A Reason to Believe

Work at home Friday, and I actually slept in till seven! A whole extra hour! (Don’t think I didn’t wake up right at six in the morning, though…) It looks like a sunny April first out there–cannot believe it’s actually April already. It’s very strange to wake up on Friday morning and look at a normal weekend for the first time in a long time–one where there’s not a looming deadline hanging over my head, the Festivals are done for a year, and I can actually relax and try to get those odds-and-ends that have been hanging around that I never seem to be able to get around to taken care of–if I am lucky. We need to make a Costco run, and Scooter has to go in for bi-annual “senior kitty” check-up. I need to get my story worked on a bit too this weekend, and maybe I can shoehorn in some other writing as well. I also want to spend some time with that Chris Holm novel, knowing I will most likely be sucked into it and won’t get anything else done over the course of the weekend.

It happens.

Yesterday was a pretty good day. I was in a good mood and had energy most of the day–petering out as the day come to a close, as always–and left the office later than I usually do, resulting in the horror and frustration of being caught in rush hour CBD traffic on the way home. My office really is in probably one of the most inconvenient places in the city for me to get to; the old office on Frenchmen Street was only slightly easier to get to–but it still involved driving through both the CBD and the Quarter. Now that we’re further downtown, you’d think it would be easier–I live near an on-ramp to the highway system, and the office is right off the Claiborne exit on I-10 East; it can take me as little as five minutes to get there in the mornings (if I hit the lights properly, which never happens). But I can’t take the highway on the way home–because I have to use the I-10 interchange with Highway 90 to the West Bank (the twin spans) and the traffic is usually backed up almost all the way to the on-ramp at Claiborne Avenue), which is a nightmare all day every day, but is especially horrible in the later afternoon when everyone is getting off work. So I either take Claiborne Avenue all the way uptown to get the mail and make groceries on my way home, or I just take Claiborne to Orleans, head through Treme to the CBD on Loyola, turn onto Howard Avenue and that leads me to Tivoli Circle and St. Charles and BOOM I am home. Unfortunately, yesterday Loyola had a lane blocked by three streetcars that were just parked at the Poydras intersection (the absolute worst place, traffic wise) and as such, it was after five when I got home. I did some laundry, unpacked my backpack, and sank into my easy chair. Scooter climbed into my lap, cuddled and purred and fell asleep, and that was the end of that for all intents and purposes. I watched this week’s Superman and Lois–it really is a good show–and then switched over to Young Justice, which is incredibly well done; with each new episode I not only marvel at the storylines they’ve devised but the strong character building the writers manage, eventually going to bed around ten.

I am also hoping to return to the gym for the first time in a while. Yes, I will be heading out to Albuquerque next week, but I also can make it to the gym a few times before I do. I need to remember that I enjoy working out and that it feels good when I do. Plus, it’s lighter out later now, so I don’t have to walk there and back in the dark anymore. It’s not that I feel unsafe or anything, but walking around back streets in the neighborhood can sometimes be a bit on the creepy side; the problem of having a vivid imagination is that you can never really turn it off. Which is why I have files and files and files of book and novella and short story ideas…and keep having more every damned day. I had another great idea yesterday, in fact–well, I do like to believe all my ideas are brilliant, let’s be completely honest–which I dutifully made note of in my journal at work and expanded on it a bit for a couple of pages, but even as I closed the journal I thought, well, when precisely are you going to write this book, Gregalicious? Heavy heaving sigh. I do want to get a lot of writing done this year….and I need to stop beating myself up because my writing “muscles” are tired and need to rest for a bit.

It happens.

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

It’s Too Late

Thursday!

Fortunately last night’s horrible weather seemed to miss our neighborhood for the most part; I’m not seeing any news about storm damage or power outages in the metro area, so we must have dodged another bullet. It was supposed to come through the city around four; they closed the office and sent us to work from home remotely for the rest of the day. I think the thunderstorm got here around eight pm last night? That was when I heard the first thunder and the rain started. Better safe than sorry, of course, but weather scares that turn out to be nothing inevitably make people take future storm threats not as seriously, which becomes problematic over time–it’s why people don’t evacuate for hurricanes, for one thing–but it’s also a no-win situation for the weather forecasters. It’s their job to warn us and keep us safe from inclement weather, so they have to take potentially dangerous storms seriously. But when they’re wrong…people stop listening…and inevitably the time will come when they are right. After last week’s tornado on the West Bank/lower 9th/New Orleans East–and it was a big bad one–well, the possibility of a repeat is pretty fucking scary. And we don’t have basements or interior rooms in most of our houses–I don’t think there’s a basement anywhere in Orleans Parish–and all of the old houses here were built to stay cool in our miserably hot summers, so most don’t have a room anywhere inside that doesn’t have windows because that room would be unbearable pre-air conditioning.

