Category: Southern Gothic

Son of My Father

Well, here we are at home on a Wednesday for a midweek holiday1. Huzzah? It was nice not to set the alarm for this morning (the Sparky alarm never needs setting; but I got up and went back to bed) and I feel very rested and good today. I felt discombobulated all day yesterday, alas; a day off on Wednesday with payday on Tuesday really fucked with my head all day. I made a small grocery run on the way home (still spent $96, though), and now am just going to kick back and relax today. I didn’t really physically write anything last night I did think about structuring the next chapter, and I am looking forward to getting to work on that today. I am also going to read today for a bit and I also intend to clean up a bit. Now that the Florida trip has been canceled, I still have Monday off so I get a stay-at-home long weekend and thus another day to really focus on the apartment, reading, and writing.

My coffee is going down easily and well this morning and is also quite tasty. I had thought about making cappuccinos this morning, as it has been a hot minute, but after I clean up everything I may get the machines out for tomorrow morning. It’s been a long time and I do love my homemade cappuccinos, but this morning I am going to stick to coffee. I have a load of laundry to fold and a dishwasher to unload and reload; and I may even try to fix the garbage disposal. I am going to the gym later to do some more rehab work on my arm, and then of course I will come home to chill out for the rest of the evening and maybe watch a movie or something; that Dev Patel movie is available to stream and I do think he’s marvelous, so that may be on the schedule for this evening. We also need to find another show to stream. Such a tough life, right?

I’ve also been thinking a lot about these pride/Greg’s gay past posts, and some of the ones I’ve been drafting are unnecessary, and still others cross over into more in-depth personal essays for my Substack, which is how I’ve decided to divide things up. This place will be the same as always, and those posts will be both here and Substack. Once the audience at Substack picks up–and it is growing, surprisingly enough–then it will become the place for personal essays that I will share to social media…although I am now wondering if it’s best to start sharing them from Substack to social media to build the audience? You see why I am so bad at this; I can never decide what is the right thing to do because I really have no clue. My career has always been about being in the right place at the right time and blundering my way through the last twenty-two years, which is part of the reason why the Imposter Syndrome hits so hard when it comes. But I’m enjoying myself with Never Kiss a Stranger so far, and it’s very cool to feel that way again, and to even look forward to getting back to work on it rather than seeing it as an odious chore.

I also need to make/update my to-do list since I’ll be home over the weekend and it’s a three day one for me.

Ugh, and the filing. I definitely need to do a deep clean of this messy office space/kitchen. But sitting here wasting time while drinking coffee isn’t going to get me anywhere, so I am going to head into the spice mines, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later. I do have several blog posts to work on and I may post some of them later on today. Have a great Juneteenth, my friend, and I’ll catch you again later.

  1. Juneteenth, and I am delighted that we observe this at work now. I’d say a high percentage of the staff are Black, and if we celebrate independence day for white people, we definitely should celebrate independence day for Black people in this country as it was the closing of one hideously dark chapter in US history…granted, it was the opening of a not quite as dark and hideous chapter, but it was definitely progress. ↩︎

Heart of Gold

Well, we survived Monday, and it was in doubt there for a moment. I had some serious trouble getting motivated yesterday morning in order to leave the house for work, but I did eventually get out and on my way to work, and I had a pretty decent day there, too. It rained almost all day; it was hot and humid in the morning when I left for the office, but by mid-morning the city was being soaked by an almost constant stream of clouds throughout the day. Sigh. All I wanted to do was go back home and get under my blankets, but no such luck on that score, alas.

The most exciting news is yes, I did start writing my new book yesterday. Clocked in three thousand words on Chapter One, and it all flowed really easily. Granted, this project has been in my head for years–I think I wrote the first draft of the novella somewhere in the last ten years or so–but I am excited. I’ve been working on it for about a week now, doing the structural work behind the scenes of the story while also chopping up what was in the novella back into chapters. I am very excited to be working on this book for any number of reasons (not the least of which being that I’ve not worked on a book in a very long time) and it’s a departure from my usual. Sure, there’s crimes and stuff and New Orleans sweltering in a very hot summer, but it’s more ambitious of a story than I’ve tried in a while and I also am going to use dance songs as chapter titles, which is kind of cool. I am pleased with the work I’ve gotten done yesterday, and the direction the book is shaping up to take. It’s so lovely to be excited about writing again, you know?

