Roar

Ah, Nancy Drew.

Nancy Drew wasn’t the first kids’ sleuth series I discovered (Trixie Belden’s The Red Trailer Mystery and The Three Investigators’ The Mystery of the Moaning Cave came first), but when I was in the fifth grade, sometime between 1969 and 1970, we had a table of books in the back of the room that had belonged to the (now grown) children of our teacher. I was already reading mysteries checked out from the library or ordered from the Scholastic Book Fair, so when I saw The Secret of Red Gate Farm there on the table, along with the banner NANCY DREW MYSTERY STORIES, I couldn’t pass it up.

And on the back was a listing of all the titles in the series to that point in Nancy Drew history when this copy was printed. This was very exciting for me–a series? Of mysteries? I’d never heard of such a thing, and my life was about to be changed forever.

I recently found excellent replacement copies for my collection at the library sale–my copies of Crossword Cipher and Red Gate Farm are seriously dilapidated and wrecked–and I don’t remember if I have a revised text copy of Twisted Candles, so I picked it up, too. I do sometimes wonder if my collecting this books isn’t part of the neuroses I think it it is and part of a tendency to hoard things, especially books.

It probably will not come as a surprise to anyone that it always really bothered me that I didn’t read or acquire the books in order. There were other volumes in the series back on the table, including The Mystery at Lilac Inn, The Hidden Staircase, and The Haunted Showboat. (There was also a Dana Girls, The Secret of the Old Well. I eventually acquired the first and third books, The Secret of the Old Clock and The Bungalow Mystery, from the Woolworth’s on 26th and Pulaski in Chicago.) Nancy Drew was my first real foray into collecting a kids’ series, and of course, my parents were delighted that I moved on to the Hardy Boys without argument as ordered; they never liked me reading books with female heroines, which of course made Nancy Drew even more appealing to me because it was forbidden. (So, of course, I kept reading and acquiring them whenever I could when I wasn’t being supervised. So, yes, I was even in the closet as a Nancy Drew reader,)

But even as the revised texts appealed to me more because the font was better and the books were illustrated, I did notice, even as a kid, that Nancy was a lot more passive than she was in the original texts. Things happened to Nancy in the newer books, and her personality was bland to the point of being beige. It also irritated me that of course this rich lawyer’s daughter didn’t have a job, didn’t go to school, didn’t seem to have any responsibilities whatsoever other than traveling around doing as she pleased and stumbling over mysteries (sometimes the mystery came to Nancy). Her friends all adored her, would do anything she asked, and she was good at everything she tried. As someone who was not good at everything he tried, this annoyed me. Why not give her some flaws? Why make her this super-character who was perfect in every way? As I got older and revisited the original texts more, I could see why aficionados preferred the older versions, despite being dated and rife with racial and racist stereotypes; because Nancy wasn’t perfect in her original incarnation. She was a bit arrogant, definitely classist, and very headstrong to the point of being willful. She was also absolutely fearless, and had very deep convictions about right and wrong, and how wrongs must always be righted. She was fascinating but realistic. She’s aware of her privilege–even as she uses it as needed–but tries to use it to help others less fortunate, which is kind of admirable. The original text Nancy was the kind of character a girl between the ages and nine and thirteen would find aspirational, would want to be like, a role model of sorts presented at a young and formative age that they, too, could be smart and independent and liked as themselves, rather than as someone’s daughter or girlfriend or wife.

Even as a kid, I was drawn to strong, independent female characters. That has never changed.

Most of my collection of Nancy Drew mysteries–and all the other kids’ series I collect–are currently in boxes in my storage attic. There just isn’t room to have them out on display (which makes me crazy, but it’s either that or the copies of my own books, and my vanity trumps not displaying the books every time), because I do have copies of every Nancy Drew except for maybe one or two, and there are some revised editions I don’t have. Shortly after I got to the age where I could actually buy them with my own money, the editions changed; they went from the old flat matte covers to what aficionados and collectors call “the flashlight editions”, because there’s a flashlight as the logo on the spine (rather than the little black box with Nancy in profile) and they went to a glossy cover; also on the cover where NANCY DREW MYSTERY STORIES was changed to a banner across the top in yellow (the Hardy Boys’ banner was blue), and I didn’t like the new glossy covers or the flashlight editions or the banner…plus, I wasn’t going to start over and collect them all in this new format; this was when I started looking for them at yard sales, second hand stores, and flea markets (before the Internet and ebay).