Today is my last day in the office for the week, which is nice. I woke up super-early again this morning yet somehow feel incredibly well-rested; go figure. I was tense about the storm yesterday afternoon when I got home from the office, so I spent my work-at-home time making condom packs while watching the weather reports in my easy chair. I really need to get back to working on my story that I have due at the end of April; I am hoping the malaise will lift somewhat so I can get some writing done. After my work-at-home duties were completed, Paul and I watched the rest of season two of The Righteous Gemstones, which was quite enjoyable; this show doesn’t get near the attention it deserves. As I said yesterday, the corrupt televangelist has almost become a stereotype–like the closeted homophobic politician–but the show handles it very well; that weird line between having faith while at the same time a lot of human frailty.

I will have a lot to focus on this weekend to get done in preparation for my trip to Albuquerque next week; it’s my first ever trip to Left Coast Crime, which I am extremely excited about–this is my first really big event in years; it would have been the combined festivals of last weekend had I been able to actually go down, hang out and spend some time enjoying them. (I am still a little bitter about not having the time to actually enjoy the weekend, but the truth is it’s my own fault because I could have planned better and gotten the work I needed to get done finished long before the weekend; this is what happens when you procrastinate, Greg so remember this the next time you start convincing yourself you can push something to do back another day or so.) But I do think I can get some things done this weekend; the entire weekend looms before me with nothing really do or that must get done…so I should be able to have a nice relaxing weekend at home to get things done, to read, to write and clean and get my house in order so I can safely leave town next Thursday.

It’s so nice having Paul home at night again.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, everyone.

Go Away Little Girl

It’s really strange to look back at old music–from really not that long ago–and see how actually pedophilic and disturbing the lyrics to some of these songs actually are. Today’s title, for example, is about a guy being tempted by a girl who’s much too young for him–but while he at least recognizes this, the song itself makes it sound like she is the seductive temptress, which again: weird and uncomfortable. Granted, the version I am most familiar with is Donny Osmond’s, and he was prepubescent when he recorded it, so there is that. But imagine how creepy it would sound if sung by someone in their twenties? Thirties?

I am sure you get the point.

Yesterday wasn’t one of my better days, frankly. I woke up at five in the morning and of course, was wide awake (fortunately, Scooter decided that was the time to start howling for food and water, so it wasn’t a total disaster; he would have woken me up then anyway so hurray for already being awake, at least). But I felt very–not tired, but also not entirely checked into my day, if that makes any kind of sense? It’s a weird feeling, and not one I am particularly fond of, either–but what can you do? Try to function as best you can, is the only answer–along with hoping that tomorrow will be better. It’s sort of the like the post-novel writing malaise I often experience when I’ve turned a book in; but it’s not quite the same. I tried working on some writing yesterday to no avail; I did get a bit done but very very little. But after abandoning the attempt to write, I sat down with Chris Holm’s Child Zero, which is quite compelling and extremely well written. I got only a few chapters in before Paul got home from the gym (it’s so lovely having a husband again; it’s been like four months of having a roommate I never see), and thus had to reluctantly put the book aside.

We’re also getting some nasty weather later this afternoon–hurricane force winds are predicted, and potential tornadoes (again). The worst of the weather will be north of us–sorry, Mississippi, please stay safe, my Mississippi friends–but it’s also supposed to be at its worst right around the time I get off work and head home. There’s also potential for power outages–as always with high winds–so who knows what’s going to happen around here? I will have to figure out precisely what to do when it’s time for me to come home, I suppose. Yay? AH, well, weather has become even more threatening to us down here over the last few years, I suppose.

We also started watching season two of The Righteous Gemstones last night, which is a very underrated show–it’s quite funny, and of course, the goings-on behind the scenes at most megachurches always is interesting to me on some levels. John D. MacDonald’s One More Sunday is maybe my favorite novel about a televangelist family (MacDonald was a stunning writer, one of the best and one of my favorites, definitely an influence on my career); and of course, in one of its many iterations the Kansas book (now #shedeservedit) was about a megachurch in Kansas; which might still become a book, although probably no longer set in Kansas. Although hypocritical evangelicals has become a cliche…

But it’s also pay-the-bills day (yay?) But at least I can pay them and not worry about buying groceries and so forth, so definitely yay.