I slept well last night–it rained all night, which meant the air was cool and damp and it felt amazing under my blankets. I am waking up now, which is nice–I feel very rested, even if my lower back is still a bit tight and sore–and my coffee is going down smoothly. It’s weird to have tomorrow off, and it’s even weirder that today is Pay-the-Bills Day, since tomorrow is a holiday. Such a weird week this is turning out to be on that score. And in a few weeks, I believe the 4th is a Thursday, so I might take that Friday off as well.

We did watch House of the Dragon last night, which was fun. I like how they’ve changed the opening credits to not be so similar to Game of Thrones, separating the show from the original but still connected. I don’t love this show the way we did the original, but it’s entertaining enough, and of course, dragons. I also suppose it’s not quite as compelling because we know the Targaryens eventually lose the Iron Throne and this civil war was the beginning of their end, and the end of the dragons until Danaerys.

Tonight after work I have to run some errands: a quick grocery run and a stop at the post office. I am planning on writing tonight–I really am excited about the this book, and it’s nice to be excited to be working again, you have no idea–and I also need to figure out some more pride posts. I’ve drafted a few ideas here, but am not really certain if some of the ideas I have are worth pursuing, so I need to think about them some more. It would also be nice to do some reading tonight after writing, too. (Tomorrow I will read, write, clean and go to the gym.) I’m actually looking forward to this day off, you know? Very strange and peculiar, but this week was going to be weird and feel off anyway, and a trip to Florida over the weekend. I checked the weather and it’s going to be rainy and overcast the entire weekend over there, but sunny and hot in New Orleans. Go figure. I should also probably check the tropical weather tracker; yesterday the system in the Bay of Campeche was moved from possible to potential cyclone status, and check the path as well. It was predicted for east Texas coast/Mexico yesterday….and that’s what it’s going to do. There’s one off the coast of Florida heading towards land, but it has very low chances of developing into anything before landfall. Christ, it’s so early in the season already to be worrying about storm tracks and so forth, and I hate the entire idea of evacuating again. Heavy sigh.

And I took a moment to check my email, and there was one from Dad, cancelling this weekend because my aunt is having some health issues. Ah, well, I’ll keep Monday off and treat myself to a nice three day weekend.

Which is a good time to bring this to a close. Happy Juneteenth Eve, everyone, and I’ll probably be later.

Follow Your Drum

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!

Paperback Writer

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.

  1. Westerns would be a good discussion for another time, actually.
    ↩︎

Down by the Lazy River

Happy Father’s Day to all who celebrate. As for me, I’m meeting Dad in Florida on Friday for a nice weekend in Panama City Beach, although I seriously doubt that I’ll be going outside very much. The older I get, the less I can stand to be in the heat–which is something younger Greg would have laughed at very hard. I no longer care about being tan, either, as yet another fragment of vanity disappears from my head. Today I have to go out into the heat to make groceries, but other than that I am staying happily indoors and trying to get some more work done. We also have Wednesday off, of course, for Juneteenth, which is going to make for an odd work week, methinks, which is also payday.

I am feeling a bit groggy this morning but I haven’t had my first cup of coffee, either. Ah, there’s that first sip, sending warmth and energy through my system. I plan to do some writing today; I had a really good time yesterday unpacking and deconstructing the 20k+ words I already have done for this project, and I do think expanding it out into a novel is a good idea; I think it will make for a very good book if it accomplishes what I am setting out to do with it–and of course, as soon as I have those ambitious thoughts good old Imposter Syndrome rears its ugly head. AH, well, but feeling like I’m back inside my writer’s skin inevitably was going to trigger that, wasn’t it? Sadly, it’s all part and parcel of being a writer, and I just need to shrug it off entirely and focus on the work. So, while I generally despise Imposter Syndrome, I welcome it now because it’s a signpost on the way to getting back to being a full time writer after several years of being swamped and stressed and everything else that went on since 2016, really. It’s been almost a decade since Mom’s first stroke and she started living, essentially, on borrowed time. I think that was the start of the cloud in my brain, and that odd sense that time is running out. It feels lovely to be out of that; I’ve not experienced it for quite some time now, and I think the rest of this year might actually turn out to be incredibly productive for me. Here’s hoping, anyway.

