Where Have You Been

Wednesday and Pay the Bills Day has yet again rolled around. Huzzah?

Yesterday was a good day. I had a great day at work getting caught up on everything around the office and seeing clients; I came home in a good mood and not exhausted, so I worked and edited for a while before blowing the proverbial end of day whistle and repairing to my easy chair to relax for the evening. It was nice, really, having a lovely day again. It has been so long. I also slept pretty well last night, too–I woke up a few times throughout the night, so it wasn’t a straight sleep through, but I feel rested and good this morning; not groggy or like my body hasn’t woken up yet, either. But the coffee tastes great, I don’t want to go back to bed and sleep some more, and I am getting my shit together. Today feels like it might be a good day; I’ve learned that how I feel when I wake up isn’t always necessarily the best indicator of how the day will go because they’ve certainly gone south once they’ve gotten underway, LOL.

Ted Lasso is back, tonight I think? Won’t be watching until the festivals are over and Paul is home in the evenings (same with The Mandalorian, and the festivals are next weekend), and of course we also have Outer Banks on deck, too. I didn’t read when I finished working yesterday–I’d wanted to–but by the time I’d finished with my editing, I was burned out and tired and just mentally fatigued, so I went to the easy chair and watched some history documentaries to pass the evening until I got tired (documentaries on Claude of France; Anne of Brittany; and several other figures from French history) and went to bed. It was very cold yesterday (for New Orleans and compared to lately) and so I had to end up turning on the heat last night. I just turned it on downstairs, figuring some heat would rise and it’s better to sleep under a pile of blankets when it’s a bit on the chilly side in the bedroom. It was nice to come downstairs this morning and not start shivering, or hovering by the Keurig waiting for the coffee to brew so I could wrap my cold hands around the hot cup. I also have been paging through Stephen King’s Danse Macabre and Grady Hendrix’ Paperbacks from Hell, which is a marvelous reference guide (I was happy to read–I’d forgotten–that King agrees with my assessment of The Exorcist and William Peter Blatty’s writing; this is another instance where the movie is better than the book) and I am not entirely sure I’ve written a post about Paperbacks from Hell? I’ll have to look, but this is another example of my memory being shot; how do I not remember whether I’d written about something or not? Particularly when it’s something I’ve really enjoyed? I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to do another post (if there was an original) about the book because it really is delightful and fun.

I also paid my latest camera ticket on-line last night. I fucking hate camera tickets. I got this one driving home from getting up super-early and having blood drawn; I just brushed my teeth and washed my face, threw on some clothes and headed down there without having coffee first–coffee can affect your blood sugar levels, and as mine are getting higher with every blood draw, my doctor is monitoring that–and so of course I wasn’t really terribly awake as I drove home sans three test tubes of blood.

I fucking hate the cameras. I get at least two tickets per year, and always–always–in a school zone. (No, that doesn’t mean I see kids milling about on both sides of the street and speed up, hoping…I am not fond of children, to be sure, but I don’t want to eliminate any of them) I guess when I get to the speed limit/school zone signs I need to just slam on the brakes rather than gradually slow, which is what I usually do.

Ah, well. I hope the traffic camera tickets help pay to fix the streets or fill in a pothole or two. There’s a lot of road repair going on at the moment–Elysian Fields, Claiborne, and Martin Luther King; all main streets and all ones that are part of my daily drives around the city–which is a good thing, even if it’s a massive pain in the ass right now for me.

And tonight I have to make groceries and probably should swing by the post office and I have a prescription ready, too, so hello, Uptown New Orleans! I need to edit tonight, too. I am hoping this centered, peaceful place I’ve found myself in these last couple of days is lasting….

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

Russian Roulette

Tuesday! Tuesday! We survived Monday and lived to tell another day!

You know, I’ll take accomplishment wherever I can find it these days.

Yesterday was a better day; I think making it into the office and spending the day doing my duties around the office helped banish things to the background rather than keeping them there in the front of my mind. I ran some errands when I left the office–mail, pick up a prescription–and then came home to have a nice quiet evening at home, alone. The festivals are next weekend, so hopefully at some point I’ll have my husband back. If I could only get him to work the same schedule as me…but that will never happen. I can’t say that I blame him, either; if it were up to me this getting up at six thing would long be in my rearview mirror. Adjustments. Life is all about the adjustments.

I was very tired when I got home last night, though, and didn’t get much of anything done as a result. I feel better this morning–not that I couldn’t have slept another few hours, of course, and it’s chilly this morning in the Lost Apartment; ah, it’s a frigid 47 degrees outside, that could explain the chill I am feeling this morning. I’m glad I slept well, though; it’s such a struggle when I didn’t. I feel rested this morning–we’ll see how long that lasts, won’t we?–and my coffee tastes good this morning and I think it’s going to be a good day. Of course, there are all kinds of variables that are out of my control–will there be horrible and inconsiderate drivers encountered on the way to the office (of course there will)? They are also working on repairing and repaving Elysian Fields by the office as well; this made leaving an issue yesterday and could make it even more of one tonight when I get off work. I ran errands on the way home last night, and I don’t think I really need to do anything after work other than come straight home tonight, which is lovely. Tomorrow is Pay-the-Bills Day (always a joy), and I am looking forward to doing some writing tonight as well as diving into my next book, which is probably going to be Bobby Mathews’ Living the Gimmick. I might need to switch things up with my reading once I finish Bobby’s book; and read something completely different from everything I’ve been reading lately. I’ve gotten some good books lately–The Velvet Rage, Wined and Died in New Orleans, Scorched Grace–which all look interesting, but maybe I should mix it up by reading horror or science fiction or something completely outside what I usually write and read.