And hopefully, tonight when I get home we’ll have power so I can do some writing.

And on that note, tis off to the spice mines with me! Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader!

Y

Where Do I Go From Here

The earliest years of my childhood–with a few minor exceptions–are lost in the foggy distant parts of my memories, unable to be summoned at will but sometimes resurfacing at the oddest moments. I don’t, for example, really remember much of how I started reading. I remember being fascinated by dinosaurs and getting dinosaur books from the library; I remember Scholastic Books Fairs and going to the library, both the Chicago Public Library’s nearest branch as well as the one inside my elementary school. I remember, vaguely, comic books: Richie Rich, Caspar, Wendy, Dot, Little Lotta and anything Disney before moving on to the world of Archie and Millie the Model before discovering, and loving, the world of DC super hero comics accidentally. Comic books were only a dime or twelve cents when I was a kid with an allowance of a dollar per week, so I could get quite a few comics with my allowance every week rather than trying to save it for another week so I could spend $1.50 on a Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew (by the time I discovered them, of course). I would not, nor would I ever, consider myself to be an expert on comics; I was a fan, and not a rabid one, either. I never learned the names of writers or artists (I do, however, remember Denny O’Neil from the 1970’s) until one of my returns to comics (I often went years without feeding my super-hero addiction); the 1980’s return got me learning names like John Byrne and Tim McFarlane. It’s always been a dream–one I don’t return to very often–to actually write for a comic title (I really really really want to write for Nightwing) someday but the older I get the less likely that item will be scratched off my lengthy bucket list (someday I might blog about the bucket-list things I am slowly becoming aware that I will never ever be able to accomplish).

Naturally, I’ve been looking forward to reading Alex Segura’s Secret Identity ever since the title was announced: comic books? The 1970’s? A crime story? COUNT ME IN.

And I am pleased to report it did not disappoint in the slightest.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound.

Carmen Valdez rolled out of her small twin bed with ease, the muscle memory kicking in–even now, in the middle of the night. The shrill scream was familiar, too.

She tiptoed across her small bedroom, avoiding the toys strewn on the floor, as she made her way to the door.

Another scream.

Mami.

The screaming and arguing were routine. Carmen found that she’d become numb to it. She could almost predict it, in the hours before bed. If Mami and Papi were drinking–drinking that stuff–it was a bad sign. It meant they were changing. Becoming meaner. Darker. Something else. She would rush through her routine, rush to get to the relative safety of her room, her closed door, her darkness.

But she also knew the darkness could only shield her from so much. It hid her, but it didn’t silence then. She knew the screams would come. Carmen would just pray she could sleep through them.

I turned fourteen in 1975, and the entire world seemed to be, I don’t know, in some kind of transition that most people in my sheltered world believed would wind up not being good. We were already looking back; American Graffiti had struck gold with a nostalgia craze driven by the memory of “how much simpler (better) things had been back then” (despite the fact American Graffiti is actually a really bleak, dark movie) that was only further amplified by a resurfacing of the Beach Boys and the airing of Happy Days. My high school had “sock hops” (of all things) and my sister played the double album of the Beach Boys’ Endless Summer endlessly. It was easy, of course, to look at the sanitized world of television shows like Happy Days and repeats of Leave it to Beaver and wistfully wish for a simpler time…particularly when impressions we were getting of New York City wasn’t the pristine, clean city of Doris Day movies like Pillow Talk and Lover Come Back but the dirty, gritty noir sensibilities of movies like The French Connection, Shaft, and Serpico. I was already a reader, reading fiction for adults but still occasionally grabbing a comic book or two from the spinner rack at the Jewel Osco, or Mad from the magazine rck at the 7/11 on Briarcliff Road in Bolingbrook, the extremely white suburb my family had escaped to from Chicago and its desegregated schools.

It was also a weird time for comics, to be honest.

So, revisiting that time in Alex Segura’s new novel, Secret Identity, was interesting.

Alex’ book focuses on Carmen Valdez, a young Cuban-American woman living in New York and working as secretary to the publisher at Triumph Comics, a company much lower on the food chain than either Marvel or DC–the ones everyone knows–and hoping to get her own break into the business as a writer. She learned to speak English reading comics (mostly Archie and Betty and Veronica), but eventually moved on to caped crusaders. She gets an opportunity when another writer at Triumph asks for her help in putting together a new hero, the Legendary Lynx–even as a more experienced person in the business tells her not to trust Harvey Stern, the writer. But with all the hope and idealism that a hardscrabble life in New York with a dead-end job in a dying comics company has somehow not stomped out of her yet (ah, to be in my twenties again…), she takes the plunge and collaborates with Harvey–who winds up dead, shot in the forehead. No one knows the new comic Harvey had delivered six scripts for (under only his name) had any input from Carmen–who did the yeoman’s share of the work. Now she has to figure out how to reclaim her character and her work. To do so, she has to find out more about who Harvey was…and that means getting mixed up in a police investigation and eventually into the crosshairs of the killer.