Yesterday was lovely. Sparky got me up before eight, which was fine (he let me sleep until eight this morning), and I got up and started working. I did some cleaning, and I also did some writing, and some planning. Last night I scribbled away merrily in my journal, listing characters and figuring out backstories for them, so that they can be fully realized when I write about them. I do think this one, and the one after, are going to be some of my best work, which feels great, you know? I was also looking over the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys, and rewrote some of it in my head, which I will need to transcribe at some point today as well. I didn’t really leave the house yesterday, which was great. I spent some time reading the new Paul Tremblay, Horror Movie, which I am really enjoying. (I always enjoy reading Tremblay; he’s one of the best of the new crop of names in the horror community, and not a single book or story of his that I’ve read wasn’t an incredibly enjoyable experience.) We finished getting caught up on The Boys (it cracks me up that the right-wingers are suddenly realizing that the show actually makes fun of them, and the ‘heroes’ they were rooting for were actually the villains. Sucks to be MAGA), and then we dove back into After the Flood, which is absolutely terrific and interesting.

Oh! And House of the Dragon returns tonight. Huzzah!

I slept well again last night, so getting up to Sparky’s determination to get fed was fine with me this morning. The first cup of coffee is currently working its magic in my bloodstream and I am waking up, which is marvelous. I do have some things I need to do this morning–the kitchen is a bit of a wreck this morning, and the floors need to be done–but I am hoping to spend the day, outside of the grocery store, inside working on the book and getting my shit together for the week. Make a to-do list, try to remember all the things I want to submit to, and get organized. I never feel organized, and haven’t in a while, which is part of the off-balance thing that’s been going on since 2016 or so.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday/Father’s Day, and I may be back later with some other posts about being gay and Pride and other great moments from my gay life.

Puppy Love

Thursday and my last day in the office for the week. Huzzah! I am fatigued this morning. I went to the gym on my way home last night, and while these “workouts” seem hardly worthy of the name, the way my muscles feel this morning shows me that oh yes indeed, even as light as the weights are and as few sets I am doing, it definitely still is counting. This is why I have to be patient with the progress and not get ahead of myself. Last night, I was definitely tempted to add more weight and even had to talk myself out of it, feeling like I was wimping out–but how much more fatigue would I be feeling this morning? And yes, I slept like the dead last night, too–another sign. I may take an extra rest day and not go again until Saturday. I was also tired when I got home last night, so I didn’t do much of anything, including chores….so will definitely have to do those tonight when I get home. I picked up the mail yesterday, too, so I can come straight home tonight.

And of course, tomorrow is a work-at-home day. Huzzah!

I had another surprise at the post office yesterday, too–my Nancy Drew The Secret of the Old Clock action figure! It’s pretty cool, and I may save pictures of it for here until after Pride month, because I cannot think of a way to do a Pride post about–you know what? I just thought of a way to do it, so I guess I manifested itself into being. I also managed to get a Pride post done yesterday–Calvin Klein ads–and I have some more on deck, too; I’ll give you some hints about them–Dynasty, party culture, gym culture, etc.–and who knows when I’ll get them finished and posted, but they are definitely in progress.

I also got my copy of a book I read and reread over and over again as a kid: Stranger than Science by Frank Edwards. I am slowly remembering some other things about my childhood–my interests in the occult and the unexplained. There was a lot of this sort of thing when I was growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, and I am not sure why there was so much of this in the late 1960’s/early 1970s, but there was. The Bermuda Triangle was a big thing, and so were pseudo-sciences like Erich von Däniken’s Chariots of the Gods and so on; Thor Heyerdahl was having his adventures proving that Pacific Islanders traveled much further than most believed, and he also was proving Egyptians could have made it to America on papyrus boats, which was insane but interesting at the same time. I also loved things like Ripley’s Believe It or Not, which used to be a bigger deal than it is now; weird theories about space alien astronauts and forgotten history–I was really into this sort of thing–lost knowledge has always interested me, and books about recovering lost knowledge (or treasure) were catnip for Gregalicious. I don’t know if this was a natural progression of the 1960s movements, in which we became suspicious of government and less trusting, but the 1970s were a very strange decade, and immersing myself in my memories has been interesting. Anyway, Stranger Than Science is a book telling short tales of real events with no logical or rational explanation (this was where I first learned of spontaneous combustion, for one). Edwards used to have a long-running radio show with the same name and subject matter, and my interest in his book and other unexplained phenomenon (whether true, legend, or a combination of both) had more of an influence on me as a writer than I actually remembered. I’m looking forward to revisiting this book.

