by beating them to the punch”) also works the other way–“If I don’t believe in myself, why would anyone else?”

And I am proud of myself, and the writing career I’ve somehow managed to blunder and stumble my way into. As the tarot card reader told me when we first moved to New Orleans twenty-seven years ago, I did become an author but it’s nothing like I ever dreamed of, imagined, or considered possible. I’ve written so many books, short stories, essays, book reviews, blog posts, and edited so many anthologies that I am not even sure how many there are now–and it’s even more than most people know, because there are pseudonyms I’ve never publicly claimed and books that were ghostwritten or work for hire under a veritable plethora of other names. I think my last six (!) books (Royal Street Reveillon, Bury Me in Shadows, #shedeservedit, A Streetcar Named Murder, Death Drop, and Mississippi River Mischief) are some of my best work, and the last few short stories to come out (“The Rosary of Broken Promises”, “This Thing of Darkness”, “The Affair of the Purloined Rentboy”, “Solace in a Dying Hour”, and “The Ditch”) are also some of my best stories. I am very pleased with how I’ve grown and developed in my writing, and I want to continue to grow and develop and keep getting better. My biggest fear is that my best work is behind me and I’ll keep going, getting worse with every new project until finally no one is buying anything I write anymore. I’d still write, anyway–I’ll be writing on my laptop on my death bed, and they will have to pry it from my cold dead fingers–and probably self-publish or something.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines on this cold morning in New Orleans. Have a marvelous Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in later.

Christmas Time Is Coming

Tuesday morning, up early and dark is pressing up against my windows. I slept better last night than I have since Friday night, but woke up out of a deep sleep to go to the bathroom around two in the morning and wasn’t able to get back to it–my body was relaxed completely and resting, but my mind was still working. I feel rested this morning but I don’t know how long that’s going to last…I imagine I am going to run out of steam at some point this afternoon, but I also have to get the mail and make groceries, too. I had also wanted to cook some things for dinner tonight–or to at least have something to take for lunch this week (today is a Lean Cuisine). I feel better, though, this morning than I have in a few days upon waking, so I am taking that as a good sign. It’s been nice having all this out of the office, but it’s kind of weird going back. Outside of unemployment periods, I don’t think I’ve ever not worked for this long since probably high school?

I hope I can remember how to do my job.

It’s also cold this morning–forty-nine degrees, according to my phone–which makes going outside less agreeable and certainly undesirable. I can put the brace on over a jacket, take it off to remove the jacket and put it back on, which makes total sense and I don’t understand why this is something I am initially hesitant to do? The PT went well yesterday and I have the full range of motion back for the elbow; and my fingers are getting more dextrous and ny hand grip stronger. (I kind of felt guilty when he said, ‘yes, keep doing your home exercises because they are working’–because I haven’t been doing them…I told you, I am a terrible patient.) I was exhausted from the PT and from not having slept for two nights, so I wound up not doing much of anything yesterday other than reading deeper into Calypso, Corpses and Cooking by Raquel V. Reyes, which I am enjoying–I really like her character, Miriam–and a likable main character is crucial in a cozy mystery. Nurse. Sparky spent most of the afternoon curled up asleep in my lap, which was comforting and calming and adorable, and then when Paul got home we started watching the Big Vape documentary on Netflix (I think?), which is interesting and got me started thinking about smoking. I smoked from ages 16 to 50, a whopping 34 years, before finally quitting, and frankly, I don’t miss it. I do remember how much i used to actually enjoy smoking, but I’ll never smoke another cigarette in my life. The cultural view on smoking certainly has changed over the course of my life–when I was a kid, you could smoke anywhere and pretty much most people seemed to smoke. My parents did, my grandparents did (not my maternal grandmother; Mom was the only smoker in her family, but pretty much everyone on my dad’s side did), and they used to smoke with the windows up with us in the car. No one thought much about it, of course; despite the surgeon general’s warning about carcinogens getting more and more explicit and fervent as the years passed. I tried smoking in junior high but didn’t inhale, and didn’t much care for it; I tried again the night I graduated from high school and essentially smoked for the next thirty-four years. I still smoked cigarettes when I started writing–which is why Chanse was a smoker and all of his friends were (I did get some pushback from readers about the smoking; a friend who was also a smoker joked that his favorite thing about Murder in the Rue Dauphine was that all the good guys smoked and all the bad people didn’t) but I never really addressed him quitting in the books; I just stopped writing him as a smoker after I quit–and the reason I quit was because Skittle died from cancer. That guilt–that I helped contribute to Skittle’s death–was all it took, even though the cancer he had wasn’t caused from second-hand smoke…just the thought that it could have been a contributing factor was too much for me and I refused to do that to another cat–because by then we were definitely confirmed cat people and it just doesn’t feel like home without a cat in it.

There will be more on Big Vape when we finish watching.

I also am going to be getting back to writing. I signed a contract for a sequel to Death Drop and need to get that finished and out of the way. I wasn’t able to get as much done during this lengthy time off because, well, I had surgery and the recovery–while not as painful as i feared–did drain a lot of my energy, and the enforced rest also made it a little harder to get motivated. I did manage to read more than usual, but the ceiling disaster and repair, the recovery, the physical therapy, and the just now changed medications to deal with my brain chemistry issues was a lot to deal with. I’m also not beating myself up over not getting more done because for fuck’s sake, even as mad as I get at myself for not getting things done…I’m giving myself a break on this. It’s not been an easy year, from beginning to end; but like I always say–if you’re going to have bad things happen, isn’t it best for them to happen all at the same time? That probably sounds insane, but in all honesty–when Paul was attacked and lost his eye? That was the best time for the Christian scum to come for me because I was so focused on getting Paul through what he was dealing with that I couldn’t give them very much attention, one way or the other. (At any other time, I would have been freaking the hell out.) And the weird thing is, professionally this was a great year. I was nominated for an Agatha and a Lefty for the first time, I was nominated for three Anthonys, and I have two books out, and I did some short stories that I am pretty damned proud of–it’s just weird that the highs always come with the lows…or maybe the highs make up for the lows? That’s probably the best way to look at it.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back at some point.

