Category: Southern Gothic

Seekers Who Are Lovers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Essence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serpentskirt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pur

Wednesday Pay-the-Bill day, and I have the day off because I have a doctor’s appointment smack dab in the middle of the day, so…no choice but to take the day off. I don’t mind, despite the disruption of routine it causes. I have errands I can get done, and I can also take Megan Abbott with me to the appointment to read while I (inevitably) wait.

Coming home from work wasn’t as rough yesterday as it was Monday. I did pause once I shut the front door to wait and see if Scooter would come downstairs before remembering, which made a bit sad. It really doesn’t feel like home without a cat in it. And of course, our next cat may not be anything like Scooter. Scooter was a completely different cat from Skittle, after all–Skittle wasn’t nearly as affectionate, but he was but only when he wanted to be and for as long as he felt like it, while Scooter was constant. I’m torn between a kitten and one that’s already full grown; primarily because everyone wants kittens and it’s harder to adopt out full grown cats. Kittens are awfully cute; Skittle was a kitten when we got him. But our stairs are pretty steep for a kitten to navigate, and it also means we’d have to be a lot more careful with the front door. Scooter had no interest in going outside whatsoever; the front door could be wide open and he was having none of it. He was so disinterested in the outside he wouldn’t even stare out the windows–unless he heard Paul talking outside on his phone. That always intrigued him, and was the only time I ever worried about him going outside–if Paul was out there, Scooter would want to join him. But as a general rule, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about outside. (I’m with you, Scooter, I’d never go outside again if I could get away with it!)

I wasn’t tired yesterday either. I slept really well on Monday night–I’ve slept well ever since I finally adapted back to my life and reality after my vacation and the 4th holiday fucked with me–and we had a relatively easy day at the office. Between clients I did some more deep diving into Alabama history; I don’t know why it never occurred to me until this week that if I was going to write a short story built around an urban legend, why try Louisiana when I have all that history and lore and legends about my home state? I found a particularly gory and grotesque Civil War revenge story–based in fact–which might do the trick. One of the things that has been interesting me lately is the concept of the interior civil war inside the state of Alabama in the north hill country; Union sympathizers who didn’t believe in secession and refused to fight for the Confederacy, and some even served in the Union army. The Alabama Home Guard was particularly brutal; they were the ones who committed the atrocities that triggered the vengeance story, and that something I think I can work with. I know there’s a legend that one of my aunt-by-marriage’s ancestors served in the Union Army and when he snuck home for a visit, the Home Guard caught him and skinned him alive. Gruesome and horrible, but the back country in the South’s entire history is gruesome and horrible. There are a lot more stories to be told about the part of the country from whence I came…

I slept well again last night, too. I was able to sleep in a bit later because I took the day off for doctor appointments–I need to talk to my doctor about my arm and my toe again, heavy sigh–but since the appointment was in the middle of the day, I didn’t see any point in either going in before and returning after so took the entire day off. It’s a nice break to the week, really. We watched this week’s episode of Last Call, and then went back to The Crowded Room–mostly because we didn’t have anything else to watch last night. The first five or so episodes of the show moved really slow and you couldn’t really be sure what was going on. I figured out it was dissociative identity disorder that was plaguing the poor sad character being played (brilliantly) by Tom Holland; but the episodes we watched last night moved the story along, tied it all together, and were riveting. Paul and I agreed it was an odd storytelling choice; risking losing the interest of the viewers who might not continue because it was moving so slow and made so little sense. We wouldn’t have gone back had there been anything else for us to watch–but the performance by Tom Holland! My word, he’s quite the talent. I knew he could act–I’ve seen him give incredibly strong performances in two films, Cherry and the other one, The Devil All The Time, which was, in my opinion, terribly underrated as a film. I suspect Holland will win an Oscar at some point–if people can stop seeing him as Spider-Man.

I was thinking it might be fun–since our anniversary is tomorrow–to surprise Paul with a cat when he gets home from work tonight. But the more I think about it, the more I think that as fun as that would be, I think he’d want to be involved in the selection process. So, probably the best thing to do is talk to him about it tonight when he gets home from work, and maybe going out to the SPCA on the West Bank to see what kitties they have on hand for rescuing. I’ve looked at several websites for adoptable cats in the area, and of course want them all (Wendy Corsi Staub recently wrote a piece for CrimeSpree to promote her new book, Windfall, about winning the lottery; she asked a bunch of us what we would do should we win the huge lottery…and I should have said “buy a ranch so I could adopt all the cats in the world and give them a loving home,” because I would really love to do that), so probably its best to involve Paul in the process. Paul picked out Skittle, even though I found Scooter. I’m still missing Scooter–expecting him to come down the stairs at any moment, listening for him, and sitting in my easy chair after I get home from work just isn’t the same thing; I cannot justify sitting there doing nothing without the “cat sleeping in my lap” excuse.