I actually feel good this morning–I know I’ve already said it, but it’s true–and some of it is mental; I think today is going to be one of the good days; I don’t feel like there’s some kind of darkness in the back of my head, weighing me down the way it felt yesterday. I’m not sure if I’m making sense or not in trying to get what this feels like across to you, but I do feel this morning like I might be coming out of the numbness and the grief–or at least getting a day’s respite from it. It’s very strange. I don’t know if there’s a methodology for this or not–everyone grieves differently–but it becomes so incredibly tiresome not having any kind of instruction manual or rules for anything. I suppose I could read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, but I’m a little Didion-ed out, to be honest. Brilliant wordsmith, of course, but I don’t know that I could handle her memoir of grief.

I also wonder if you are weary of hearing about this, and perhaps I should start keeping it all to myself and not oversharing in my usual oblivious manner? (My complete obliviousness is a character trait I’ve only recently–since the pandemic–become aware of, and explains a lot about my personal history; ironically, I made that very obliviousness a central part of my character Valerie in A Streetcar Named Murder, and people loved her; go figure, right? I guess it’s endearing? In fiction, at any rate.)

God, how I wish I could get back under my blankets in my warm bed. Cold mornings are so uninspiring, really; especially when you have a warm bed with a purring kitty and a mountain of blankets where you can stay comfortable and warm. That’s the best feeling, really; maybe it will be cold Saturday morning when I can stay in bed later. One can dream, at any rate, can’t one?

And on that dull note, I think I am going to go ahead and get ready to spend the day in the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back tomorrow.

Diamonds

Monday and back to the office with me. Woo-hoo!

I did not want to get out of bed this morning, either, as the real effect of the lost hour actually is felt this morning. I could have easily stayed in bed for another couple of hours, without question–it’s also a bit chilly this morning in New Orleans; we’re having a bit of a mid-March cold spell, with evening/night temperatures dipping into the forties this week. Because that will make getting out of bed easier.

Yesterday was a strange day in which I never seemed to get my gears in working order. Looking back now on yesterday, I didn’t get much done but am not sure why or how the day managed to slip through my fingers. The weekend wasn’t a good time for me, alas; this not being able to maintain iron control over my emotions and my moods is something I don’t care much for, in all honesty. I did start watching the Academy Awards last night–I had to go to bed before the final hour of the show–but while usually I find the Oscars to be a tedious, self-congratulatory bore last night’s show didn’t seem that way. The winners all seemed to be genuinely delighted and appreciative of the honor received (as well as humble), and the speeches all seemed to not last terribly long for a change (I think my favorite, though, was the songwriter for “Naatu Naatu” who sang to the tune of the the Carpenters’ “Top of the World” a very sweet series of thank you’s. One can never go wrong choosing Karen Carpenter on any level of anything). I was happy to see upon awakening that Michelle Yeoh and Brendan Fraser won their categories (I used to have the biggest crush on him during his The Mummy/Gods and Monsters/ George of the Jungle days, and always felt he was more talented than he was given credit for, and now he’s an Oscar winner! The guy from George of the Jungle!); these Oscars seemed to be the “comeback” recognition awards–Ke Huy Quan and Jamie Lee Curtis winning supporting kind of fell into that type of win as well, but Curtis has been award-worthy before and her past as a Scream Queen always, I thought, kept her out of the running for some truly magical comedic performances over the years. It’s funny, yesterday I was thinking (and posted) about awards and so forth, and I wound up enjoying the Oscars for the first time in years. Go figure.

But this morning I’ve got to shake off the malaise or whatever the hell I experienced this weekend–I suppose it counts as a low, a valley of sorts, a holler–and get back into it this week. I know I’m supposed to be being kinder to myself these days, and that something I really want to be working on for myself going forward, but it’s hard sometimes, and when I wake up on Monday morning and see the abyss of nothing the weekend was, I kind of want to slap myself alongside the head…but that’s not really productive and the truth of the matter is sometimes you need to have those downtimes, I suppose. I am kind of tired of being all over the map emotionally lately, and the depression, which is never terribly far from the center of my brain, has really got to go. But that’s also easier said than done, by a long shot–what isn’t, really–but I guess I just need to let my mind and my subconscious and my emotional self process and go through what it needs to go through to get to the end of this.

It must have rained last night, because it’s chillier again this week than it has been, and usually a thunderstorm of some sort presages and predicts colder weather. I had to turn the heat/defroster on in the car this morning and frankly, the warm air felt lovely. I think I got a “weather alert” last night before I went to bed warning of a coming thunderstorm? I must have slept through it completely; I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow last night, which I didn’t think was going to happen, in all honesty; I worried about the time change and getting up an hour “later” than I usually do and all that stuff; the time change day is always kind of a waste, anyway because everything always feels off and wrong, you know? It always takes a couple of days for me to readjust and get back in sync with the clock and the calendar.