Used to Be

Up earlier than I’ve been since the surgery to go to physical therapy at nine this morning. I don’t mind getting up earlier, to be honest; I’ve been sleeping so much since coming home from the hospital I was actually getting worried that I may not ever want to get up early again. Six next week for work is definitely going to be an adjustment, but in some ways I am really looking forward to going back to the office and getting back into that routine. I slept well last night–Sparky of course was looking to be fed around five, but I went right back to bed. I think Sparky will work as my first alarm, before the actual alarm starts blaring at six. It feels a bit chilly this morning in the apartment, and I do need to shower before I head uptown for my appointment.

They finished the ceiling yesterday, thank heavens. All that is left to be done is rehanging the ceiling fan and painting, and I think that’s not going to happen until I am back to work. The roofing guys (I think they are construction of all types, actually) are super nice and helpful–you never know what you’re going to get with blue collar workers, but they didn’t seem to have any issue with Obviously Homosexual Greg; they even rigged a temporary fix for the soft spot in the living room floor–and shared with me that eventually they will be getting around to reinforcing the floor with steel so we never have to be worried about falling through the floor (one of the great and many joys of old homes in New Orleans), which is kind of a relief…although we had gotten used to that soft spot in the floor, I sure as fuck won’t miss it if and when it’s gone.

While they were working, there was naught for me to do except sit in my chair and read, so I finished Donna Andrews’ Let It Crow! Let It Crow! Let It Crow! yesterday, and greatly enjoyed it. (It really doesn’t feel like Christmas until I’ve read Donna’s annual Christmas murder mystery.) Paul also worked from home yesterday, so we got all caught up on Fellow Travelers last night, which is really quite excellent, if horrifically sad and tragic–but as I said to a friend in an email yesterday, these stories still need to be told–if for no other reason than to remind people that what conservatives and right-wingers call “the good old days” weren’t so good for anyone who wasn’t white or straight. The story is built around the Lavender Scare of the 1950s–we all know about the Red Scare, but not about the full throttle purging of queer people from government employ–and it was, indeed, a horrible time of lives being ruined and people committing suicide. A lot of the things that happen in the show (and probably in the book) really happened; I think they fictionalized some people so they could easily maneuver around their story without having to stick to facts or create a potentially false narrative.

And as someone who spent longer in the closet than he needed to, and spent so much time completely terrified that someone would find out and my life would be ruined–I can understand and relate to these characters completely. The closet punished everyone–and it certainly punished the wives and children of these closeted, terrified men. I actually wrote a story set in that time period called “The Weight of a Feather”–my first ever historical fiction–about a State department employee targeted by someone working for McCarthy for blackmail, and how he handles the situation. John Copenhaver also writes marvelous novels set in the DC of the fifties with queer characters, Constant Reader, so if you haven’t checked out his work you really should, especially if you are interested in the period and even if you aren’t; these stories are important and need to be known. He’s also a marvelous writer; I do envy and admire the way he bends and twists language to create images and story.

After PT today I have errands to run–prescriptions to pick up, groceries to make, the mail–but it’s all going to depend on timing. The postal service doesn’t open until ten, but I suppose I could swing over to Midcity and get my prescriptions and groceries and swing by the mail on the way back home; after all, other than the PT appointment I don’t have to be anywhere by a certain time. And since there’s not going to be anyone doing construction work in my workspace today, I should be able to get some writing done, too. I’m behind, as always, but I feel like a strong push over the course of the next few days before I return to work can get me right back on schedule. And I haven’t yet picked out my next read–turns out my Christmas reading isn’t going to work because I don’t have a lot of Christmas books in the TBR pile; Donna’s was the only other one I had on hand. I’m thinking I should read cozies, to keep my mind in that world since that’s what I am writing–but my word, I have so many great books to get to! A delightful problem to have indeed, right?

And on that note, I am going to get cleaned up and head into the spice mines. I need to make a grocery list, and I need to list everything I am going to do today, too, so I don’t forget anything. I paid the bills yesterday, so everything is caught up at least that I am aware of, and so that was quite a relief. Enjoy your Thursday, Constant Reader–I’ll be back later to write up my thoughts about Donna’s latest two mysteries at some point.

You Can’t Hurry Love

One week from today I return to the office, and in a little while I’ll be heading to my first physical therapy appointment. I’ve not been outside for a few days–seriously, this recovery has only helped play into my “I don’t want to leave the house” mentality, and it’s amazing how quickly I slide into that–and it feels cold. The roofers came by yesterday and chased me out of the kitchen so they could rip the damaged ceiling out; they will be returning to day to fix it. It was okay, though. I stayed in the living room and brainstormed and worked out the next few chapters of the book, and I also read two books. One was a reread of a book I read as a kid, Danger at Niagara by Margaret Goff Clark1, about a fifteen year old boy who lives along the river during the War of 1812, and the other was the second-to-most recent Donna Andrews, Birder She Wrote2—I couldn’t bring myself to read the books out of order so I could get to the Christmas one sooner, but at least now I can dig into this year’s Christmas mystery by Donna. (There will be more on both books later; I don’t have time to write about them before I leave for PT, and the roofers will be here when I get home. I imagine this means I’ll be reading the Christmas book and brainstorming ideas for my book while they put in the insulation and new ceiling and rehang the ceiling fan.)