I also appreciated the fact that “stolen work/characters” was the driving force in this book; comic book history is riddled with these kinds of situations, and it was fun seeing it from an insider’s point of view.

The story’s greatest strength is the character of Carmen. Within a few chapters of the story I felt like she was someone I actually knew, had talked to, maybe even had wine or drinks with; she felt like a friend…definitely someone I’d want to know in the real world. Another strength is Segura’s knowledge of the world behind the scenes of a comic book company and the industry itself. (I couldn’t help but grin periodically whenever someone referred to comics as a dying form; the 70’s slump was followed by a renaissance no one could have seen coming, and they are still going strong today.) Carmen’s relationships with the people in her orbit are also realistic and strongly drawn.

An added bonus inside the book are actual pages of art from The Legendary Lynx–which are strong enough to make a good comic book on their own (something we might be looking for in the future, Alex?).

Quickly paced with strong, believable characters, this was a terrific read. Thanks, Alex!

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?

We’re supposed to get hurricane strength wind tomorrow and potential tornadoes. Southeastern Louisiana won’t be getting the worst of this storm–that will be further north, but New Orleans and Baton Rouge will still get some shit flung at us. Hurray. The high today is going to be eighty-one; it’s currently sixty-six degrees. I guess it’s sweatshirt under a T-shirt weather for the office again? Most likely.

Paul returned home yesterday morning, and again, it never ceases to amaze me how different it is when he’s home as opposed to when he’s not; it’s not like he’s this enormous person or anything, but the apartment always feels empty and quiet when he’s not home. Scooter, of course, was absolutely delighted to have both daddies home last night, going back and forth between my lap and Paul on the couch–and he was also a lot more quiet than he’s been in quite some time. Of course, Paul’s been missing a lot over the last few months anyway; me only seeing him when he got home and I woke up, groggily, for a moment before going back to sleep and then seeing him sleeping while I dressed for work the next morning. I regret not being able to spend more time down in the Quarter at Saints and Sinners; maybe next year I can plan my life events better so it won’t be a problem for me to spend time seeing people and going to panels. It is a pain in the ass to get down there and come back home every day, of course, but for fuck’s sake–these are my people: queer writers. And the opportunities to see them are rare and we are all getting older and yes, I definitely need to plan better for next year.

I did finish reading Alex Segura’s Secret Identity last evening, and it’s quite wonderful. I enjoyed and savored every page. There will be more to come on that score later. I think now I am going to move on next to Chris Holm’s Child Zero. I also got some older books yesterday in the mail that I ordered on eBay; The Lute Player and The Claw by Norah Lofts (an unjustly forgotten writer of the mid-twentieth century) and one of those Literature Classics leather bound editions of Daphne du Maurier’s Echoes from the Macabre, which is probably my all-time favorite short story collection. It’s a lovely edition in pristine condition, and I am very happy to have a very good copy of it on my bookshelves. The Lute Player is Lofts’ novel about Richard the Lion-hearted, his sad queen Berengaria, and Blondel the minstrel–and was also the first time I realized (when I read it as a freshman in high school) that the great Richard, hero of legend and fiction, was actually….for wont of a better term, not into the ladies so much. I’ve always wanted, since then, to write my own story of Blondel–but then Gore Vidal beat me to it with his A Search for the King, which I read and enjoyed twenty or so years ago. I don’t remember anything about it other than that I enjoyed it; I do like Vidal, and the older I get the more I appreciate his work. I just got a wild hair and thought it would be fun to revisit The Lute Player, and The Claw is her attempt at writing a novel about a serial rapist; heady stuff for 1981. (I’d never read it, but it sounded interesting. I also enjoyed her collection of ghost stories that I read a few years ago; Lofts is terribly underrated and underappreciated as a novelist.)

I do feel a bit disoriented this morning; like I’ve not been into the office in weeks. Literary event over the weekend, sandwiched around work at home hours, undoubtedly has something to do with that. I don’t feel like I know what I am doing or what I need to get done. I do need to make a new to-do list; when I checked the list yesterday morning I had done a terrific job of getting things crossed off (the things I hadn’t crossed off had to do with writing, natch).