I did finish watching the Caril Fugate documentary, and I am not really sure how I feel about it. It’s trying to combat the narrative that she was a willing accomplice; one that has been pretty well established by adaptations and books and so forth that have flooded the market since the Starkweather shootings…and the fact the only evidence contradicting her story is Starkweather’s statements; I’m not so sure that he was a credible witness. It did put me in mind of how horrible it would be to experience such trauma at fourteen, then to spend over twenty years in jail for something you didn’t do, and to have that haunt you for the rest of your life when you didn’t do anything is probably the worst nightmare of a life to have. I also kind of had to wonder–why was she tried as an adult at fourteen? The way the whole case was handled in the first place was all kinds of wrong; but what would such a case look like today? A circus on a much grander, broader, global stage–as opposed to the circus of the pre-cable and pre-Internet times. With the Starkweather shootings in Nebraska coming so close on the heels of the Clutter murders in Kansas (In Cold Blood), I would imagine the people in the prairie states started locking their doors in 1958.

Ah, the prairie. I should do one of those listicles at some point for prairie noir–right off the top of my head I can think of a few books that would fit into that list.

And on that note I am heading back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll keep you in my thoughts, okay?

Take a Bow

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and I slept well–I wanted to stay in bed for another few hours, but got up anyway and am now sitting in my kitchen remembering that there was a time change and it’s actually later than I thought. Sigh. So I didn’t get up early after all, did I? I hate Daylight Savings Time and wish we could do away with it once and for all; didn’t Congress take this up last year or something, and didn’t it look like this pointless time change was going to be a thing of the past, or was that merely a fever dream brought on by the pandemic or something?

Yesterday wound up being a wasted day for me. I had some things to do yesterday morning that had to be done–some emails I’d been putting off because I knew they would be triggering, and I was right. I’m still not certain the most important one was worded correctly or the right thing to say at all, but when I finally finished it–it took me several hours to compose it and myself–I was emotionally drained and in a grief spiral, so I decided to spend some time with Scooter sleeping in my lap to make me feel better. I wound up actually drained and exhausted and fatigued, so I simply stayed there. Paul didn’t go into the office yesterday (he is going today) and we finally spent some time together last night, getting caught up on Servant (which is really phenomenal; Lauren Ambrose doesn’t get near the credit as an actress that she should; there’s a scene in the second to last episode–the series finale is this Friday–that can be Ms. Ambrose’s Emmy reel; the scene where her husband and brother finally come clean with the secret they’ve been keeping from her since the first episode is a master class in acting, and it’s all done with her facial expressions, and it’s a tour-de-force), and then the first episode of Outer Banks. We were both getting sleepy, so we put on a true crime documentary series (Two Shallow Graves, which is quite interesting; we figured if we fell asleep it would be okay because we could rewatch it if necessary without necessarily spoiling anything) and finally repaired to bed (later) than I thought it was (stupid time change), which is already throwing me off this morning.

I am still digesting Cheryl A. Head’s marvelous Time’s Undoing, which I finished yesterday morning and greatly enjoyed. I was hoping to spend some time with my next read this morning….but I’ve already lost an hour. Maybe instead of reading this morning, I’ll finish this and get cleaned up and write for a few hours before curling up with a good book later on this afternoon. Paul is going to see his trainer this morning and then to the office, so he’ll be out of my hair for most of the day so I should be able to get a lot of editing and so forth done, as well as some planning for future writing. There’s also always cleaning and filing to get done; yesterday after the depression set in was pretty much a wasted day. But I’m not going to beat myself up over the lost day; it is what it is and nothing I can do now can ever change that, so I am going to be kind to myself and recognize that, while still disappointing, there’s a significant difference between deciding to be lazy and blow off the entire day as opposed to being so overwhelmed that you can’t do anything. (This being kind to myself thing I am trying this year is such an outlook change that it’s not reflexive and I always have to process myself into it; maybe at some point it will become reflexive and…yeah, I don’t see it becoming reflexive any time soon)

Oh, yes, and the Oscars are on tonight. My interest in awards shows has declined as I’ve gotten older; sometimes I wonder if my gradual growing antipathy for awards shows I used to look forward to when I was younger has anything to do with my own eligibility for awards since getting published? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t object to awards by any means, but they also aren’t why I do what I do. It’s always nice to be recognized, especially by your peers and especially when you’ve always felt like an outsider rather than a peer. But while winning an Oscar (or even being nominated) can change a film industry member’s career for the better, do book awards make a difference to someone’s career if they aren’t the National Book Award or the Pulitzer Prize? I do think it’s important to recognize excellence in the field, but awards are just as subjective as anything else, and when an award is decided by a panel of judges..well, a different panel of judges might not come up with the exact same shortlist and winner, either. It isn’t like you can campaign to win an Edgar–but there are awards for mystery novels that you can campaign for, and the campaigning always makes me uncomfortable. In the beginning, I hated asking people for votes and wouldn’t do it. Then I started adding my eligible stuff to Gabriel Valjan’s awards-eligibility lists, which he compiles every year for every award as their nominations period open up.

Last year was the first time I actually made a little announcement on social media that hey, Bury Me in Shadows is eligible for the Anthony for Best PBO because there wasn’t a children’s/young adult category on the ballot. A second ballot was sent out at the almost last-minute because they’d inadvertently left that category off the ballot, so…figuring I didn’t have a prayer at a Best PBO nomination, I asked people to write me in on their ballot for y/a. IMAGINE my shock to wind up nominated in both categories (I lost both, PBO to Jess Lourey and Y/A to Alan Orloff; it’s lovely to lose to friends because you can be happy for them rather than disappointed at losing–losing to someone you don’t like or respect is an entirely different situation); so this year I figured I had nothing to lose by asking for votes–and wound up nominated for a Lefty for A Streetcar Named Murder and an Agatha for #shedeservedit, so go figure, you know?