I slept super well again last night–and woke up at six, so that’s still wired into my brain, which is a good thing; getting up to go back to the office next week will not be as big a challenge as I feared; I was also wide awake and it took me a while to go back to sleep, and I had a nightmare in that brief hour or so–oddly enough, it was about leaving a faucet running and the apartment flooding and having to clean up the mess while thinking I don’t have time for this. Subconscious deadline fear? Perhaps. But I do feel a lot more confident about writing the book now, and it’s just a matter of being able to sit down for a few hours every day and writing it, and I need to stop pressuring myself to get it right the first time.

We got caught up on Monarch: Legacy of Monsters, which is really well done and very interesting. I hadn’t realized that it all hadn’t aired yet, so we are now caught up through everything that is available to stream on Apple TV, and then we moved onto the Showtime mini-series based on Thomas Mallon’s novel Fellow Travelers, which I have a copy somewhere in the massive TBR stack and have wanted to get around to, if for no other reason than it’s set in the same period as Chlorine, which I have decided I am going to go. back to once I have this new drag queen cozy finished. Yes, that’s right, I’ve decided that once I finish this draft, I am going to go back to Chlorine and try to get a first draft done while alternating with Muscles, and hopefully I will finally get first drafts of each finished by Carnival–which I can easily do as long as I stay motivated. This morning I feel like I can conquer the world again, and I haven’t felt like that in years; it’s been so long I can’t remember the last time I felt so confident in myself. It feels good. I ain’t gonna lie; I’ve been down, depressed, and feeling defeated now for quite a long time–I think going back to buying my car, which, while it was exciting to actually have a new car, that thrill died as I started realizing how much that car payment was damaging my finances. I paid off the car right as the pandemic started, so I swapped out one stressful headache for the overall societal depression everyone was feeling at that time, and I never really recovered or got my equilibrium back, if that makes sense? And of course, I bought the car right around the time Mom’s health went south, so that was also always in the back of my head.

But I am going into the new year with hearing aids and my teeth fixed; and the injury to my left arm repaired. Once I finish the strengthening physical therapy for that (which can’t start till the end of February), then I can start going back to the gym. And that actually makes me excited and anticipatory; I’m not so concerned about looking great as I am about feeling good–there’s absolutely no vanity involved in my wanting to get back into a regular exercise regimen. I think I am going to start taking walks around the neighborhood, if for no other reason than to see the Christmas decorations, and New Orleans always does decorating up. I’ve also been backing up my back-up hard drive to Dropbox, which is taking quite some time, but once it’s all done, the future back-ups will be ever so much easier to do. I really need to eliminate duplicate files–there are so many of them it’s not even funny–and get my electronic storage under control. It’s really such a huge project that it scares me to think about how long it will take, and that’s mainly because of so many duplicate files, and the fact I don’t name picture files…and I am a file hoarder, which isn’t good–but is yet another symptom of my anxiety.

And on that note, I need to eat something before I go to physical therapy, so I am going to bring this to a close. I may be back later; it’s hard to say depending on how the ceiling reconstruction goes, but I will most definitely be back tomorrow morning. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you at the latest tomorrow.

  1. I have some serious thoughts about this book as pro-US propaganda, which i obviously didn’t notice as a child but were huge red flags on this reread. ↩︎
  2. I loved this book, as I do all of her books; it’s a remarkable achievement keeping a series this fresh and interesting this deep in; I think she might be at almost thirty in the series now? A master class in maintaining a long-running series, seriously. ↩︎

Let’s Go Dancing

Monday morning in the Lost Apartment after another terrific night’s sleep. I am really going to miss not getting up with an alarm when I go back to work next week. I’m not going to lie–sometimes this enforced rest has been annoying and frustrating and kind of unpleasant, but on the other hand, I haven’t felt this rested in years. This is nice, as is how refreshed I feel every morning, along with the knowledge that I don’t need to shower as part of the waking-up ritual every morning as well. I think as the week goes on I will start trying to get up earlier and go through the usual morning ritual, to get back into practice with it.

Yesterday was a relatively mild and relaxing one. I literally forgot that the Saints were playing–I’d lost track of what day of the week it was–which is just as well; it seems like the game was an exercise in enormous frustration for Saints fans. Granted, we had a better day than Florida State fans, who were seriously robbed. I figured that maybe they’d get screwed, but the Georgia loss made it seem unlikely; and the final spot in the play-offs was up for grabs between Georgia, Alabama, and Texas–and much as I hated to see the SEC left out, it made sense to me. Georgia lost to Alabama who lost to Texas; but Texas’ loss was to Oklahoma, who didn’t have a great year, and that was after Texas beat Alabama, while the Tide was running the table. I figured that would be the committee’s justification for screwin Texas in favor of Alabama; it never occurred to me they’d screw Florida State over and take both Texas and the Tide. This was an odd year, with a surplus of undefeated and one-loss teams, along with any number of two and three loss teams who only lost to undefeated or one-loss teams (LSU lost three games–undefeated Florida State, one loss Alabama, and two loss Mississippi–whose two losses were Alabama and Georgia). It is, I suppose, a good year for the four-team play-off to go out on; but if people think there aren’t going to be controversies and angry fan bases once it goes to a twelve team play-off next year, think again. LSU’s schedule is insane for 2024 (USC, UCLA, Oklahoma, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, Texas A&M); the only traditional annual games no longer on the schedule are Auburn and Mississippi State. I think people are already mad about next season, based on the final rankings by the committee? There seemed to be a lot of vitriol on the social media apps last night. So, yes, football fan bases can even get up in arms over projections.

