Tag: closet

Tell It To Her

Monday morning and it’s back to the office with me today. It was a lovely weekend, and I had a nice day yesterday. I wrote–working on a short story, a newsletter, and most importantly THE BOOK–and did some things around the house but mostly took it easy. I also dipped into the book I am reading and was charmed instantly, as I knew I would be. We also started watching the new season of Citadel, but I barely remember the first one. It’s very action-packed and moves very quickly, and also has a very top-notch cast. I slept well last night and am feeling good this morning, honestly. The kitchen and apartment are a bit messy, but that’s okay. I am pleased with how this holiday weekend went, and looking forward to seeing Dad this weekend. I’ve still not picked out what I want to listen to in the car, and I didn’t get a newsletter sent out over the weekend, either.

Looks like we’re done with rain, at least for now. No rain for the entire week in the forecast, and I imagine Alabama is going to be miserably hot this weekend–and I must remember to wear a hat when I am outside. (And yes, they are having dangerous heat levels in Alabama, too; we’re currently in a heat advisory and I suspect this is going to be a long and miserable summer, and not just in New Orleans.) I have to try to get things in order since I am going away for a couple of days–nothing major or long, just driving up Thursday and back Saturday–but I hate coming home to a messy, disorganized house. I’ll try to touch up on things Thursday morning before I leave (planning on getting on the road around noon), and I doubt I’ll do much, if any, writing while I am gone. I probably won’t post here until Sunday morning, so prepare for a brief holiday from yours truly’s mad typing on here. I think I am going to listen to Margot Douaihy’s Blessed Water in the car going and coming. I blurbed it and read it in galley form several years ago, but all I remember (that illness memory issue again) is that I loved it–Margot is an exceptionally skilled artist–and I want to read the next Sister Holiday, so I am going to revisit it in the car so I can write about it as a Pride selection–and books like the ones Margot writes make me very proud to be a queer crime writer. (It’s been a while since I read the first one–which blew me completely away.)

And I am writing a noir, so it might be helpful to read one of the most literary noir writers of all time. It certainly can’t hurt.

I’m not sure about what I wrote on the book yesterday, if I am going to try to be completely honest. I feel like maybe I started down a possibly wrong path yesterday; but I could be wrong. It might be something that needs to go when it’s time for brutal edits, but I also think it’s important that my character actually have a kind of “safe space”–wouldn’t it make sense for a closeted gay actor in 1950s Hollywood to create a place where he can get away from all the lies and bullshit and Hollywood nonsense? I just worry it may soften him? Or…maybe this part can make how he is in the other parts of the book even more powerful? Living a constant lie is horrible and warps people (look at Lindsey Graham, for one prominent example), not to mention the constant worry about blackmail or another queer selling you out to save themselves–the closet makes people do horrible, horrible things, and that might be the underlying theme I am playing with here: the closet warps and twists people; fear can make you do some crazy-ass things.

And I kind of like that these kinds of thoughts are coming into my head. The loss of anxiety has helped enormously with that; I think I also used to write fast partly so my imposter syndrome wouldn’t have time to kick into gear and make me doubt myself. I like that now, when I question myself about my writing, it’s about choices and character and theme, rather than you’ve got a nerve thinking you can write something like this, which is what it used to be and was quite horrible. I’ve also recognized that I can’t really force it as much as I used to; I’m not sure what that means for my mental state and my tendency to self-deprecate, which was always so goddamned self-defeating (the thought process was if I am humble and play down what I do I can’t be offended by criticism because I am harder on myself than anyone else); that was always one of the biggest problems I had with coming up with coping mechanisms to protect myself from anxiety; it’s hard to explain how freeing it is to not have that making me tense and tightly wound all of the time.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I will be back on the morrow.

An “allée,” aka a road bounded by trees or bushes. Spooky looking with the ground fog.

…Ready for It?