Another reason I stopped caring or watching the Oscars is because they’ve become so predictable in every category in every year that there are no fun surprises, or if there are any, they are so few and far-between that watching become tedious (although one delightful surprise was Olivia Colman’s win for The Favourite a few years ago); but there doesn’t seem to be a clear cut winner in every category this year, even though I will go out on a limb and predict Oscars for Brendan Fraser (everyone loves a comeback story), Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan (another comeback story), and Jamie Lee Curtis. The two actresses will not only be rewarded for their work in the film but also for lengthy, glorious careers that have never been recognized before; while the two men are feel-good comeback stories. I’ve not seen Everything Everywhere All At Once, but I do think it’s trending to win everything. (If I had to chose, Barry Keoghan probably deserves an award for The Banshees of Inisherin; to me his was the strongest performance in a film I really disliked.)

And on that note, I am going to get another cup of coffee and head into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in with you later.

The Way We Were

I am both of the South and not of the South.

My people are from Alabama, as we say down here, but I didn’t grow up there. My parents moved north for better opportunities and for a better life for the two of them and their young children, and over the years since I’ve lived all over the country and grew up in vastly different places and cultures than that in which my parents were raised. I kind of have a love/hate relationship with the region; I am both proud of my roots and yet embarrassed and ashamed a bit at the same time. That’s really the thing with being a Southern white man of a certain age; how do you reconcile your family’s history, and the history of where you’re from, when there is so much ugliness and darkness?

Someone told me once I was a coward for never dealing with race in my work, and there was enough truth in that statement to make it sting a bit. Are there things in past works of mine that are problematic? I’ve never gone back to reread them with that in mind–when I do actually force myself to reread them–but I know I am more enlightened now than I was twenty years ago, so it wouldn’t be the least bit surprising to realize I wrote something that wouldn’t hold up to present-day scrutiny. But I also know that if someone ever told me I wrote something in the past that was an issue in the present I would listen to their concerns and not get defensive or double-down. I do not set out to upset people or hurt their feelings, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

Which also leads to an ethical question I’ve often debated within my own head about: is it better when someone says something hurtful inadvertently, or if they do it on purpose? If it’s done on purpose, they had to put thought into it, which is bad…but isn’t it just as bad to be hurtful without thinking? To me, that reads as “I don‘t care enough to think about it” and how is that better?

But this weekend I finished reading Cheryl A. Head’s brilliant stand-alone novel Time’s Undoing, and what a joy it was to read.

Four hours ’til dawn. The single streetlamp at the alleyway splays veiled illumination on the wet pavement. The rumble and squeak of streetcars ended two hours ago, and the in-a-hurry owner of the diner hauls out the last of the garbage, which tumbles onto the slick red bricks as he slams the door.

Cress lifts the collar of his tight-fitting jacket against curly brown hair. Alert. Smoking. Shufting from one leg to the other. Leaning into the shadows every time he hears loud voices from the street.

I can’t feel the rain nor smell it, but I sense its fragrance misxed with the relentless forsythia creeping through every patch of dirt. Anna Kate often remarked that the flowers were her favorite part of living in Birmingham.

A car engine hums louder. Cress metls into the darkness when a blue sedan eases forward and idles under the lamp. The sight of it passes a shiver my body doesn’t recognize. Cress steps forward and drops his smoke, grinding the butt under his boot. He shoves both hands deep into the pockets of his dungarees.

I had the great pleasure of meeting Cheryl years ago at a Saints and Sinners, and shortly thereafter became a voracious reader of her Charlie Mack series. We were both nominated for Anthony Awards for Best Paperback Original at Bouchercon last year (neither of us won) but it was so cool to be sharing the short-list with another queer writer (I don’t think two queer writers have ever been nominated in the same category before, so we might have made some history together there, too) that I am still agog and aglow from the entire experience. Over the past few years while Cheryl was working on this book, we would do panels or readings together (pandemic ZOOM events) and she would talk about it–and every time she did I’d think girl you need to finish this because I want to read the hell out of it, so you can imagine my joy when my copy finally arrived in the mail.

Oh. My. GOD. This. Book. Is. Incredible.

The book was born of fact; Cheryl’s great-grandfather was murdered by a Birmingham cop back in the Jim Crow days, and the truth behind that murder remains a mystery. Cheryl took the family story and wrote a book around it, and it’s powerful and moving and beautifully written and structured. The love and care Cheryl takes with this painful family history and weaving it into a fictional tale with something powerful to say is evident on every page. The book focuses on main character Meghan, from Detroit, who is doing a series for the Detroit Free Press about Black Lives Matter, and how she uses that as a hook into the story of her great-grandfather’s murder, which brings her to modern-day Birmingham to do research and see if she can find the answers her family has never known for almost ninety years.

The story is structured with two time-lines; Meghan’s present-day investigation, and what went on back in 1929.