I’ve got laundry going, and I need to finish the load of dishes in the sink so I can put them in the dishwasher and run it. I am going to try to get some things done around the house around the appointment, but we shall see how that goes. We’re in another heat advisory today–seriously–but this morning I am going to swill coffee, do some stuff around the kitchen, and maybe spend some time with Megan Abbott this morning. Have a great day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again later.

Violaine

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

You can find me at:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bluebeard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Highway to Hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My maternal grandmother was pretty amazing, really.

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

Athol-Brose

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and how the hell are you, Constant Reader? I slept super well last night–much better than Friday night, which felt really great–and am a-rarin’ to go this morning. Yesterday was a good day, frankly and surprisingly. I woke feeling rested and well, managed to get some things going in the morning, and kept getting things done for most of the day. I also took it a little easier than I usually do, resting and relaxing for a bit before getting up again to do something else. Thus I managed to get some things accomplished.

After doing some kitchen organizing yesterday (and filing), I started going through that box of clippings and magazine copies, to better organize them in another box, and found all kinds of things that are marvelous. I’ll do some scanning today, so that there’s an electronic version of everything preserved for all time. The Queer Crime Writers group has expressed some interest in archiving some of the articles and reviews of crime authors and their books…it was funny, but it’s been a long time since I looked at those old issues of Lambda Book Report, and while I am still proud of them, it’s been long enough that I can look at them critically and see the mistakes and flaws and so forth. It was also kind of interesting because I forgot, for one thing, that I interviewed Margaret Cho for Lambda Book Report, or that Paul used to do author interviews, and so forth. It was kind of cool experiencing the nostalgia of seeing them, or the old Saints & Sinners programs from the first years, when I had to do the layout and design for them (which is why they all look so amateur hour) but I also used to do that for Lambda Book Report too. There were also clippings from other gay papers, including the local IMPACT News which then became Southern Voice-New Orleans before folding completely, the Times-Picayune, Gambit, and St. Charles magazine. It’s hard to believe, really, that I’ve been in and around the publishing business for as long as I have. It’s also kind of eerie. I’m trying not to be a cliché, but seriously, where did the time go?

I also walked to the Office Depot during the afternoon rainstorm yesterday to get ink for the printer and some notepads. I live for the 5 x 7 legal pads, and I’ve been down to my last one for quite some time, which inevitably throws me a bit off-balance, as I use them for everything, from grocery lists to “what to do today” lists” and making notes to myself to remind myself of things. I just feel better knowing there are eleven notepads in the cabinet, next to two blank journals, for me to use if and when I need one again. It’s odd how comforting that knowledge is, so it’s clearly one of my (many) neuroses.

I also started watching a true crime series on Hulu–Paul was meeting a friend for dinner and drinks last night, so I was left to my own devices–about Billy Milligan, a serial rapist who had dissociative identity disorder at a time when not much was known a bout it; many people to this day don’t believe Milligan actually had the disorder, but was simply a very good actor (The Crowded Room series on Apple Plus is based on his story), but I stopped watching by the fourth episode. Do I believe DID is a thing? Sure, why not? Even if the Sybil case turned out to be a fraud, I do think the mind is capable of splintering like that when faced with a horrific trauma; ironically, this illness was depicted beautifully over the years for Victoria Lord on One Life to Live (winning her portrayer, Erika Slezak, a ridiculous amount of daytime Emmys over the years); it began when first shown as part of the melodrama with some research done into it; as more information about it became available and more studies were done, that was also explored over the years as it reoccurred, finally culminating with the truth that she was molested by her father–that was the initial trauma that shattered her mind. I’d like to write about this sometime myself, because it’s interesting to me, but it would take a lot of research because I’d want to do it right, you know?

I got a lovely compliment on a story I contributed to an anthology yesterday, which was unexpected and lovely–especially since I hadn’t felt confident about the story when I sent it in. It’s another Alabama story, which makes me happy, and I pulled up the electronic last version I had with me here at the house and…it’s full of mistakes. I just hope that wasn’t the version I sent in. But it’s a story I wrote a long time ago, based in some sort of reality. When we used to visit Alabama in the summer time, my aunt and uncle lived in the county seat in a nice brick one-story three bedroom house whose back yard gently sloped, gradually ending in what my cousins (and everyone) just called “the ditch.” I never really knew how it was created or where it came from–in the story I referred to it as a branch of the river that was dammed up and so it dried up–but it was about twenty feet wide and fifteen foot deep; and the bottom was just as I described it–littered with rusting cans and broken glass and other debris. But it was also cool down there as it was completely shaded by all the trees lining the sides (that’s what gave me the idea that it may have been a branch of the river; it does kind of look the shores of a river); there was also a path from the back of the house to an ancient wooden footbridge to cross to the other side. I wrote the story “The Ditch” originally years ago, I think possibly for a Horror Writers Association anthology, and it was rejected. I liked the story but knew it needed more work, and when I dragged it out to use for this anthology I did a strong revision. It is a much better story now than it was, but please God, tell me I didn’t turn in this error-riddled version. More on that anthology as it develops.