I’ve also noticed how rabid the fans for both Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys can be. I belong to several Facebook groups for fans and collectors, and those people can get worked up really easily–and of course, it always has something to do with bigotry and change. They hated the new Nancy Drew series because (gasp, the horror!) Ned was Black and even greater horror, she has sex. There was a lot of pearl-clutching over this, as there was about the new Hardy Boys series, in which Joe was made much younger, their mother was killed off, and there were a lot of supernatural elements to both (I never finished the Nancy Drew show, but not out of distaste; I always appreciate new interpretations and find the changes made interesting. I never finished because I forgot about it, in all honesty)–again, pearl clutching–but every so often it amuses me to think about writing a book built around this fandom. But it would of course have to be a fictional series, but it could be really, really funny.

And I think the Hardy Boys may now be in the public domain? I don’t know how that works, but I’d love to be able to write my own. I’ve always wanted to, and if I could actually use the original characters…how fun would that be? I’ve also always hoped to get a gig ghostwriting for either series…I suppose it’s not impossible, but I’m not sure they are still releasing new titles in either series. There have also been spin-off series, too–but I’ve never read outside the original canon. Once they stopped being published in hardcover, I don’t care about collecting the paperbacks or reading them, either.

But Nancy was important in the formation of my interests in reading and what I write, and maybe she wasn’t my favorite series of them all, but I have an appreciation for her and the books still to this day.

My goal is to write an entry on every series I collect–I think I’ve already done The Three Investigators–but so what if I have? My blog, my entries!

Next up, I will probably read the original text of the Hardy Boys’ The Mark on the Door, which I picked up in a tweed edition sans dust-jacket at the library sale.

Until then, hang in there.

Calfskin Smack

Tuesday and we made it through Monday. I didn’t sleep great for some reason on Sunday night–restless and kept waking up–so I was dragging yesterday, as could be expected. I wasn’t mentally tired, but physically? Yeah, not great. I was also hungry all morning despite having had cereal, a banana, and peanut butter toast. Go figure. Then again, I also ate earlier than usual on Sunday, so that could have had a lot to do with the hunger issue. I am glad that I have finally identified that feeling as hunger, though. It’s very rare when I experience it, so am very glad to know what it actually is for those moments when I do have that dull empty stomach ache. The irony that I didn’t think it was hunger because hunger pains usually went away after a moment or two, so I thought it was something else. I guess my body has changed yet again.

I did start revising the first four chapters of the next book I am going to write. It was a bit slow going, primarily because I don’t think I’ve got the voice completely down again–I decided that it was silly not to reread the chapters again before working on the rewrite; that could be why it was slow going and hard for me to slip back into my character’s voice again. There’s a cynical, world-weariness to him that you’d think would be super easy for me to slip into again, but the difficulty with the revision stuff made me realize I don’t really know much about my character and his history/back story either, so I need to work on that a bit more before I can really dig into the story the way I really want to, so that’s something, right? But I took a break from it, folded clothes and washed dishes, and then came back to it and slid right into his head and his voice, knowing exactly where I was and who I was writing about and what was going on. It felt good, and while I only did about 800 words or so today in total gain (there was also subtraction going on), it felt really good and it also put me into a good mood. I do love writing–at least this part of it, before I’ve cursed myself out for not seeing this plot hole or for forgetting this subplot and never resolving it, when I am stuck in the middle and it feels like everything I am writing is just filler; you know, the emotional rollercoaster of a journey I undertake with every new book I write.

Yeah, this is the part I like.

We also watched the new episode of Last Call, which is a book I still need to read. It’s such an eerie and creepy story–one which American Horror Story: NYC essentially “ripped from the headlines” for a significant portion of its plot–but I mused about how I hadn’t heard anything about this case, despite being gay and out at the time. I was living in Tampa, and reading the local queer paper and I also used to subscribe to both Out and The Advocate because once I was out I was all about being gay in every aspect of my life, and what better way to learn about being gay than reading, which is what I always did? But I never read anything about these murders that I recall. I am definitely going to have to read this book, and there are a few other gay books I want to read this summer–but there are sooooo many great new crime novels dropping by amazing authors too! Bouchercon is also looming on the horizon. I am getting invited to meals and meetings, and of course there are my panels. I don’t know who all is going because it always seemed so far away that there was plenty of time to check in with everyone, but it’s like getting closer and closer by the day.