Time’s Undoing is one of the most powerful books I’ve read in a while. It’s brilliantly written, and Meghan is a likable, relatable character that is easy for a reader to connect and engage with, root for, and the 1929 sequences are also strongly rendered; bringing a by-gone age back to vivid and ugly life–but it’s also a story of resilience and recovery, and living with a back-breaking sorrow while still being able to find joy in life.

Cheryl has always been one of our strongest voices, getting better and growing more confident in her talent with each book. Time’s Undoing is going to be one of 2023’s strongest titles and will be making many short-lists when award season rolls around again.

Don’t Stop the Music

Ah, it’s marvelous having a dryer again. And it’s an upgrade from the last one, which actually cost more, so winning on chore fronts here in the Lost Apartment.

Which says a lot about how spoiled I am. My grandmother used to wash the clothes in an agitator on her back porch that she had to fill with hot water and had a ringer to crush excess water out of the clothes before hanging them on the line. IMAGINE how long that must have taken, and how long it took for the clothes to dry in the heat and humidity of an Alabama summer when it could also rain at any moment without notice. Modern conveniences are quite marvelous, really, and I don’t think we appreciate how much time they actually do save us. Granted, I could load all the laundry up in the back of the car and go to a laundromat and get it all finished in about two hours; but that’s two hours where I would have to sit in a laundromat and either read/ or stare at my phone…and it’s never really quite comfortable in a laundromat anywhere. Also, the one around the corner closed due to the pandemic so yeah, I’d have to get in the car and take it somewhere, and have coins and all that nonsense; although I suppose with all the marvelous modern technology that has sprung up since the last time I went to a laundromat (when the washing machine was broken and we were waiting for its replacement) would enable people to use electronic payments? I don’t know, and I’d prefer to never find out, quite frankly.

But you know something? Sitting at my desk doing data entry to the washing machine agitating and the dryer tumbling and heating was weirdly comforting; a return to my normal Friday routine of chores and day-job duties–almost like the world has been slightly tilted off its axis for a while and has finally settled back into the way it’s supposed to be around here. I also wound up having to run my errands after work yesterday, because I remembered (fortunately, thank you, Facebook) that today is the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which makes access to everywhere I would need to go nearly impossible or an enormous time-consuming pain in the ass. So I picked up the mail and made groceries after I finished work yesterday, and will see about washing the car on Sunday (and possibly a trip to the Fresh Market, since it’s right there). Saturday will be my day of not leaving the house, which is probably for the best–although I do need to take clothes to the dry cleaners. Hmmm. They aren’t open on Sunday. Hmmm. *adds dry cleaning to Saturday to-do list*

I had to disassemble the bottom shelf of the laundry room so they could remove the non-heating dryer and install our new one, and once I finished my work for the day I started putting the room back together again–I have framed covers of my books on the walls in there, and I had taken those down too. I started putting the covers up not remembering where they were originally and I thought well, who wants it to look the same again for the next ten years anyway and so I just started hanging them wherever. The same with the books. I had to put the shelf back and then the books; so I started reorganizing and pruning, and then started working my way through the upper shelves to make it at least look neat, if cluttered. The fun thing about doing this sort of thing is you start unearthing treasures–“oh, there that is!” and “Oh, I’d forgotten about you!” and “oh yes, I still want to write that story this was research for” and “Oh, yes, definitely want to reread that sometime” and “Oh, I am so far behind on her series!” that makes it kind of like an adventure and less like an odious chore.

Plus, making it all neater looking to the eye pleases my OCD, and I can fold my arms with a smug sense of satisfaction when I look at them. Now if only I can accomplish the same in the living room…

I slept really well last night, and even stayed up later than usual. Paul came home last night (!!!) and we watched the LSU-West Virginia gymnastics meet, which was way fun, and then this week’s The Mandalorian. I did wind up staying later than I would have preferred–not sure how that happened, to be honest–but I feel very rested and relaxed today, which means I think it will be a good and productive day. Paul has his trainer later this morning and then will head off to the office, so I have the day to myself to clean and write and read and do Gregalicious things. Once I finish this I am going to repair to my easy chair with my coffee and Cheryl Head’s Time’s Undoing, which I am looking forward to finishing–it’s sooooo good–and getting my act together. This week I am seeing my doctor about my toe (appointment on Thursday afternoon) and I need to make the ENT appointment as well as try to get my dentistry needs taken care of, and I should probably make an eye appointment, too. Maintenance becomes increasingly important the older you get, you know. The toe is much better–still hurts, but not throbbing –and of course, by the time I see the doctor, it’ll probably be all fine and he’ll think I’m completely insane, not that he doesn’t already.

Most people do, at any rate.

But the new dryer just beeped which means the last load from yesterday has finished drying, and I am going to go fold some clothes, perhaps put some dishes away (there’s a load in the dishwasher, too, clean) and then read while I swill the rest of my morning coffee. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I may check in with you again later.

S. O. S.

Work at home Friday and waiting on my dryer to be delivered and installed, which is quite lovely and exciting. Huzzah! I am probably going to be getting caught up on laundry all day once it arrives. There’s something zen about folding clothes, seriously. I do have to move some things around, but I have some time yet to enjoy my coffee and type this before they get here. I am really excited about my new dryer–but the one I am really looking forward to is the new refrigerator. The window period is 8:45 to 10:45, and if I remember correctly, once they are here they’ll be in and out in twenty minutes, tops.