I also made a list of things I need to get done today (yay for little legal pads!) and am feeling pretty good about everything this morning. It really is amazing what a difference sleep makes, isn’t it? I woke up early this morning, am enjoying my morning coffee, and I finally feel like I am part of my own reality again (it always takes a while for me to readjust to my normal daily routine). I also have some writing and reading to do today, and I hope to get to work on the page proofs either today or sometime this week.

And on that note, I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in again at some point, no doubt.

Throughout the Dark Months of April and May

Well, yesterday felt normal–as opposed to all the energy and the fabulous mood I was in on Monday, yesterday I felt more like the way I usually do on a midweek morning coming into the office. It was busy and we did have some odd and unusual issues, like we did on Monday, but it all worked out and I managed to get everything done and get out on time. I wasn’ tired when I got home, but there were men working on the house on our side of the building until about eight o’clock, playing (bizarre) music (choices) really loudly and of course, hammering and drilling and all those other power tool-esque things construction workers use. I’d intended to get some things done, but this successfully irritated me enough to make me lethargic. Then Scooter climbed into my lap and started purring and head-butting me and that was all it took; I was down for the evening. I did manage, however, to do a load of dishes so the evening wasn’t a complete waste. I feel more awake and alert and energetic this morning than I did yesterday, so that’s a step in the right direction, I think. Tomorrow I’ll be working from home, and trying to get caught up on the data entry and quality assurance stuff, as well as doing some yearly, on-line trainings about safety that are due (biohazard, fire prevention, HIPAA, etc.) so I’ll have a pretty full plate tomorrow, which is cool. I hope to spend some time with Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman this weekend, and I also would like to get some more entries finished–I have a review of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Seduction of Water to post, and I have more entries about my own books to write. and on and on and on.

We watched more of Red Rose on Netflix last night, and we’re really enjoying it. It’s a horror series about a deadly app teens have on their phones; it’s an interesting modern take on the horror trope of the haunted device, and a very clever use of cell phone technology to base a horror series on. We’ll probably finish it over the course of the weekend, we’re about halfway through with four more episodes to go.

I’m also getting better at figuring out where I am at in my life and getting a grasp on everything I am doing and what needs to be done going forward. I want to spend the rest of this month trying to get one of my in-progress manuscripts finished, or at the very least, a first draft finished. I also am going to start trying to pull together another short story collection, and I want to get these novellas finished and out of the way, too. I am also aware that is a far too ambitious plan for me; there’s no way I’d be able to get all that writing done in twenty-five days. I also have another Alabama book swirling around inside of my head; I keep thinking Beau Hackworth, Jake’s boyfriend in Bury Me in Shadows, deserves his own story and would be the best place for me to continue on with Corinth County tales; I have others in progress (two novellas, in fact, “Fireflies” and “A Holler Full of Kudzu”) and numerous short stories. I have one actually coming out in an anthology this fall, predicated around breaking the Father Brown rules for a mystery story–mine was “include a supernatural element,” natch–called “The Ditch” that I’m rather pleased with. I want to revise my old story “Whim of the Wind” again, too, because I think I’ve finally unlocked the key to solving the problem in the story (with a grateful not to Art Taylor, whose story “The Boy Detective and the Summer of 74”) but have never gotten around to actually, you know, making the changes to the story.