I was also thinking last night, after finishing Alex’ superb novel, that I need to figure out my writing schedule for the rest of the year. I had originally planned to try to get a working first draft of Chlorine finished in April, and then get a working first draft of Mississippi River Mischief done in May, then alternate revisions for the rest of the summer while also writing short stories and finishing novellas. I don’t know if that is going to work; I do have a story to write already for April (and haven’t really gotten far into the physical writing of it; I already know how the story is going to work–it’s mapped out in my head) so that’s why I was thinking April–since it also includes trips to Albuquerque and New York–might be better to do short stories and novellas while pushing everything back a month.

Decisions, decisions.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I will check in again tomorrow.

Bad Weather

Monday morning and I am awake. Scooter has taken to sleeping with me, as I’ve noted, since Paul moved into the hotel and now I understand why it’s so difficult for him to get up every day when Scooter is cuddling with him. It’s interesting to me how pet-owners are always so reluctant to disturb their pets when they are sleeping–like they won’t go back to sleep or don’t spend most of their time sleeping–and that is exactly what happened to me this morning. I woke up to find him curled up next to my shoulder, his little head resting on my arm, and not only dead asleep but purring. I smiled and went back to sleep. I was finally able to get up when I woke again and he was no longer purring. I shifted a bit, he woke up and moved to the laundry basket, thus freeing me to get up. Insane, isn’t it? All he would have done was get up and go to sleep in the laundry basket, and yet…well, it’s also nice to be cuddled with him, too.

I stayed off social media for the most part yesterday, and I think that my plan from now on is to do precisely that on the weekends. Did I feel a bit remote and isolated and disconnected? Sure, I did–but at the same time, it was also kind of fucking lovely, if I am going to be completely honest. It really was. And not checking in on social media or doing the repeated doom-scroll we all seem to do in order to pass time was actually quite lovely. I didn’t really feel like I was missing anything, and I managed to get a lot accomplished yesterday–a lot more than I usually do on a Sunday, and I feel like that says quite a bit about social media and its toxic influence on our lives. I had already started cutting back on it–only checking in here and there throughout the day, rather than obsessively–and it’s helped me focus a lot more on getting things done that need to get done. I think when historians write about this time in our history–provided the world doesn’t end in the meantime–they are going to be very curious and fascinated by our obsession with social media, as well as the damage it’s done to civility and personal relationships…

I finished editing the manuscript yesterday (huzzah!) so will be sending that off to the author this morning. I also did a lot of cleaning yesterday, and did a lot of brainstorming about the story I am working on and the next Scotty book. I also spend some time with Alex Segura’s Secret Identity, resisting the urge to ignore everything else and tear through it as quickly as possible and instead taking my time with it, so I can savor the reading experience. I am greatly enjoying this visit to the 1970’s comic book world, and seeing a look at New York during that same time period; when the city was grimier and grittier. (I was actually thinking about how differently New York looks in older movies–like Pillow Talk–as opposed to 70’s movies like The French Connection, Taxi Driver, and Midnight Cowboy. Granted, the old movie code inevitably had something to do with that, but the evolution of depictions of New York on film would make for an interesting essay for someone with more knowledge of film to write; I know I would love to read something like that.) But I am, as I said, loving every minute of Secret Identity, and am glad I decided to go slow and enjoy the story and what Alex has done here in the book. Bravo, Alex!

I have some errands to do today, data to enter and work at home duties galore; I also would like to spend some time getting my emails handled and under control–I’ve let them slide during the focus on finishing editing the manuscript–and of course, still some odds and ends of cleaning to get done here in the Lost Apartment as always. (I do feel better about some of the progress made this weekend, however; I’m starting to feel like the apartment is finally getting under some kind of control. Not that there still isn’t a lot to do, but headway has been made at last.)

Pretty cool, actually.

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

Oh Be My Love

Sunday morning and oh so much to do. I slept in this morning until eight thirty (oh dear! The vapors!), and feel a bit groggy but also rested and well, which is lovely. I think the panel yesterday went well–one never knows for sure, does one?–but I think the panelists were smart and entertaining and fun and informative; I certainly enjoyed listening to their answers to my borderline puerile questions. I also didn’t stick close to the topic–I never do, another reason I am a shitty moderator–but the most important thing is to stay out of the way of the panelists as they talk about their writing. Whether I succeeded or not remains to be seen; moderating isn’t my strength by any means, I loathe doing it, and it’s also not something I enjoy doing, for that matter.