I also got Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie yesterday, and I may be moving it up on the TBR pile. He’s become one of my favorite writers lately–since I read A Head Full of Ghosts a few years back, and I’ve not read anything of his that wasn’t compelling and unputdownable since. (I’m also enjoying Grady Hendrix and Riley Sager these days as well.)

And on that note, I am bringing this to a close so I can head into the spice mines. Have a marvelous Thursday, and look for a Pride post later!

Rockin’ Robin

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.

It’s Four in the Morning

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.

Screenshot

Nice To Be With You

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.

Morning Good Morning

Sunday morning and I slept late, which is fine, really. I keep forgetting that sleeping in on my days off isn’t a criminal act of any kind. After so many years of keeping myself overly busy and so I was always behind on deadlines and so forth, I’ve kind of gotten into the insane mindset that sleeping late is a waste of time that could be better utilized, writing or cleaning or reading. I do have some things I need to get done today–mostly running to the store to get the things i need to make a carrot cheesecake for a co-worker’s birthday tomorrow–but if i manage my day properly, I should be able to get things done.

I spent yesterday running errands, and trying to get things cleaned up around the house while dipping into two books–The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood and Ode to Billy Joe by Herman Raucher. I ordered the latter from ebay after I started doing my research into Robby Benson for the post I made about the crush I had on him as a teenager; realizing the movie script and novel were written by Herman Raucher made me interested in reading the book, as well as wondering about Summer of ’42, and so I ordered copies of each. Billy Joe arrived yesterday, and I was curious about it. Usually novelizations were work-for-hire arrangements and the author used a pseudonym; some are better than others, of course, but just reading the first chapter of Billy Joe I can tell it’s head-and-shoulders above most novelizations, and it’s probably more thorough in telling the story than the movie was, which has me interested. I’ve also been thinking about The Berlin Stories lately, after watching the film Christopher and His Kind, and may revisit it again, too, for Pride Month; Isherwood is one of the literary gods of the gay canon, and the opening sentences of Goodbye to Berlin are perfect for parodying in the prologue to the next Scotty. I still have to finish my reread of Michael Thomas Ford’s Suicide Notes, and I think I’m going to bump the new John Copenhaver up on my TBR list. It is Pride Month, and I should immerse myself in queer lit for the month, don’t you think, Constant Reader?

I also want to write about Summer of ’42 at some point. Like The Other, it was an early read that was very influential on me, and one I often don’t think about when I do think about influential works I’ve read or make a list. I really do need to sit down and identify the books that really impacted me and the way I write; The Other, Summer of ’42, and so many, many others. I also want to write today; I didn’t really yesterday, but I did spend some time yesterday doing research; i.e. watching Youtube videos on the Oklahoma true crime story that fascinates me still, as well as ones that review the 1970’s and pop culture and what was going on those early years of the decade, which is when the book will be set. I think I am moving in a more historical direction rather than writing about the current day; Never Kiss a Stranger is set in the 1990s (1994, to be exact) and of course The Summer of Lost Boys is going to be set in either 1972 or 1973; I can’t decide which, although I suspect 1973 is going to end up being the winner when I finally have to decide.

We finished Under the Bridge last night, and it’s most excellent; I highly recommend it. Based on a true crime novel about the Reena Virk murder in Victoria, British Columbia back in the 1990’s, Reena was beaten badly by a group of girls–some she thought were friends–and then after the others left her broken and injured and bleeding along the river bank, a boy and a girl came back and basically, finished her off. The show reminded me a lot of Megan Abbott’s work; Abbott always writes about the mysterious world of female relationships, female rage and jealousy, and that’s what Under the Bridge does so beautifully. The acting is extraordinary; a real standout is Javon Walton as Warren, the young boy who kills Reena. Walton is very handsome in that young way, and I looked him up because the performance was so extraordinary, and turns out he also played Ashtray on Euphoria, who was one of my favorite characters on that show. Do watch it when you get a chance. I’m going to get a copy of the book now, too. Yay, more things to read! Just what I need!

We also started The Acolyte, but I was sleepy by the time it started and kept dozing off. No judgment on the show, I was just tired.

And on that note, I think I’ll head into the spice mines. I’ll probably finish the dishes this morning while making a grocery list, and then I’ll dash to the store and get gas. I may even finish one of these other Pride blog drafts, so have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later.