I did read David Valdes’ marvelous Finding My Elf yesterday, which was absolutely delightful, and really left me feeling a bit warm inside when I did finish it, and am really looking forward to when his You Spin Me Round comes up in the TBR pile. I think my next read will be Donna Andrews; and I’ll just read her latest two Megs back-to-back. One of course is the annual Christmas mystery–which I want to read for the season–but my brain won’t let me read them out of order, so I have to read Birder She Wrote first before Let It Crow! Let It Crow! Let It Crow! which is also a great title. I also want to do some writing of my own today; the days are slipping through my fingers and I need to prioritize writing more than anything else with the energy I have on reserve. I also watched Joy Ride, which was quite fun, and then we started watching Monarch: Legacy of Monsters, which is extremely well done, and for a television show about monsters–we don’t see a lot of monsters. The story primarily focuses on a young woman who survived the Godzilla rampage through San Francisco, and the whole concept of a world and a humanity that has adapted to enormous monsters, like Godzilla and others (the Godzilla evacuation route and directions in Tokyo was startling) is interesting. Monster movies like this, and the various others about giant creatures from the depths of the ocean or the bowels of the earth terrified me as a child and gave me nightmares. (I’ve never watched any iteration of King Kong, for example, and I think I’ve only seen the original Godzilla, which was a huge mistake as it really did haunt my dreams for years. There was one film about a giant octopus who would unfurl his tentacles to crush a seaside city that I can still see sometimes in my mind.) But I am enjoying this show, and am interested in seeing where it goes; it seems like its primary purpose is to expose some corporation (Monarch) who has something to do with the monsters. There’s also a dual time-line, which you know I love.

The workers just checked in to see if the kitchen ceiling leaked over the weekend, and so they are about to come in and take down the rest of the ruined ceiling in preparation for making it look pretty tomorrow. Yay! I also have my first PT appointment tomorrow morning, so I am curious to see what that’s going to look like. I am going to run my errands tomorrow morning after my therapy, since I’ll already be uptown (it’s near the corner of Magazine and Napoleon), so I might as well head over and get the mail and do whatever brief grocery run needs to be done.

I also started getting better organized yesterday; I got my bills all mapped out for the month (I generally do this after every pay day, after I’ve paid the bills so I know how much debt is still outstanding; it also helps keep me from forgetting to make payments). The desk area looks much better than it did, but I still have some filing and organizing to get done. I’m hoping they won’t be in here for very long this morning; I am going to repair to my chair as soon as they come in and try to read until they are finished, and maybe do some writing once they’ve left. I am terribly behind on everything (hey, I’m starting to sound like myself again!), and so one of my tasks for today is to make a to-do list, as well as a “upcoming submissions date” list so I can try to get some stories back out there.

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

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Christmas and crime don’t get together often enough for my liking–although I always love to call It’s a Wonderful Life a Christmas noir, because it’s actually an incredibly dark film if you look below the effervescent sugary surface. (I’ve always wanted to write a book set in the world created had George Bailey never existed–Potterville.) Agatha Christie handled the holidays in a couple of books, most notably Murder for Christmas, and the occasional short story. (This is a good place to note that when I was talking about my own Christmas writings, I’d forgotten “The Snow Globe”, which is my most Christmas story of them all; the one I did remember to mention, “The Snow Queen,” was more a winter’s tale than a Christmas one.)

Lisa Unger is one of my favorite writers, and she’s also pretty prolific; I turned and looked away for a moment and suddenly I was way behind on reading her books. I had never caught up on the backlist, either; so I think focusing on that is a good plan for 2024. When i saw that she had written a Christmas novella, getting it was a no-brainer–and I read it in one day…and it reminded me again why I love her work so much.

I always loved Christmas. I still remember how magical it was to believe in Santa Claus, lying in bed at night, trying to stay up to hear the pitter-patter of reindeer hoofs on the roof. Then falling asleep and waking up to the tree glowing downstairs, the floor covered with gifts, my parents groggy and smiling.

I saw him, my sister would say. On the lawn, climbing out of his sleigh.

And I would be so jealous that she got to see Santa, while I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough. She was always first. Always better. Still is.

I lean against the pole now, arching my back, all eyes on me. The music pulses and the stage lights beneath my high heels flash–purple, blue, orange, red. I am alive here, all of it moving through me. Tonight, I perform to various Katy Perry songs–a playlist I made. “Hummingbird Heartbeat.” “Peacock.” “Part of Me.” All songs that are sexy and upbeat but have a secret message. Like me. No one is listening to the music though. The smattering of men sitting on stools and in various booths, nursing drinks, are only thinking about one thing.