The lackadaisical almost malaise I’ve been staggering under for quite some time now seems to have lifted, or at least for a temporary lull, at any rate. This year hasn’t been an easy one, and neither was the last. Everyone seems to be struggling with more things than usual these days, so I am not really comfortable complaining or whining or even just commenting on what a shitty period the last few years have been. I’m glad Mom is no longer suffering or struggling, but I hate that the side effect of that is Dad’s unhappiness. I’m glad Scooter left us pretty quickly and painlessly with a minimum of suffering–when I got home from the office yesterday Paul had picked up his cremated remains, so had a moment of deep sadness and misery when I got home from work yesterday. It was nice to share the sadness, though, with Paul; I try not to be sad in front of him because I think it makes him feel worse–also because it’s even harder for me to see him sad, but we should share our griefs and burdens more because it does help not to do it alone. As I mentioned, it felt good to start digging into the new book last night, even if it was just revising and strengthening what was already there. I haven’t started reading the new Kelly Ford, but will probably do that today. I actually was sitting in my easy chair feeling sad last night and missing Scooter, when I snapped myself out of it and got up off my ass and did some things. I made myself write, and when I got stuck, instead of giving up I did some chores to shake things loose in my head and wrote some more. I slept better last night than I did the night before–still woke up a few times, but still was a much less restless night than Sunday night was–and am feeling pretty rested, if not completely awake, this morning, which is also nice. I am hoping to make it through the week without getting run down and/or exhausted. I got two books yesterday–the new Eryk Pruitt, Something Bad Wrong, and a reprint of a Scholastic Book Club mystery I really enjoyed as a kid, The Mystery of the Pirate’s Ghost by Elizabeth Honess, which should be fun revisiting. I am still considering writing middle grade mysteries, and so I am trying to reread some of my favorites as well as some of the more modern offerings.

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

Treasure Hiding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I never stopped thinking about it.

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

That’s a good sign, methinks.

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

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

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

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

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

If Anyone Falls

I finished reading the new Megan Abbott novel, Beware the Woman, this morning during a marvelous, raging thunderstorm that filled the gutters and streets of New Orleans with dirty swirling water, cutting the temperature to something bearable for once this summer and cooling the interior of my apartment to the point I needed to put on a sweatshirt and a knit cap on my head. Curled under a blanket with a good book while a thunderstorm rages with a warm cup of coffee on the side table, tendrils of steam rising in curly-cues of white from the creamer-lightened pool of soft brown, is perhaps my happiest of places.

Hell, reading anything new by Megan Abbott is my happiest of places.

My first Megan Abbott novel was Bury Me Deep, which stunned me with its craftsmanship, its voice, its literate choices of words and sentences structures that are short yet lyrical, minimalist strokes painting a broad canvas of human frailty and contradiction, crime and desire that comes from a primal place within, almost inexplicable and unexplainable yet so easily understandable and recognizable. I went on from there to Dare Me and the rest of her all-too-short canon; admiring, loving, respecting and enjoying each book with its magical spell woven by a true master of the literary form, astonishing in its humanity and an exploration of what lengths her characters will go to in order to get the thing (or things) they want, need, desire and hunger for.

Some of the earlier reviews I saw for Beware the Woman painted some parallels between the book and what is perhaps my favorite novel of all time, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier…which had me intrigued and interested even more than usual.

But more on that later.

“We should go back,” he said suddenly, shaking me out of sleep.

“What?” I whispered, huddled under the thin bedspread at the motor inn, the air conditioner stuck on HI. “What did you say?”

“We should turn around and go back.”

“Go back?” I was trying to see his face in the narrow band of light through the stiff crackling curtains, the gap between every motel curtain ever. “We’re only a few hours away.”

“We should go back and just explain it wasn’t a good time. Not with the baby coming.”

His voice was funny, strained from the AC, the detergent haze of the room.

I propped myself up on my elbows, shaking off the bleary weirdness.

We’d driven all day. In my head, in my chest, we were still driving, the road buzzing beneath us, my feet shaking, cramped, over the gas.

Our main character here is Jacy Ashe, a pregnant wife in her early thirties, married to a neon sign artist, Jed, and working as an elementary school teacher. They are en route when the story opens to the remote upper peninsula of Michigan (primarily known to me from Steve Hamilton’s novels) to visit Jed’s retired doctor father, who lives up there in what used to be the family summer place, with his housekeeper, Mrs. Brandt. This is one of the classic set-ups of one of my favorite subgenres of crime fiction–the Gothic–as well as placing it strongly into another category I love, domestic suspense. This novel has echoes of du Maurier, Phyllis A. Whitney, Dorothy B. Hughes, and Margaret Millar…blended seamlessly together into a classic yet modern novel that updates and reinvigorates both subgenres, bringing them into the modern era and proving they are still just as relevant and important as they have ever been.