That story, “Whim of the Wind,” is uniquely special to me. After being told by my first creative writing professor that I would never be a published author and to “find another dream” sent me into a tailspin that resulted in my flunking out of college and putting off seriously pursuing writing as a vocation for over a decade (there were flashes of time when I’d put some effort into it, writing stories and so forth before giving it all up as pointless and impossible for me) I took creative writing again when I went to a junior college in California in an attempt to get my GPA up enough to allow me to re-enroll in the California State University system. We were allowed to take that class twice, so I took it in both fall and spring semesters. The first semester my stories were derivative and trying too hard, but the teacher was very encouraging, which I wasn’t used to, so I decided to take it again in the spring–he urged me to do so. One day in class we were talking about stories and structures and writing, and I just had this idea pop into my head and I started writing in my notebook. All throughout the rest of the class I kept writing, and I finished it when I got home that night. That story was “Whim of the Wind,” and not only did the teacher love it (he wrote on the first page, excellent, you should send this out which was a huge thrill for me. The class also loved it and didn’t critique it very much–there wasn’t anything negative anyone had to say about it. But the story was flawed; there was a strong flaw in its premise which inevitably always got the story kicked back from anywhere I may have submitted it; editors would even admit they loved the story but it was missing something–but no one has ever been able to tell me what the story needed…and please remember, what I turned in was a first draft, I’ve never rewritten the story because I didn’t know how–and it’s really one of those “kill your darlings” examples; I can’t change the opening paragraph because it’s poetic and beautifully written and…I can’t bring myself to make any changes to that, and I suspect that’s really what it needs. Maybe I’ll take another look at it this weekend.

I’ve also been going through my journals looking for things–ideas, story fragments, etc.–that I’ve forgotten about, and I must say there’s quite a lot of that. I’ve even started writing short stories in my journal that I never finished and they are just sitting there, minding their own business and waiting for me to remember them so I can finish them. It’s also interesting seeing what I write in those things, too–sometimes I just free-write, which is open it, take a pen and just start scribbling whatever pops into my head, which makes for a kind of interesting (to me) look at how my brain operates when free associating…I am sure some future psychoanalyst (or even current, for that matter) would look and see a need for medication if not multiple psychoses. I also free associate write when I am playing with ideas for stories or novels in progress, so that’s always interesting to see again later.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I will be back with you later.

Ella Megalast Burls Forever

Well, it’s the fifth and it’s back to the office with me this morning. It’s also Pay-the-Bills Day, woo-hoo! An oddly weird work week, the aftermath of a trip, and that weird stage of being beyond writing, if that makes any sense. I do have proofs to correct and other edits to come on something else, but I am not writing anything at the moment. I have some ideas I am toying with–a New Orleans ghost story, an Alabama book, among others–but for the moment I am just re-acclimated to myself and my world. I took yesterday off for the most part, and it was nice. I slept well again and felt good all day. I made holiday waffles for Paul, and I ate the Subway sandwich he’d purchased for me on Monday, I did some chores this morning while listening to the end of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Seduction of Water (more on that later), and then Paul was up. I had thought about doing some work, getting started on the proofs or something, but once he was up I thought, we haven’t both had an entire day to ourselves in a long time so therefore, everything else could wait for another day.

We binged through a Paramount Plus show called School Spirits, which essentially is about a high school girl who is murdered, and her soul is trapped at the school with the spirits of other students throughout the school’s history who died there and cannot move on. She doesn’t remember how she was murdered or who had done it; there were gaps, and the other ghosts estimate that perhaps once she remembers everything she can then move on. It was cute enough, and entertaining enough, with some interesting twists here and there that it held our interest, and we watched all the way through until the season finale. We then moved on to the first two episodes of a horror series on Netflix, Red Rose, which was interesting and intriguing enough for us to continue, and decide to continue until we finish it. It was, all in all, a lovely relaxing day, and I am glad of it.

I also reread Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds” yesterday. It’s really quite a wonderful and creepily intimate little story. I think it’s creepier and scarier than the film Hitchcock made of it–although the film is terrifying in an entirely different way. The story is very intimate and small–it focuses on a farmer trying to protect his family from the sudden turning of the birds, and how they have to fortify themselves in their house during the attacks, which in the story have to do with high tide. It’s really quite something, but du Maurier was such a master. I may write more about it later; the jury is still out on that.

I slept deeply and well last night, but didn’t wake up earlier than the alarm this morning nor am I awake and alive and ready to spring into action at work the way I was Monday morning. I don’t feel tired, I just don’t feel like I am fully awake just yet, which of course is fine. I do not regret taking yesterday off for myself; I am trying to not make myself crazy with that sort of thing anymore. No one can work at full capacity every day, after all, and there’s nothing wrong with me taking some time for myself and time off from everything every once in a while, to stop from going completely insane or at least wearing myself out. It’s much easier to take care of yourself, and I am trying to pay attention to my health on all fronts, including getting rest and not allowing my brain to get burned out. I think protecting my mental health, particularly since having the long COVID last year, is much more important now than it has ever been before in my life. I may not do a lot of thinking or writing this week, but there’s only two in-office days this week and a work-at-home Friday in my future, so maybe waiting until this weekend to do any of that sort of thing is perhaps for the best. I do want to start reading my new Megan Abbott novel; perhaps when I get home from work today I can use my writing time for reading.

Plus I need to figure out what I want to do next and come up with a plan of some sort for the next few years.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you tomorrow, if not later.