It is sad how forward I am looking to doing some laundry.

I was tired again yesterday when I got off work, which is really par for the course this week. My body had that “relaxed-you-should-still-be-in-bed” feeling all day, and it was also a slower day without as many clients. The day just seemed to drag on endlessly, and then I came home to terrible exhaustion. I did start watching a documentary about Caril Fugate, The Twelfth Victim, which is interesting and i am looking forward to watching the rest. (I also love how one of the examples of the ‘simpler times’ which ended with whatever horrific true crime the show is about, they will always, always say “why, people never bothered to lock their doors!”) Was Caril a hostage or a participant? She was barely fourteen, and Starkweather was about four or five years older than she was; is it so hard to believe that she wasn’t a co-conspirator? But I need to watch the rest of the documentary to get a better idea of the facts of the case.

I am awake much earlier than I wanted to be; I had set the alarm for seven but woke up around five thirty, as usual, and finally gave up and got up around six thirty. I’ve cleaned off the bottom shelf in the laundry room and will probably need to take the shelf down entirely. I have to go outside and make sure the dryer will fit along the narrow footpath alongside the house and move things (garbage bins, planters) that might wind up being in the way. I may even have to roll the bins all the way back here to our little courtyard. I feel rested and well and relaxed this morning; last night, I must confess, was a little rougher than others have been this week, but Paul came home last night before I went to bed so I got to spend some time with him, which is rare and lovely when it happens this time of year. I do feel a bit of mental fatigue though; my emotions are still all over the place and I am still not entirely sure how I am supposed to be feeling, and what normal is in this situation; but I’ve also never been normal my entire life so why am I worried about it now? But today I am hoping, as I said, to get some cleaning and organizing around the house done today around and after my work-at-home duties, of which there are quite a few. The lack of a dryer, which has absolutely nothing to do with whether the apartment can be cleaned up or not, has made me feel off about the entire apartment ever since it broke; unsettled somehow, if that makes any kind of bizarre sense. But am I simply blaming that unsettled feeling on the dryer, when it’s actually part of the post-funeral grief still surfacing every now and then? Heavy heaving sigh. But I am looking forward to getting a lot done this weekend. I want to get the car washed and of course, as always, I have to make groceries at some point and pick up the mail (probably tomorrow, along with washing the car). I also need to drop books off at the library sale tomorrow, so I’ll need to be packing up some books today as well.

I also want to finish reading Cheryl’s book, which is quite marvelous and I’ve been itching to get back at it, irritated at being so tired when I get home from work that I can’t focus on reading it. I’ll make some time for it after I finish working today, and maybe I can get it finished tomorrow morning with my coffee.

And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. I need to get some stuff picked up and put away and of course go move things off the narrow walkway alongside the house. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in with you later.

Umbrella

It’s funny, but the word umbrella is now forever linked to Tom Holland in my brain because of his brilliant lip sync of it.

I overslept this morning; I hit snooze when the alarm went off and the second time, I usually turn it off and get up. This morning I turned it off and fell asleep again. Fortunately, I woke up ten minutes later so no harm to my day, other than the off-balance feeling that comes from it not being the usual get up before dawn morning. (I easily could have slept another two hours, at least.) Tomorrow my work-at-home day will be built entirely around the delivery of the new dryer; they’re supposed to call me tonight to give me my “two-hour window” period for planning purposes. On the one hand, I kind of hope it’s early so I can get it out of the way and start catching up on laundry; on the other I kind of want it to be later so I don’t have to get up early yet again tomorrow. My coffee seems to be working, though; my brain is alert even if most of my body is still relaxed into sleep mode.

I made groceries yesterday on the way home from the office, and I broke down and bought some frozen Lean Cuisines to bring for lunch, as back-ups for when I don’t want to cook anything or things get out of whack the way they have been lately. Yesterday I brought a salad and by the time I got off work was so hungry I almost felt sick; naturally, by the time I shopped and got home and put everything away the hunger had gone away. I did empty the dishwasher and refill it to run another load; I still have some dishes in the sink and so hopefully tonight I will get the dishes caught up. I’m sure deliverymen have seen apartments in much worse shape than ours, but I still don’t want it to be disgusting when they bring the dryer tomorrow (really glad I cleaned out from behind the dryer when I had it moved; I should do that more than every seven to ten years, probably). Scooter of course wanted a warm lap and didn’t really give me much chance to get things done before the howling commenced, and he pretty much spent the entire evening in my lap. I know he’s missing Paul, who is hardly ever home in these weeks leading up to the Festivals, which is yet another reason I always commute between the hotel and the Lost Apartment over that weekend.

I turned in a story yesterday for an anthology that I am not entirely sure it’s right for, but I like the story and would love to see it finished and in print at some point. I also started pulling together another short story collection yesterday–just to see how much material I had and how much new material would be needed, and lo and behold, the collection currently sits at 72, 143 words without an introduction or conclusion; the sweet spot is always between 80 and 100k words. So, apparently not much more is needed; as little as two or as many as five to six stories, or one single novella. It’s going to be called This Town and Other Stories, and I also realized yesterday that, like Daphne du Maurier, the category of fiction where my short stories fall is macabre–a combination or cross between horror, suspense, and crime. (Maybe the title should be This Town and Other Macabre Tales?) It felt good to turn the story in–even if it’s wrong for the anthology–because I also had to edit and polish it before turning it in, and it felt good to be doing that kind of work again. I want to get a lot done this weekend–going to make lists for every day to keep me on track like I did last weekend–and will probably try to get any and all errands finished on Saturday so I can relax, sleep in, and just hang out around the house working and doing stuff on Sunday. I’m beginning to enjoy my weekends again, because while yes, I have a lot to do and a lot to get done, it’s nice to not feel stressed on my weekends with the sense of impending doom just out of sight–but visible out the corner of my eye. It’s nice to get relaxing sleep and rest for a change.