(Aside: I do not know where Abbott came up with the name “Jacy,” but it’s one I’ve always liked and wanted to use in my own work since first reading Larry McMurtry’s The Last Picture Show and seeing the Bogdonovich film based on it; I smiled and wondered if that was where Abbott got the unusual name from.)

The Gothic set-up is there, and I can also see the slight echoes from Rebecca: the brooding remote house in the country where tragedy has occurred in the past; the mysterious housekeeper who doesn’t seem to like our heroine very much; the slow-burn of slow revelations of secrets from the past; and the creeping paranoia and potential gaslighting of Jacy…often explained away as her pregnancy hormones or a reaction to the medications after she has a pregnancy complication. One of the strengths of Gothics, for me, is that question of paranoia vs. reality; the gaslighting that is always a hallmark of a Gothic novel. After all, what reason could either Jacy’s father-in-law or husband have for wanting to drive her mad and risking her baby’s health and well-being? She feels her husband slipping away from her and no one seems to believe her…this is probably one of the best depictions of a paranoid pregnant woman in literature since at least Rosemary’s Baby.

Someone once said the Gothic and domestic suspense novels were “women’s noir,” because the danger to them always arose from them being women and doing women’s things; a reaction to the terror of getting married and placing (until very recently) all of your agency into the hands of your husband–and what if you chose poorly?

Abbott takes the best elements of noir and combines them with the foundations of domestic suspense and Gothic to explore what it is like to be a woman, how it is to be a woman, and the trap of societal and cultural expectations for women.

And there’s a reason why the cops always look at the husband first when a woman is killed.

This is a brilliant novel, with many layers to unpack and unravel through its deceptively simple voice and brevity of language. Megan Abbott is a sorceress, a Scheherazade of crime fiction to whom you simply cannot stop listening. Read it, cherish it, love it.

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.

The Winner Takes it All


The Macavity Nominations 2023 
(for works published in 2022)


The Macavity Awards are nominated and voted on by members of Mystery Readers International, subscribers to Mystery Readers Journal, and friends of MRI. Stay tuned for your ballot. The winners will be announced at opening ceremonies at the San Diego Bouchercon in late August. 

Congratulations to all.

Best Mystery Novel
 
Back to the Garden by Laurie R. King (Bantam)
Two Nights in Lisbon by Chris Pavone (MCD)
A World of Curiosities by Louise Penny (Minotaur)
A Heart Full of Headstones by Ian Rankin (Little, Brown)
Killers of a Certain Age by Deanna Raybourn (Berkley)
Secret Identity by Alex Segura (Flatiron Books)
 
 

Best First Mystery
Before You Knew My Name by Jacqueline Bublitz (Atria/EmilyBestler) 
Shutter by Ramona Emerson (Soho Crime)
Devil’s Chew Toy by Rob Osler (Crooked Lane Books)
The Verifiers by Jane Pek (Vintage Books)
The Maid by Nita Prose (Ballantine)


Best Mystery Short Story

“The Landscaper’s Wife” by Brendan DuBois (Mystery Tribune, Aug/Sep 2022)
“Beauty and the Beyotch” by Barb Goffman (Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Jan 2022)
“First You Dream, Then You Die” by Donna Moore (in Black is the Night, Titan Books)
“Schrödinger, Cat” by Anna Scotti (Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Mar/Apr 2022) 
“Stockholm” by Catherine Steadman (Amazon Original Stories)
“The Angel of Rome” by Jess Walter (in The Angel of Rome and Other Stories, Harper)
“My Two-Legs” by Melissa Yi (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Sep/Oct 2022)


Best Mystery Critical/Biographical

The Life of Crime: Detecting the History of Mysteries and Their Creators by Martin Edwards (Collins Crime Club)
The Bloomsbury Handbook to Agatha Christie edited by Mary Anna Evans & J.C. Bernthal (Bloomsbury Academic)
The Crime World of Michael Connelly: A Study of His Works and Their Adaptations by David Geherin (McFarland)
Agatha Christie: An Elusive Woman by Lucy Worsley (Pegasus Crime)