Then again, that might just be more evidence of Imposter Syndrome. Who knows?

I also woke up to a cover reveal for the Magic is Murder anthology! Edited by the wonderful Donna Andrews, Barb Goffman, and Marcia Talley, this lovely anthology includes my story “The Snow Globe,” which is another example of Gregalicious never letting a story idea die. This story began life as a Halloween story (original opening line: Satan had a great six-pack), was converted to a Christmas story (opening line: Santa had a great six-pack–only had to move the n!) and finally found a home. Thanks to the Terrific Trio for all their help with my story, and I am, as always, excited to see another short story of mine in print. Huzzah!

I need to add a caveat to my earlier “well-rested” sentence: my legs and hip joints ache from walking to the Monteleone and back two days in a row. My legs feel terribly tired, and my hip joints are very achy this morning–as evidenced just not when I got up to make another cup of coffee. I am sure it has something to do with the new shoes and needing new shoe inserts; it usually does–but it’s still rather annoying at the same time. I guess I am grateful it’s not my knees or ankles, but nevertheless, pretty aggravating. I have a lot to do today–I’ve already made a list of what needs to be done today–and I am probably going to spare some more wake-up time to reading Alex Segura’s marvelous Secret Identity. I spent some time with it yesterday while taking breaks from everything I need to scratch off my to-do list, and I am really enjoying it. I am enjoying the feel and vibe of the comic book world and New York in the 1970’s; it would be really fun to see a Mad Men/The Deuce type show developed by Segura set in the comics world of this time. I spent some time last night unwinding over a couple of episodes of Young Justice, which I am also enjoying, and then watched two DC animated movies: Justice League: The Flashpoint Paradox and Teen Titans: The Judas Contract, both of which I deeply enjoyed; the lovely thing about the animated movies is they can actually use the entire cast of DC heroes and aren’t as limited as the television shows or live-action films by casting. I love seeing the DC heroes of my comic fandom days in action–Red Tornado, Martian Manhunter, Green Lantern, Blue Beetle, etc.–turning up in the animation; I’ve missed them as the movies focus on the bigger names and the television shows are also slightly limited by casting as well–they aren’t using first tier, like the movies, but what I would call Tier 1A. (Although I will gladly argue that the CW’s Superman and Lois is the best take on the characters since the Christopher Reeve Superman films.)

I also spent some time watching the World Figure Skating championships, which was delightful. Two American ice dance teams medaled (a rare occurrence), and I think this may be the first time in history that the US has gotten a medal in every discipline? I know we’ve not had a pairs champion since 1979 with Randy Gardner and Tai Babilonia, and it’s been a while since we had a pairs medal of any kind. And our future looks bright with two up-and-comers in Men’s.

So, I had probably best gird my loins and venture into today’s spice mines. Paul will be home tomorrow (yay!) and I need to not only get the apartment not only under control, but everything else in my life, and I am feeling better about everything, really. I don’t know why I allow myself to get so wrapped up in despair and overwhelmed by everything I have to do; everyone has things to do and everyone has their own pace, and well, it just is what it is, you know?

And on that note, tis off to the spice mines with me. Y’all have a great Sunday, okay?

Give Out, But Don’t Give Up

Saturday morning. I slept really well last night, which was lovely. I was on a big emotional/adrenaline meltdown from teaching a workshop (more like lecturing) about sex writing. There was a nice sized crowd; I don’t think I’ve ever done a Saints and Sinners workshop with that many people there before and so naturally, had a massive case of Imposter Syndrome and then started talking. Nerves took over and I forgot a lot of things I wanted to say but somehow managed to stay on topic. Everyone listened politely and took notes–which was enormously flattering–so I hope I didn’t waste everyone’s time for an hour and fifteen minutes. But everyone was really lovely and kind and nice, some good questions were asked, and I may have snarked about some highly successful authors (cough E. L. James cough), but I think it went well overall. Afterwards, I walked home–it was a lovely sunny warm spring day, chilly in the shade but lovely in the sun–and will probably walk down there and back today for the panel I am moderating. Moderating panels, while also stressful, aren’t as bad as a workshop for me because there are other people there, and once I start asking writers questions about writing and books, well, the conversation tends to take flight from there which is all one can ask for, really.