Ten years ago, Madeline Martin survived a brutal night in which her best friend was murdered, and two others disappeared. Maddie herself was stabbed multiple times and the side of her face slashed. Her boyfriend was convicted of the crimes and sent to prison–he was a rich bad boy exiled to their upstate New York town (but further south than the Hollows, the town Unger writes about a lot), and for whatever reason, he just kind of went nuts that night during a wild party at his home a few days before Christmas. The two sisters who vanished were never found, and the assumption has always been he killed them also and got rid of the bodies…which really doesn’t make a lot of sense. Maddie’s father was the sheriff, and he has recently had a stroke, requiring at home care, while she runs her own bookstore with some success. Maddie has also closed herself off from dating–who wouldn’t, when your high school boyfriend turned out to be a psycho killer–and at the very beginning of the book, true crime podcaster/writer Harley Granger has come to town, buying the home where the missing sisters once lived, to turn over the stones and interview people–he doesn’t believe for one moment that Evan Handy had the time and ability to not only do what witnesses saw (stabbing Maddie and killing her friend) AND kidnap and murder and hide the bodies of the missing sisters. Harley thinks Evan either had help, or there’s an unrelated serial killer operating in the area–and the disappearance of a stripper named Lolly from the area is proof–along with some other young women gone missing in the years since that nightmare of a night that Maddie can barely remember.

This is Lisa Unger at her best; she writes brilliantly, defining and developing realistic characters that the reader can identify with and relate to and root for; delving into the psychology of what it must be like to survive a night like the one Maddie did as a teenager allows for complexity and many layers and facets to her character, and despite the shortness of the story (compared to Unger’s novels), it’s fully realized, compelling, and hard to put down. Unger’s pacing is urgent, grabs you by the throat and refuses to let go until you’ve turned the final page.

Which is why she is one of my favorite writers.

House of the Rising Sun

This is probably one of the most famous songs about New Orleans of all times, and of course, doing a deep dive into the history of the song–which began as an English folk song, of all things–was a pleasant way to spend a few hours. I heard the recording by the Animals when I was a kid, and honestly never cared very much about it. I always thought it was about a house of prostitution in New Orleans–Storyville, probably–but never gave it much more thought than that. But when I was looking for titles of songs about New Orleans to use for blatant self promotion for Mississippi River Mischief, it was kind of an obvious one. And when it came up on my list for this next post, I realized I didn’t really know very much about the song other than I didn’t care for it very much. It originated in the 16th century as an English folk song, and gradually evolved into an Appalachian folk song called “Rising Sun Blues” (great title, I may abscond with it, frankly) before finally becoming a folk-rock hit for The Animals in 1964 with its current name. (Musicologists suggests it’s thematically related to the old English folk song “The Unfortunate Rake,” per Wikipedia.)

I do find that kind of thing interesting, even if I don’t have any use for that information. (Although Barbara Michaels did a great job of using classic traditional folk songs and their history as the foundation for her underrated but marvelous novel Prince of Darkness–which I would love to revisit.)

If you were playing Family Feud and the question “what is New Orleans known for”, the top two answers would probably be Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras. This annoys the locals and the natives to no end; and it’s understandable. Boiling New Orleans down to those two things is incredibly reductive. But they are major facets of the city, and both are responsible for a lot of tourist revenue, which the parish, city and state desperately need because our state and local governments (all of Louisiana’s cities and parishes) are complete and utter failures. When we moved here in the mid-90s, New Orleans had a strong base of tourism, but it was nothing like now. Since Katrina the city’s primary focus has been building the city into a tourist destination, putting all of the proverbial eggs into that particular basket. The pandemic wound up killing businesses that Katrina couldn’t; the St. Charles Tavern at the corner at Martin Luther King didn’t survive COVID, as one example. (They had amazing fried mushrooms; we used to get them every once in a while as a delicious greasy breaded and deep-fried treat.)

When I first decided to start writing about New Orleans (much as I hate to say this, but New Orleans really IS my muse, and I love that I live in the neighborhood of the Muses here), one of the things I was determined not to do was use clichés about the city in my work. It wasn’t until my fifth novel that I wrote about Carnival/Mardi Gras, which is where most writers about the city inevitably start (cliché as it may be, you also cannot write about New Orleans without eventually having to write about it); I wanted to get more established as a writer before I went there. Part of the reasons the first two Scotty books were set around Southern Decadence and (to a far lesser extent) Halloween was because those were also important holidays for the gays here. I did address Bourbon Street with the first Scotty; I knew that title (Bourbon Street Blues) would tell anyone that it was a New Orleans story, so yes, I took advantage of a cliché there. But I also realize now that most of my New Orleans writings were very provincial in a way; I mostly write about the “sliver along the river”–the Marigny, the Quarter, the CBD, the lower Garden District, the Garden District, the Irish Channel, and Uptown. There’s way more to New Orleans than these neighborhoods–sometimes I send them over the bridge to the West Bank or out to Metairie; there was a very vivid post-Katrina scene where I sent Chanse out to Lakeview, but for the most part I’ve not done much about other neighborhoods here. The West Bank, City Park, the East, Gentilly; all of these rich and vibrant neighborhoods–as well as the diverse ethnic make-up of the city–are very fertile ground for someone writing about New Orleans. Generally, the neighborhoods I write about are the neighborhoods writers who don’t live here focus on because they are the better known ones.

And of course, I’ve rarely, if ever, touched the history of the city–and it is rich, compelling, and fascinating…and super dark.

That’s kind of why I wanted to move this recent Scotty out of the city and into one of the rural parishes not far from the city limits. I have fictionalized these parishes before–I try not to fictionalize New Orleans, but have no problem inventing parishes and towns in the rest of Louisiana. St. Jeanne d’Arc parish is loosely based on St. John the Baptist and St. Charles parishes, known as “river parishes” because they run along the river north of the city. Redemption, also an invention I’ve used in other books, is based on the “bayou parishes”–not along the river, but between the river and the wetlands/Gulf of Mexico; those are Terrebonne and Lafourche parishes. Louisiana is just as interesting as New Orleans, and also has an amazing and interesting history of its own. Of course, the next Scotty will be back in the city–his next few, if they go as planned, will all be within the city–but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep writing about Louisiana and my fictional parishes, either.