Sue Feder Memorial Award for Best Historical Mystery
The Lindbergh Nanny by Mariah Fredericks (Minotaur)
In Place of Fear by Catriona McPherson(Hodder & Stoughton)
Anywhere You Run by Wanda M. Morris (William Morrow)
The Secret in the Wall by Ann Parker (Poisoned Pen Press)
One-Shot Harry by Gary Phillips (Soho Crime)
Lavender House by Lev AC Rosen (Forge)

Squeeze-Wax

Back to the office for me today, with tomorrow yet again a work-at-home day for one Gregalicious. Yesterday was an interesting one. It’s always strange disrupting your usual work week with a day off, but I slept super great Tuesday night and woke up feeling incredibly well-rested and on top of things. I did a load of dishes and a load of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, did some filing, and had a highly productive chore morning. I went to my doctor’s appointment (more on that later), and ran some errands before getting out of the blistering temperature of another heat advisory into the delightful cool of the Lost Apartment. The doctor visit was okay; we’ve (he’s) come to the conclusion that the issue with my left arm is most likely a torn bicep tendon, which will need surgery to mend. Hurray. Which means since our corporate insurer is dropping us after December 31 and there’s been no word about what’s going to go down with that, I need to have this done before the end of the year. Huzzah even more. So far, that’s dental surgery in September and now arm surgery before the end of the year. But…since the corporate insurance scum company is dropping us, I’m happy to force them to spend more money on us.

Insurance, the biggest scam ever perpetrated on the American people. Every kind and every type: an utter joke and scam to make shareholders profits.

But I am glad it’s going to be looked at and potentially repaired; this staying out of the gym has been horrendous and I hate that I am getting so out of the fit condition I prefer to usually be in. At least we’re saving money on the gym membership; we put mine on pause after I originally injured it. I tried talking Paul into a SPCA run to look at kitties this weekend, as I do not like living in a kitty-free home, but he is going to visit his mom soon and wants to wait until he gets back. I get that–not wanting to go away right after getting a pet–but it also means I won’t have a cat to keep me company while he’s gone. Heavy heaving sigh. But I can also consider our new kitty, when we get him, as a birthday gift. (And I will keep working on him, of that you can be sure.)

I read deeper into Megan Abbott’s brilliant Beware the Woman yesterday, around appointments, errands and chores, and it is deliciously marvelous. As always, reading Megan inspires me to write better myself–the truly great writers always are an inspiration, even as their talent awes me it also inspires–and it gave me some ideas, too, as the best writers always do. I am looking forward to finishing the book this weekend, after which I will move on to S. A. Cosby’s All the Sinners Bleed. I’ll get my grubby paws on a copy of the new Laura Lippman soon enough, and let me tell you, I’ve got some amazing reading ahead of me for the rest of the summer; Eli Cranor, Jordan Harper, Alison Gaylin, Wendy Corsi Staub, and the new Silvia Moreno-Garcia novel, Silver Nitrate, just arrived the other day as well.

I also was asked to moderate a panel at Bouchercon on Saturday afternoon; which brings my panel total to four (the other three are nominee panels, and since I have THREE nominations that means THREE panels; my queer crime writer friends are always telling me I need to shout that from the rooftops, so I am trying to be a little less self-deprecating and trying to take more pride in my accomplishments, and let’s face it, it’s pretty impressive and cool to have those three Anthony nominations. I think S. A. Cosby and I are the only people to be nominated three times in the same year; pretty heady company to be in, quite frankly.) That means I’ll have to prepare and I no longer have Saturday as a free day; but that’s okay. I can sleep in, grab some coffee, and make notes that morning before the panel. That Saturday is going to be one of those days where I’ll have to remember to eat, so I should probably make lunch plans with someone.

I slept well again last night, so deeply I didn’t want to get up this morning, but it’s my last day in the office for the week and I think I’ll survive somehow. I got my errands done yesterday, and didn’t get as much done around the house as I would have liked. I really need to make a project out of the kitchen drawers and cabinets. But it was miserably hot out there and I did get everything done outside the house that needed doing, and now this weekend I may need to make a single grocery/mail run while dropping books off at the library sale; there are at least two, if not three, that are ready to go. I may even get another box down from the attic to go through for book purging. We also watched more of The Crowded Room last night, and if Tom Holland isn’t at least nominated for an Emmy for this, the Emmys will be an utter and complete joke.

And on that note, it’s time for me to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader and I may be back later.

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.