I was very tired when I got home. I did some chores around here, settled in to input more edits (which I will hopefully finish once I get this done and posted), and then watched the World Championships for figure skating on Peacock, since you can replay broadcasts there. (I already knew the results, checking them on my phone, but it’s still nice to watch even though you know who’s going to win; the Internet destroyed spoiler-free figure skating broadcasts, alas) I then went to bed relatively early, and as I said, slept very well, which was nice. I’m a bit spacy and foggy still this morning, but that probably has more to do with me not eating much yesterday–adrenaline, public speaking, etc. tend to take away my appetite. (I often forget to eat at conferences and festivals, which is always a problem inevitably.) So I need to make sure I eat something this morning before I walk down because who knows if I’ll remember to eat later? I ate something yesterday morning, but when I got home I wasn’t hungry and thus didn’t eat anything the rest of the day…and I think all I had yesterday morning was a bagel with cream cheese.

Hopefully, when I am done with the panel today, I can walk back home and work on that short story (assuming I finish inputting edits this morning) that I need to get written and spend some more time with Alex Segura’s Secret Identity. I’m really enjoying the book, and several others have been added to my TBR pile that I really would like to sink my teeth into–and that’s not even taking into consideration the rest of the massive TBR pile. Heavy heaving sigh. And of course, going to Left Coast in a few weeks in Albuquerque will result in the accumulation of even more books for the TBR pile. Heavy heaving sigh. Maybe I’ll spend some time tomorrow pruning more books out of the apartment.

I also ran into Paul yesterday, and he didn’t seem to be the bundle of stress he usually is; but then again he’s always more relaxed once everything has started. I think he’s going to need about a week’s worth of sleep to recover from everything, but the suite they gave him at the Monteleone this year (usually it’s the Tennesee Williams Suite; this year he got the J. W. Monteleone Suite, which is even better than the usual) is amazing. An enormous living room, an enormous flat screen television, one and a half bathrooms (with a Jacuzzi tub in the full) and an enormous bedroom. It even has an office workspace. It also has a fantastic view of the river (I took some pictures). I kind of regretted not going down there to stay this year after seeing the room, but Scooter has been so lonely and needy with Paul gone that I’m kind of glad I come home so he’s not lonely. I do love my kitty.

So, on that note, I have about another three hours before I have to head down there for my panel, so I am going to sign out of here, get cleaned up, and dive headlong back into the edits. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I will talk to you tomorrow.

Let’s Make Love Now

I have always hated the cutesy phrase “make love.”

It’s always been used to get around censors, back in the days of the Hays Code for movies and of course, the ones who kept network television squeaky clean and almost infantile; a unique term for fucking required by puritanical Americans because, you know, the f word is just too nasty to say. Fornicate sounds like sin (usually it’s only used by preachers and ministers), and of course, there’s “having sex”–which sounds completely clinical and sterile and about as un-erotic as a colonoscopy. The other words for it–balling, screwing, fucking, humping, riding–are considered too vulgar for polite society. So someone, somewhere, came up with the innocuous phrase “making love.” (This also is yet another societal effort–whether intentional or not–to equate sex with love; one of the biggest mistakes in modern culture and society) And this doesn’t even begin to touch on “going to bed with” or “sleeping with.”

I don’t know when “making love” began to irritate me, but it was very prevalent for a very long time on soap operas, and every time someone would say it, I would flinch or internally recoil. (Although it’s fun to go back and replace it in movie and song and television show titles: Making Love becomes Fucking; Let’s Make Love becomes Let’s Fuck or Let’s Have Sex–which completely changes the tone, doesn’t it?)

I guess this is on my mind because I am preparing for my workshop today on sex in fiction–that, of course, and then today’s title popped up on my title list and I reflexively rolled my eyes. My workshop is:

Friday, March 25

2:30 – 3:45 PM—SAS Master Class

GREG HEREN: WRITING THE EROTIC

Writing about sex is more challenging than it appears. This master class will help writers produce erotic writing grounded in character, setting, and voice, with an eye on how erotica can contribute to, build, and/or resolve story conflict. We’ll explore how the implicit is often more effective than the explicit, and how to make explicit scenes compelling and authentic. With a focus on finding fresh imagery and an original approach, we’ll also look at how humor, bad sex, or even problematic sex lend themselves to a fuller—and more erotic—interaction between two characters. Questions addressed include: How can we make use of the erotic to create more exciting fiction that better reflects the real life and aspects of a character? How can the erotic be the center of a story without being explicitly so? What do we do about hyperbole and how do we grapple with the often hyperbolic feelings around the erotic? How is erotica different from sex writing or porn? And, how can we ultimately make the erotic fit naturally, as an integral part, into the flow of a good story. This workshop will encourage participants to take chances and experiment with building eroticism into their work mindfully and seamlessly, and/or give them the tools for creating a story that is primarily driven by the erotic, but that has a freshness and originality often lacking in the genre.

