Wednesday Pay-the-Bills day (yay) but we’ve also made it halfway through the week, which is terrific. Paul worked late with meetings and things last night, so I was by myself at home last night. I was tired when I got home from work, so I did some things and then crashed in my chair with Sparky sleeping in my lap (which I always love). I got caught up on the shit-show that is the news–and even did some writing. Not much, but it was good writing. It wasn’t work on the book, either; I worked on a short story that I had thought through while I was in Kentucky, and I like how it’s developing. Slow going, but it was some work, and I was rather pleased to dip my toe back into the waters. I wound up going to bed an hour earlier than usual–why stay up when you’re dozing off?–and I am up even earlier than I usually am. I have some errands to do tonight after work, and then I’m coming home to hang with Sparky and finish some of these chores. It is rather endless, isn’t it? The treadmill of life we’re all on?
It felt good to be writing again and I am hoping that means I’ll get even more writing done today. Hope always does spring eternal, and all that. I need to get a to-do list made (I still haven’t done this, and so have been flying by the seat of my pants, which sounds more fun than it actually is), and I definitely need to make one for the time that Paul is gone. I am going to probably go so far as to even move furniture with my cleaning. Essentially, there are four rooms in the apartment; kitchen, bedroom, living room, and the two bathrooms. So, if over the holiday next week I pick a room a day to work on, I can get the apartment back under control again.
Writing has always been my solace, and I think not doing it always affects my mood and my outlook on life. I don’t know what the future holds for any of us, and I don’t know what’s going to happen with queer lit going forward (the pornography label threat is very real, and it’s happened to me before; and certainly independent booksellers don’t carry or hand-sell my books, so who knows how long I’ll even have an outlet for my work? I guess I could do what everyone’s always told me to do–write about straight people, which is probably something I should have started doing over twenty years ago. But is there a need for books about straight people by one Gregalicious? Aren’t there already tons of them out there? The short story I am working on is about a straight woman, which should increase its chances for being sold. I suppose I’ll try the usual suspects, like I always do, and then let it sit in my files, moldering as I wait for a place that might actually want it. Although…I can definitely do a collection myself. You see why I need a to-do list? I also want to finish my “Are You Man Enough?” essay about masculinity and its traps for my Substack. I’d like to do an essay there per week–and of course, I can always publish short stories on Substack, too. Interesting thought…hmmm. It might not be a bad idea.
I do think I am making strides in conquering my Imposter Syndrome. Probably not enough to make me strap on my big boy pants and go looking for an agent again, but you never know. The worst thing any of them could do is say no–although now it seems like they just ghost you and not reply if they aren’t interested; the last time I tried I got no responses from any of the agents I queried, which was fine. I also think it’s unprofessional–it’s not going to kill you to have a rejection template and spend an hour once a week sending them so people know, but then the entire world has changed significantly since I started in this business so long ago (I just realized that I am coming up on thirty years of being paid to write; I started writing for the queer paper in Minneapolis in 1996) and maybe I’m thinking back to how things were in another time, the way all old people do, and of course thinking those times might have been better. The dangers of nostalgia I always warn about, how things seemed better at some time in the distant past when really, it’s just because you were younger then and had a less complicated, easier life. Nostalgia for high school is really just nostalgia for a time when all the worries of adulthood were still in the future, and frankly, my public education experiences were all terrible so I’ve never had to worry about doing that. I do not miss high school, and never will.
And on that hopeful note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, and I may be back later. You never know.
Queer and Loathing in America 