There really is so much material here I could never run out of ideas.

Shock the Monkey

Saturday morning, and feeling okay. I ran some errands yesterday–mail, prescription, grocery shopping–and instead of going to Five Guys I stopped and got a very healthy turkey-avocado sandwich for lunch instead, on wheat bread, and it was delicious. I used the wagon to bring everything back from the car to the apartment, but after putting the groceries away was very exhausted. I started reading my next book (Lisa Unger’s Christmas Presents) but didn’t get very far into it. I wound up watching the Oregon-Washington game (to see how their quarterbacks matched up against Jayden Daniels for the Heisman; I am biased but was utterly unimpressed with either of them) for a while, and then just kind of zoned out and watched documentaries on Youtube for a few hours till the game started. I am feeling better, but my energy levels still deplete quickly–probably why my surgeon didn’t want me to return to work just yet.

Last night I slept through–didn’t wake up at five like I inevitably always do and then go back to sleep–and woke up at eight, deciding to go ahead and get up rather than loll about in the bed. I figured I could write my blog entry, drink some coffee, and then head over to the easy chair to read the new book for a few hours before trying to get back into writing MY new book. I also need to do some self-promotional entries today to get back on track on promoting my two new releases, and I also kind of need to figure out where I am at with all of my in-progress projects and make a plan to proceed with everything. I think I am going to go back to trying to plan out my year and so forth, because this scattershot method I’ve been using for so long hasn’t really worked out the way I would have liked; but scattershot tends to do that. I have any number of short stories I’d like to get finished, and there are also the novellas; and I have at least two novels in progress that are up to five chapters but have gone no further than that. I also need to get better organized with everything else in my life, too–my desk area looks better than it has in years as far as clutter is concerned, but it needs to be cleaned and straightened up a bit, and there are other things in my desk–the stack of Scotty books, for example–that don’t need to be here. I rearranged the work space before the surgery specifically to free up space on the desktop, and it did work; this arrangement looks better than the way that it used to look. I want to write today–I think I am going to work on some things for the new book too, so I can really dive in headfirst; I don’t have much of a plan for the book other than I know what one of the driving forces behind the plot is going to be; who the villain is; and who is going to die. It’s all mapped out in my journal, but I need to write it all up into a word document so I can easily reference it. Plus, typing shit makes it seem more real to me, which makes no sense to anything other than my twisted brain.

Sparky has discovered the great joy of knocking over the recycling to look for bottle caps, which are his favorite toy and means I don’t need to waste any money buying him anything; why spend more money when every bottle comes with a plastic cap toy for the little darling? He’s inquisitive and he’s smart–he now scales the drawers like a ladder to get up on the counter when the drawers are closed; if he can’t get up there the usual way. He showed off this new trick to us yesterday when we were putting away the groceries; so there wasn’t a clear space for him to jump up, so instead he pulled himself up by climbing the drawers. This tells me there’s really no point to putting things out of reach because he’ll just figure out a way to get there. Scooter wasn’t especially smart, nor was he terribly interested in toys or playing or anything, but Skittle was smart–and I suspect Sparky is even smarter than Skittle, and he’s getting so big! I think he might even wind up bigger than Skittle. Do I want to have a big, incredibly smart cat? It scares me just a little bit, to be honest. But now he seems to have calmed down a bit, and is a sleeping kitten donut on my desk. He really is a beautiful cat.

We had a lot of rain overnight–flash flood warnings, tornado watches all around us in neighboring parishes, the usual–I slept through it all. I didn’t even notice it was raining last night–without my hearing aids, I can’t hear anything other than thunder–but I am sure the rain helped me sleep. I didn’t sleep for a full ten hours; it was only nine. I was thinking yesterday that I need to start getting used to getting up early again before I have to return to work on the 12th, so it won’t be as horrible as it might be. I had finally gotten used to getting up early, and now I have to start getting used to it all over again, which isn’t going to be very much fun at all. But this is a relatively easy month to ease my way back into work again, with the holidays and extra time off at the end, so there’s that. And then again, it’s Carnival shortly thereafter, which I think is late again? I haven’t looked, but I think we have a late Fat Tuesday again this next year.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the morning. Have a fabulous Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again later.

Be My Lady

Tuesday morning and it’s feeling a bit chilly in the Lost Apartment this morning. I am propping the brace on the edge of my desk so I can use both hands–and it doesn’t seem to bother the arm too much to use my fingers. I actually don’t feel any pain, but it feels a bit weird, if that makes any sense.

Yesterday was the first time I’ve felt like me again after coming home from the surgery. I cut up an old T-shirt (well, Paul did; one needs two hands to cut cloth) so I could fit it on over the brace without having to use the arm or move it; my left nipple peeks out every now and again, but that’s okay. Tomorrow morning is my first post-op visit to the surgeon, so I want to think about the things I need to ask about and write them down to take with me. It’s an early appointment–8 am–so I won’t be thinking as clearly as I would later in the day. I’m getting used to sleeping in the chair–I’ve been sleeping ten hours a night on average since that first sleepless night after the surgery, which is very-un-Greg-like, but I attribute that to my body recovering from the trauma of the surgery. I wish it would last forever, though, I really love sleeping.