Hotel Monteleone, Lobby Level, Royal C

I didn’t write that description–I am filling in for Trebor Healey, the original instructor, who broke his leg or his foot or something. It happened in time for the program to be corrected before it went to the printer, and you know me–I am the seat filler for all last minute cancellations at Saints and Sinners. I don’t mind; it eases Paul’s mind to know he can count on me to fill in if necessary; it’s why I usually am not programmed into it to begin with because I’m the wild card that can be played on any hand. I’ve taught erotic writing workshops before–I used to write a column for the Erotica Writers’ Association, which I don’t think exists anymore? I could be wrong–but there’s always pressure to do a good job and say smart things that the audience will be able to use to improve their own writing. Add that in with my stage fright and absolute soul-wrenching terror at having to stand up and talk in front of people, intensified by the fact I haven’t done it in over two years maybe even three, and yeah, you get where I am at this morning.

AIEEE!

Ah, well, I need to get over it.

Last night I watched the latest Superman and Lois, another couple of episodes of Young Justice, and the latest two episodes of Minx, which is really growing on me. I like the show–even though I am a bit concerned about some aspects of it–and of course, shows set in that time period–the 1970’s–are ore than a little nostalgic for me. I am almost finished inputting the edits into the manuscript–I am hoping to get that finished when I get home after my class today–and so am feeling pretty productive. Once I have this manuscript finished and returned to the author, I can focus on getting back into my own writing again. YAY! I am hoping to do that very thing on Sunday. Fingers crossed.

And now I need to start preparing for the workshop. Wish me luck, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

Those Were The Days

I have been debating about whether I should post or not about the passing of gay literary legend Richard Labonte earlier this week. I didn’t know Richard as well as many other queer writers did; my career began only a few years before he retired from A Different Light and moved north to Bowen Island with his husband Asa (fun fact: Bowen Island is where Harper’s Island, a one-season “we’re trapped here on an island with a mad killer who’s picking us all off one by one and must be one of us!” thriller series that wasn’t very popular but I enjoyed tremendously).

I first met Richard when I worked for Lambda Literary back in the day (yes, the very same Lambda Literary that’s being draggedor defended on Twitter the last few days; those of you who’ve not been around for a long time might not know Paul and I both worked there from August 2000 to November 2001) and A Different Light was the bookseller for a Lambda Literary Awards nominee reading we were holding at the San Francisco Public Library in spring of 2000 (ADL was also the bookseller for the Lambda Literary Conference we were putting on in San Francisco later that same year). Richard was always very kind to me; he published several stories of mine in his Best Gay Erotica series for Cleis Press (and no, I don’t remember the years, the volume numbers, the guest editors, or the stories themselves) and often, when he was putting an anthology of some kind or another together, would often ask me to write something for him. I always tried to (I don’t think I always succeeded in writing something for him), primarily because he was so nice and supportive from my days as editor of Lambda Book Report. Since seeing the news of Richard’s passing, I’ve been remembering things from back then–things I’ve not thought about in years–and while some of the memories aren’t great…the majority of them are. (I really enjoyed the job, despite the challenges I sometimes faced doing it.) That Festival in San Francisco was the last time I saw Richard in person; I think I signed twice more at the store in San Francisco but many years later, long after Richard retired and left the city.

He was a very generous man and was committed to not only the queer community but to the queer publishing community. He was so incredibly kind to me when my first books came out; so supportive, always emailing me to let me know he’d read and enjoyed them, which meant a lot to me back in those days. I was, despite my years as a book reviewer and my time as editor of LBR, still remarkably naive about publishing and the business when Murder in the Rue Dauphine was released; we were also remarkably poor around that time and so making money was really my biggest priority at the time; one of the reasons I always tell new writers to enjoy their first book release and everything to do with getting a book published is because I wasn’t truly able to enjoy mine as completely as I would have liked; and the next thing I knew a year had passed and the second book was out and things were…different. I would periodically email Richard when I was down about something–a horrible review, another writer saying nasty things about me and my work publicly, what should I do in a certain situation–and he was always very generous with his time and kind in his replies to the newbie who didn’t know what he was doing (and let’s face it, I still don’t).

His retirement was a loss to the community; his passing an even greater one. He loved his community, he loved books, he loved writers–and he made such a difference, a positive one, in so many writer’s lives.

But I am glad I got the opportunity to know him. I was always grateful to him; I hope he knew that.