Sunday of the holiday weekend and I am feeling pretty good. I am up earlier than I would prefe, but it seems sleeping in later than six is something rare for me now and it’s okay; it gives me more awake time to get things done. I’m getting some reading done every morning when I get up, and yesterday I did do some chores, but tried to mostly relax while processing Victoria’s death. I also read a little bit, and mostly just tried to relax and gather my strength back. I have to run an errand today–a library book is ready for me, and I can swing by Fresh Market on the way home; oh, never mind, the library is closed for the holiday so that will have to wait until Tuesday after work, but I do need to go to Fresh Market anyway, maybe even wash the car while I’m on Louisiana Avenue. But I did get the bathroom and part of the kitchen under control and finished; so the downstairs looks a lot nice than it has since I fell ill, which is a lovely thing. I can finish it today and then work on the living room next, and maybe, just maybe, my house will finally be under control again and presentable and won’t make me groan with despair every time I walk in.

I also watched one of the few Hitchcock films I’ve never seen–mainly because it’s never been available before when I thought about watching: Suspicion, which stars Joan Fontaine (the only performer to win an Oscar for a Hitchcock movie, although she should have won for Rebecca and Anthony Perkins’ failure to be even be nominated for Psycho remains a hate crime) and Cary Grant. It’s based on the Francis Iles novel Before the Fact (of which I have a copy and have been assured it’s better than the film). It did make me think about a theory I have about domestic suspense and Gothics–that they are about women’s fears and therefore women’s noir of a type–and Suspicion is definitely one of those–does her husband–whom she catches in lies all the time and is kind of a bounder–love her or did her marry her for her money? (This is a very common theme in Victoria Holt novels, by the way, which I loved.) Something to write about for another time, methinks. The film itself was okay, and I am now more convinced than ever that Fontaine’s Oscar was a make-up for Rebecca, a far superior film in every way. (It may be time for my annual reread of Rebecca, in fact.)

I also read a bit more into Moonraker, which is fascinating in its casual misogyny, and it’s really hard-boiled attitude; as I said, Fleming’s Bond is so far removed from the Roger Moore/Timothy Dalton/Pierce Brosnan Bond that they may as well be different characters; Connery and Daniel Craig more captured the Fleming feel of the sociopathic killer/spy. The parallels between the villain in the book, Hugo Drax, and Elon Musk are so prescient as to make me wonder whether Fleming could see the future. More on that later, of course.

We finished watching Overcompensating last night, and it’s such a good show. It does an excellent job of depicting how terrifying it is to come out–to anyone and everyone–and how you wind up being a liar for self-preservation; I think all those lies is why I am so triggered by people calling me a liar these days, and I’ve never really seen this depicted in anything queer before–about how you can’t really be a good friend with people you can’t be honest with and have to lie to all the time. It really can’t be explained, but I still have a lot of shame from that time in my life, from when I was overcompensating and making an absolute fool of myself because no one was actually fooled and my true friends were delighted when I came out. The depression and faulty wiring in my brain certainly didn’t help.

And yes, I will always be grateful to those friends who were delighted.

I’m looking forward to relaxing some more today, to be honest. Paul has his trainer this afternoon, and when he gets home I am going to barbecue burgers and cheese dogs. Yes, I know you’re supposed to actually cook out on Memorial Day itself, but I’d rather do it today. I’ve been experiencing hunger a lot more lately than I can recall, and I am snacking on top of it all. I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at Door Dash to have something delivered, and I’ll probably pop that cherry next weekend. I’ve also been missing my mom’s cooking–her chicken and dumplings were sublime, and she made everything from scratch and from memory; her biscuits and gravy were to die for, and somehow she made the best pancakes I’ve ever had anywhere. I am going to make an easy chicken-and-dumplings recipe tomorrow; will definitely report back.

I am getting stronger every day, but I also still tire far too easily and am not even close to being back to 100% yet, which is fine. I just need to be patient–never my strongest suit–and let my body heal itself from the trauma.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; I hope to get my newsletter done today as well.

Bette Davis in the opening scene of her Oscar nominated performance in The Letter.