Paul and I did go run those errands yesterday, and driving wasn’t an issue at all. I think the prohibition on driving in the instructions had more to do with the painkillers (which I don’t need) than any lingering after-effects of the surgery. It felt very nice to get out of the house, since I hadn’t even gone outside (I don’t think) since coming back home last Tuesday–hey, it was a week ago, wasn’t it? It seems like an eternity. I am very impatient to get through this, but of course you can’t rush recovery. I am trying not to get frustrated or impatient, but it isn’t easy for me–I haven’t gotten to the acceptance of things I cannot control yet, sadly–and my emotions are still all over the place. I had a couple of emotional moments yesterday which weren’t great–but those moments are also becoming fewer and farther between, which is a relief. I hate subjecting anyone to my particular brand of crazy, least of all Paul–who is usually the only person who ever sees it, and that is something I don’t like, either.

I didn’t write anything yesterday, the errands exhausted me, and so I spent the rest of the day in my chair. I watched a marvelous documentary series about film horror from Blumhouse–four episodes–which was a lot of fun but nothing really new that I hadn’t already known. It did give me an idea for a slasher thriller in two parts–the original occurrence than a revisitation ten years later; but the worry is, of course, that it’s been done already or I have nothing new to bring to the genre. It’s an interesting conundrum and puzzle I’d like to get figured out; one that will need to percolate for a while before actually getting to work on it. I always worry about how much preparatory work I do for my books, and I also worry I don’t do enough research for them, either. (I love research but also find it frustrating because I never know when I’ve done enough research, and as someone who is always spotting historical inaccuracies in all media…I don’t want anyone doing that to me or thinking that I’m a lazy researcher…although on second thought why the fuck do I care? There are always going to be those people, after all.) I was thinking about that very thing yesterday in terms of two other books-in-progress I’ve been working on for years; I’m not certain that I chose the proper career path given how my brain is actually wired–for someone who gets anxious to the point of shaking sometimes (it was really bad when I was a kid) why would you choose a career where you have to do things that trigger anxiety? I don’t ever get anxious about the day job, for example.

It’s weird but all this down time sitting in my chair unable to focus enough to read a novel (short stories are easier) has given my addled brain the opportunity to think and reflect. This whole past week has been an emotional rollercoaster–I think surgeries tend to make you emotionally raw to begin with–but I’ve also spent a lot of time grieving my mother since coming home last Tuesday. I was always able to engage my mind before and not think about it–even when I was too tired to do anything more than watch Youtube videos in the evening. But this forced inactivity is an entirely different thing, and I can’t seem to get control of my mind when it starts to wander. I’ve been thinking about my career and where it’s gone and where it may go in the future over this last week; my stubbornness at keeping going when maybe I should gave given up. I’m proud of all my work, and I’ve also come to accept that my old work maybe isn’t terrible the way I’ve always feared. I always approach rereads of my own work with my mind subtly shifting into editorial mode, and once I recognized that recently, I do go ahead and shut that off before I do read. I’m a different writer than I was twenty-two or more years ago, and I have always wanted to continue to improve, grow, and get better with each new story, book, or essay (I don’t care how bad these entries are, actually; it’s rare that I go back and revisit these); so of course I would write the older books etc. differently were I to write them today; that doesn’t mean the old ones aren’t good.

And honestly, how many award nominations do I need to get before I finally accept that I’m pretty good at this whole thing? That I have the respect of my peers?

I’m proud of all my work, but I also have preferences as far as that is concerned; some children I love more than the others. The ones I am not as fond of are the ones that I think I could have made better than they were; the ones I wish I had another pass at. That’s what I am thinking with finally re-editing and preparing Jackson Square Jazz for rerelease; here’s a chance to give it a bit more polish, make it come together better, and remove inconsistencies and continuity errors from the series as a whole. Reediting the manuscript is something I can do in my easy chair, and then I can slowly input the changes into the word document gradually until the entire thing is finished. Slow and steady wins the race, after all. I’m very happy, seriously, with my career as far as the work itself is concerned. I would like my writing to be a lot more profitable than it’s been thus far (what writer doesn’t dream of fame and fortune) but I couldn’t care less about the fame–I’ve always cared more about the fortune, actually; I’m pragmatic that way.

I’m hoping to write more today–after I finish this I have some emails to attend to–and I also have bills that simply must be paid so I can stop getting stressed about that, too. I don’t know how long I am good for in this chair sitting upright with the brace balanced against the edge, to be honest…but I need to give it a try. I am just not wired to be inactive, I guess,

Have a great Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will see you again later.

What About Me

Well, here we are on Monday morning after my surgery, and I’m not really sure what I’ll be doing today. I really need to pick up a prescription in Uptown, and we need to pick up the mail at some point, but I’m not really sure how I’m going to do that. I don’t know that I should risk driving yet, because New Orleans drivers are so horrible, but it has to be done and I need the prescription. I suppose I could take a ride service, but I hate spending the money as well. I guess I don’t have a choice though, so I’ll deal with that later. I also need to make groceries.

We had had an issue a few weeks ago with the apartment. They were doing some work on the patio deck above my kitchen, and unfortunately there was rotten wood up there. The ceiling kind of gave way; they ended up nailing up a piece of plywood over the hole in the ceiling. Unfortunately the next time it rained, of course, it leaked , but they finished the work up there and never came back to repair our ceiling. We had a massive thunderstorm Saturday night, and so i woke up Sunday morning to water on the floor in the kitchen, on the stove, and on the counter. The carpets in the kitchen were also  wet; so I got out towels and a bucket for the dripping and hoped that the ceiling wouldn’t cave in. About two hours later, yeah, some of the plaster came down with a loud, startling crash, and so now there’s another hole in the ceiling. The insulation up there is soaked, so I had to leave the bucket for the dripping to continue. Needless to say, this is a really shitty time for this to happen and it spiraled me into a really bad depressive state yesterday. I have noted already that my emotions have been all over the place since the surgery — so something like this really sent me into a spiral. The anxiety really ramps up, so yeah, yesterday was just not a good day for me.