The toe is still painful but now I can walk without limping or wincing. I’m aware of it, and of course the longer the days goes and the more I walk on it the more it starts hurting–I made it till almost bedtime last night without limping–but I am seeing my doctor next week. If it is either psoriatic arthritis or gout, at least there’s treatment and medication options. I already take enough medication that I am hesitant to add more to the mix…but then again, I am over sixty and have never taken care of myself so I should be grateful that there are still treatment options.

Tonight after work I am going straight home. The mail can wait until tomorrow, and I don’t have any other errands that are necessary before Saturday, anyway. I hope to put away the dishes, do another load, and possibly even start doing some laundry. I know there are at least two loads of clothes that need doing (always a joy) and I can still use the dryer in the carriage house–and since the toe isn’t so bad, walking over there and climbing the steps to the second floor isn’t as bad as it was. I want to read more of Cheryl’s book so I can write about it here (as well as start preparing for the panel I am moderating), and I need to get back to writing and editing and all of that fun stuff.

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

Respectable

I don’t think I have ever been a respectable person, at least in terms of what the mores of American culture and society are currently and were in the past. Being born gay took care of that; coming out finished off any chance I may have ever had at being respectable to a vast swathe of my fellow Americans. Fortunately for me, at a certain point in my life I stopped caring what those people thought–I mean, tell me not to rub your nose in my sexuality and I’ll rub your entire fucking face in it, thank you very much–and while I do care about the opinions of those I genuinely consider friends…why would I care if you don’t matter to me? I have always been a pleaser–which was part of the gut reaction to having people ghost me when I was a kid, while harboring a secret I was certain would make everyone turn on me should they ever find out, so I worked even harder at pleasing people because I wanted to be liked. It’s also incredibly annoying to know this about yourself, and yet you constantly and consistently hear yourself agreeing to do things you don’t want to do because you want the person to like you or you don’t want to disappoint someone.

Although it is obvious people don’t mind disappointing you.

As though friendships should be transactional; or measured in terms of favors granted and help given. I try not to be transactional with my friends or writers I like; I promote authors whose books I enjoy and, if I do know them, I like. I generally won’t read books by people I’ve met that I’ve disliked because inevitably my personal antipathy inevitably bleeds over into the book. I know it shouldn’t; the work should stand on its own. Patricia Highsmith was a dreadful, horrible person, but the bitch could write and I love her books. I guess it helps that she’s dead? I’m sure if I had the misfortune of knowing or interacting with any number of writers I greatly admire that are now deceased I wouldn’t admire their work quite so much anymore; Highsmith was horrible, and apparently Daphne du Maurier wasn’t exactly a charmer, either.

But I am finding now that I am getting up in years I am not all that terribly concerned with pleasing people anymore. After all, as I said, if I say no to something and that means that person asking won’t like me, so be it. Sure, I want you to buy my books and I want you to like them enough to keep reading and buying more of them as they come out…but I don’t need you to like me, if that makes sense? Probably not. I would never be rude to a reader of mine, and I try not to be rude to potential readers…but sometimes I am just okay with some people not finding joy or pleasure or comfort in my work.

I was a reader long before I was a writer, although I started writing very young. I was thinking about this the other night–how my identity is so entrenched in being an author (or writer, whichever you prefer, although I think there is a distinct difference between the two–but I was a reader first; and I will always be a reader–I’ll keep reading long after I stop writing; I’ll read as long as my eyes work and even if they should cease to work there’s audiobooks so I never ever have to give up on reading. For me, as a lonely child who was very well aware he wasn’t normal or like other kids (boys or girls), books opened the world to me. I could escape my horrible reality into the wondrous world of a fictional universe where the characters were like my friends and the bad guys were my enemies but it was okay because they wouldn’t win in the end. When I talk about retiring with people who’ve already retired and they knowingly tell me with that nod of the head that I’m going to be bored…it’s all I can do not to laugh. I’m never bored when I am at home. There’s always another book to read, after all; my apartment is filled with books I’ve not yet read; I’ve slowly but steadily broken the hoarding impulse so when I finish a book I donate it to the library sale or give it away to a friend; I realized the other night that holding onto books you’ve already read is kind of like holding them hostage when they could be giving someone else the same (if not more) amount of joy and pleasure the book gave me–and inevitably, the ones I’d like to keep forever to reread at some point (or study the art and work that went into its creation), well, at some point it’ll be on sale for Kindle for ninety-nine cents and I can store lots of books in my iPad…more than I can store in my apartment for sure.