Amazing Grace

Wednesday and the parades are rolling again tonight. I don’t think I’m ready to deal with this, to be honest. I can’t believe it’s the final weekend of Mardi Gras madness already, can you? I have to run a couple of errands today after leaving work, trying to get it all accomplished and get my ass home while it’s still possible to find a place to park. Much as I don’t want to deal with the errands tonight, tomorrow would be even more difficult as it’s Muses Thursday, and going straight home from work is no guarantee I can park within a mile of the house. Sigh. The pleasure of living inside the box, right?

I was super tired when I got home yesterday, and I never did feel like I was fully awake all day, to be honest. I was finally able to get my night time prescription refilled again, after the first pill bottle mysteriously disappeared (all fingers point at Sparky, and it’s probably under the dishwasher or the couch), and so I had to adjust back from one medication (I still had my old night time medication) to the right one again, which would explain why yesterday I never felt like my brain escaped the fog. Today is, in fact, the first day in a long time where I’ve felt mentally alert again, which is great. It’s terrible when you’re not on your game, and you aren’t sure why; now that I am in my sixties mental things are much more alarming than they used to be–and some memories I’ve forgotten are so forgotten even when I am reminded, in great detail, I don’t remember anything about it. That’s disturbing on a very deep level; my mental acuity is something I do worry about as I get older. We don’t have any mental deterioration diseases in the family as far as I can remember–I need to ask Dad about that, along with any other genetic conditions he and Mom might have or know about within the family (we aren’t a family that talks about that sort of thing much; I think it’s mostly because we have so much genetic tendency to faulty wiring in our brains to begin with)–but I think I’d know about it if it was in the immediate family.

Anyway, tonight when I get home from work I need to do some laundry and the dishes. I don’t know if I’ll go out to the corner tonight or not, but all signs point to not. Nyx is the final parade tonight, and as far as I know, Nyx is still a horrific white supremacy krewe (last year my mind was not on Carnival), so I don’t know if I’d want to go to that even if I didn’t have to get up so early in the morning tomorrow. I do need to write about that at some point, don’t I? The great thing about being a crime writer is you never run out of prejudice, bigotry and hate to write about.

It looks like I’ll be going to Alabama to see family and visit Mom’s grave next weekend; Dad is going down for the anniversary of losing her, and I’ll go up and meet him up there for the weekend. It’s just easier, really, for me to go instead of my sister, and I don’t think Dad should do these grave visits without one of us there for him. It’s also kind of for me; it’s just easier mentally and emotionally to focus on Dad’s loss rather than my own. It’s probably not the healthiest way to deal with it, but this is how I generally deal with any kind of personal loss or tragedy in my life: focus on the grief of others. I also suppose that the impending anniversary (today, I think, is the anniversary of her final stroke? It’s all murky to me other than knowing she died on Valentine’s Day) has probably also been working on me subconsciously (subconscious BASTARDS!!!) and could have something to do with the foggy funk I’ve been in lately, in addition to the unfortunate medication change of the last couple of weeks.

I didn’t watch the Grammys the other night, but I did watch the Tracy Chapman/Luke Combs “Fast Car” performance on Youtube, which brought back a lot of memories. “Fast Car” was a very important song in the development of my life and my adulthood; the lyrics of feeling trapped and needing to escape a toxic life situation resonated very deeply with Double Life Gregalicious, and helped start the process of finally merging those two very separate mentally unhealthy existences, which is something else I should blog about–but it was amazing seeing the audience reaction to a middle-aged out Black lesbian, and I’m going to have to listen to her album again; it’s been a hot minute. But thanks again, for your voice and your music and your soul, Ms. Chapman.

I did edit a short story–or started editing, at any rate–last night, and it really is amazing what you don’t see when you’re in the midst of writing it and when you come back to it again after a lengthy period of time. “How the hell did I not see how clunky that sentence is?” was constantly running through my mind, and I also realized what the point of the story was–he’s reached his breaking point, and I need to communicate that to the reader more clearly than in the original draft. It felt good, you know, to work on something, and feel like I was doing some good polishing work on it. I really do love writing.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will most likely check in again with some more blatant self-promotion later.