So, I repaired my easy chair with a Gatorade and Nurse Sparky and put on one of my comfort movies, Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. I’ve always loved Indiana Jones, but I haven’t seen the most recent movie yet. I’ve always wanted to write an Indiana  Jones type book; I love historical treasure  hunts and have always thought that it would be fun to write those kind of stories with Colin as the main character — away from Frank and Scotty, to kind of fill in the blanks when he’s away from New Orleans. I have an idea that’s tied into the 4th crusade and the sack of Constantinople; a treasure hidden away in the Hagia Sophia since the Nicaean Council that established the dogma of Catholic Christianity. The Orthodox patriarchy had been keeping this treasure secret from the Pope and the Vatican for centuries, at least since the schism of 1052. My idea is that the Venetians and the Crusaders knew that the Pope would be furious to learn they had sacked Constantinople, but the Doge, Enrico Dandalo, not only knew about the secret but also knew presenting it to the Pope would get them forgiven. The primary problem with this is that I have never figured out what precisely was hidden in the Hagia Sophia; but I wanted to tie it into the Assassins and the Old Man of the Mountain. I thought that would make for a fun adventure, particularly setting it in a fictional Middle Eastern country. However, with everything that’s going on in the world nowadays, writing about the Middle East is probably not a good idea at this point.

I also read a lot of short stories over the weekend. I read all the stories in one of my Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies, Stories That Scared Even Me, and that was a lot of fun. The book was published originally in the 1960s or early 1970s and it is amazing how much attitudes in society and cultural attitudes have changed since that time. The contributors were almost entirely male — all of these anthologies are underrepresented with women — and there are a lot of really racist and patriarchal  tropes in some of the stories. Several, for example, are set in Mexico; I’ll let your imagination do the rest rather than quote what they said so casually. I’m also writing a story set in Central America — I was writing it to submit to a horror anthology — and it was one that I had started writing back in the 1990s, I believe. I was kind of horrified by what I wrote — I feel like by the 1980s I should have known better about these kinds of tropes  — but the story is salvageable; with some strong changes and a fictional country. But you can still get into trouble, even with that, and the last thing I ever want to do is write something problematic that will offend people. (I have already mentioned the story that I submitted to a anthology that’s not going to happen now about the South, which I recently  reread and was horrified by.)  A lot of these stories have those twisty type of endings that I always loved; that little hint of irony that really made the story sing. I always try to give my stories those kinds of endings because that’s what I grew up reading as far as short stories are concerned, and I often have to struggle to not try that with every story, because it’s not right for every story and I have a bad tendency to try to force things to work the way I want them to, instead of the way that they should work organically.

Dictating is much slower than typing, as I’ve noted before; this is taking me a lot longer to dictate then I would like. Where I actually typing this entry, I would probably already be finished by now. But you do what you have to do. I also started dictating my next book, figuring it’s better to get started on it while I’m at home recovering from the surgery, rather than waiting until such time as my left hand can be used for the keyboard. I’m still not having any pain  — my primary issue is mobility, not being able to use my left hand for  much, occasional nausea from the antibiotic, and the mood swings and depression. I wish I had already started on my anti-anxiety medication protocol before the surgery, but what can you do? Yesterday morning, I was thinking that I made a lot of bad decisions about this surgery and that I didn’t do it knowing everything that would result from it; but I was worried about not ever being able to go to the gym and workout again unless  and until this was done, and pushing it back to next year wouldn’t have changed any of these issues, I don’t think, other than possibly better planning on my part. But that’s also part of the anxiety—I always question my decisions, and never really believe that I made the right choices afterward. I guess it is just a part of that hindsight being 20/20 thing that always drives me crazy. I never really am confident in the decisions I make, so I always try to not second-guess or doubt myself afterward; there’s no point in rehashing things that you can’t change. Why obsess over something I have no control over anymore? That’s the easiest way to drive yourself crazy, I think.

We’re also really enjoying the show Bodies on Netflix. It has everything that I like; a bit of science fiction, crime, surprise twists, and gay content. You can never go wrong with me when you have gay content. (That’s not entirely true; there are some really terrible shows in movies with gay content that are basically unwatchable) I also finished watching a Jane Seymour series on Acorn called Harry Wild, which wasn’t great but was entertaining enough. I don’t know what all I’ve been watching to be honest with you, Constant Reader, but I’ve been watching  an awful lot of television.

I did watch a terrible adaptation of Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d, and the less said about that the better.

I’m hoping today or tomorrow to be able to read a novel; I’m really enjoying the one that I was reading before the surgery and would like to finish it, but my mind is all over the place and has been since coming home from the surgery. I haven’t even been able to focus on the TV I’ve been watching as much as I would like. Part of it is the depression, part of it is the holiday without Mom, and of course, the surgery. You see how I am? I’m being hard on myself after a major surgery for not getting anything done or being productive. Heavy sigh. Welcome to the wonderful world of what goes on inside my head.

And on that note, I am going to bring this to a close and see if I can figure out what I’m going to do for the rest of the day, and what I can do about these errands. I hope you have a lovely Monday and as always, thank you for checking in and thank you for reading.