It grieves me when I get home from work and I can’t spend the hour or so decompressing from the day with a book–usually because there is stuff I need to do or I am too tired to focus. I picked up the mail yesterday on the way home–nothing of import, but a thank you card I sent to a friend was returned because the stamp had come off (stupid forever Star Wars stamps), and some more sympathy cards. I was doing quite well with sending my thank you’s in response, but kind of fell off and now things are getting lost in the “to be filed’ inbox. I guess I can spend some time looking for the cards I need to respond to while filing and getting organized. I slept really well last night–Scooter only woke me up once or twice with his howling–so I feel better than I have all week. The toe is still throbbing but the swelling has gone down (naturally, since I made an appointment to see my doctor next week; but I have a picture of what it looked like when swollen). We were also really busy in clinic yesterday, which was actually a good thing; it’s been a while since we saw that many people in one day, and today looks to be about the same, which again–it’s a good thing. I’m also managing to stay on top of my day job duties outside of seeing clients, which is also a good thing.

I’ve also started pulling together another short story collection; pulling the stories into a single document. I don’t have enough completed and/or published stories to fill out the book, I don’t think; but I have a significant amount and would only need to finish writing a few more to have a collection complete–or I could finish a novella to fill out the book. I did work on a short story last night for an anthology, but am not entirely sure it’s a good fit for them. I am going to read it one more time before sending it off to the editor (along with a it’s okay if you don’t want this because it’s a stretch for the call; let me know if it doesn’t work and I’ll send something else note); I was trying to finish another story that did work for the call but I just can’t get the fucking thing to come together for me, which is, of course, incredibly annoying. I also found a great title yesterday–“To Mourn a Mischief”, isn’t that a terrific title? I don’t have a story to go with it, of course–at least, not yet–but that’s a terrific crime story title, methinks; probably would need to be about kids or teenagers.

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

She’s So Cold

I was tired last evening when I got home from work, so didn’t get a lot of anything done; in fact, I’m not really sure I remember what I actually did last night when I got home from work? I must have been really tired, don’t you think? Scooter kept waking me up throughout the night howling; it was kind of annoying and he’s taken to howling pretty regularly. I am not sure what is wrong with him per se; it does concern me that something might be wrong with him, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s the same howl when he’s hungry or needs water and sometimes, he just stands in the living room and howls.

I made the appointment yesterday finally with my doctor to get my toe looked at; it’s almost completely better now and will probably be fine by the time I get in to see him. Not to worry, though; I took a picture of it at its worst. I also made another crucial medical appointment, and now still have to make the appointment with the ENT and my dentist and my eye doctor; I’m going to try to get as much taken care of as I can this year. I’m a bit groggy this morning, and I know we have a full schedule at the office today, which is cool–the day will fly by–but I will probably be exhausted when I get home; seeing that many clients tends to wear me out and run me down, but I should swing by and get the mail on my way home. Hopefully I won’t be too tired to get some things done tonight, either. The sink is full of dirty dishes from Sunday night, for one thing. Sigh. I didn’t even read when I got home, either. I don’t know what was going on with me last night when I got home from work, seriously–or why I can’t remember what I did last night, either.

Oh, yes, now I remember. I had a phone call last night with someone and it lasted for over an hour, and that exertion of extroversion was what completely did me in last evening once I was home. I collapsed into my easy chair, watched videos about World War II on Youtube for a couple of hours, and then went to bed relatively early–around nine, to be exact. I slept decently, or would have, had Scooter not been in a mood last night, and that consistently interrupted night of sleep is why I am a bit out of it this morning. Hopefully my morning coffee will do the trick and snap me out of this whatever it is I am feeling this morning. It certainly is going down well this morning–and it was last night when I was messing with my medical apps and making appointments for myself. Mystery solved! And, in fairness, not really a terribly memorable night at all; no wonder I couldn’t remember what I did last night at first. I also started rereading a story for an anthology, editing it to make it cleaner, tighter and more concise–always a help when you’re working on a short story–and that actually felt kind of good to me to do, in all honesty. I also got my panel assignments for Saints and Sinners as well as the panel I am moderating, which I am going to need to be prepared for–preparation always helps with the horrible stage fright i always have before a panel, or the exhaustion that comes after said panel has finished.

But I am actually looking forward to it this year, which I didn’t last year because I was in the weeds with a book and being EVP of MWA and….so much, really. I will be commuting between our suite at the hotel and the Lost Apartment so we won’t have to board Scooter, and lots of friends are coming in this year. We were also still in that weird pandemic place last year, too–not that it’s over now by any means, but people still cared about it then–so running down and coming home wasn’t really as disappointing as it ordinarily would have been in a more “normal” year.

I am also feeling a little tired today and will probably have to be a vegetable when I get home from work tonight. I don’t have to make any stops other than to pick up the mail, and I probably should make something that I can bring for lunch the rest of the week. If I have the energy to clean the kitchen I might go ahead and just make a big bowl of salad that I can take for work the rest of this week. I kind of need to start changing my diet gradually if this issue with my toe is actually gout; exercise won’t solve that problem but diet will–exercise will help with the other issues I have, blood pressure and cholesterol, and the change in diet will help those issues as well. I basically am going to have to primarily be a vegetarian and avoid meats, especially red meats–which of course are my favorites. But if I recall what I read correctly, I think even turkey and chicken are problematic, too. I guess eating salads for lunch and more greens in general is a step in the right direction, at any rate.

I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea that I may have gout.

I suppose that’s better that psoriatic arthritis.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Sorry to be so brief and dull today; that’s what happens when Greggy is feeling groggy. Have a terrific Tuesday and I will see you again tomorrow.