I always wanted to write a romantic suspense novel, a la Phyllis A. Whitney’s, set in Galveston where some of the mystery dates back to the Great Hurricane of 1900. It seemed like the perfect setting for one of her novels–she was very much a master of place and wanted her readers to get a very strong sense of where the books were set–and who knows? Maybe someday I will. Maybe someday I’ll take a week and spent it on the island doing research and getting a sense of the place.
Stranger things have happened, after all.
Good morning on this fine Labor Day, and I am up early because Sparky was incredibly hungry and hadn’t been fed in forever (per him) but I don’t mind being up early. I have things to do today and I’ve been fatigued all weekend and unable to do much of anything. I’m not entirely sure how this weekend slipped so completely through my fingers the way it did, but that’s fine. I must have needed the rest. Yesterday started out fine but by the time the afternoon rolled around I was fatigued and around two I finally gave up on getting much done and plopped down in my chair to watch the South Carolina/Virginia Tech and Miami/Notre Dame games (both teams I wanted to win, did. Huzzah!). We did take some time off from the Miami game to finish watching Hostage, which was quite excellent, before switching back to the game. I feel asleep and went to bed before it was over, so naturally I checked the score first thing this morning over my coffee. It was an interesting weekend of college football to get the season started. This week’s rankings will be interesting, but I am also of the mindset that rankings this early in the season–before we know how good anyone is–are pointless and predicated on reputation and how well they did last year…but that’s also a fallacy nowadays. Florida State was 2-10 last year; who would have ever thought they would beat ALABAMA this year?
It may not be a good season for Alabama fans, who are the most impatient in the world.
I also spent some time yesterday reading The Hunting Wives, which is very different thus far than the television show–but in a good way, which is like enjoying the same story twice. If you like the story, you should enjoy it, right? The television show reminded me of glossy melodramatic soaps from the 1980s, Knots Landing and Dallas and Lace and others of a similar tone, and was incredibly fun with lots of twists and turns. The book is different. It’s glossy the way the show is, but there’s also a raw kernel of honesty/unreliability in the POV character that is very different from the show. I did some writing work–mostly thinking some things through and taking notes–but not much and I’ll need to do more today.
I need to make a to-do list for today only and see how it all works out. I should also update the weekly one I currently am working on. At least I am up early, right? I am not sure how busy we’ll be in the office this week, but I only have two days in the office this week anyway. Paul has his trainer this afternoon, and so will be out of the house most of the day after sleeping in, so I’ll have some focus time for writing today.
I love my new phone, by the way, but need to stop playing with it all the time.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Labor Day, Constant Reader, and I will be back in the morning again.
Yeah, I’ve been big on the Tudors for most of my life–first the Virgin Queen, and then her father, Henry VIII and his many wives1, and eventually the entire family (Henry VIII’s sister Margaret was a pistol–and it is her descendants who sit on the throne today, not Henry’s). As I got older, I became more interested in the century as a whole, and eventually I moved on from the Tudors to the Stuarts, who I find much more interesting. I still love the Tudors, and will watch documentaries and films, but won’t read any more books about them, especially because I’ve not really scratched more than the surface with the Stuarts, and I want to read more about the Tudors’ French contemporaries, the House of Valois. (Yes, I loved The Tudors, because it was more of a Renaissance version of Dynasty; I don’t watch historical films and expect accuracy2, and if you are, wake the fuck up. Book adaptations are never the same as the book, either. It’s entertainment, not a fucking documentary.)
Speaking of entertainment, I finally gave up on Jon Stewart with his defense of the indefensible. His joining in on the media’s decision to badger and hound Joe Biden–one of the most successful presidents of all fucking time–out of the race? None of that, not one bit of that, was actual concern; they all were giving (and continued, until recently) Shady Marmalade a pass on his obvious mental decline…and Jon’s decision to defend the indefensible “because comedian”? Fuck off and die, you arrogant rich white cisgender piece of shit. I’ll never watch him again, so congrats on that year contract extension, Comedy Central. You thought calling Puerto Rico a floating pile of garbage was funny? You thought comparing Travis Kelce to OJ, implying he’ll murder Taylor Swift, was funny? And on and on and on. Straight white male comedians will always circle the wagons for another comedian with a penis, but when a woman comedian (see: Kathy Griffin) is being attacked, not a fucking word? So he’s a misogynist, too. I’m not telling you what to do, Constant Reader, but Jon Stewart is dead to me, now and forever. And don’t even get me started on the 49ers and Nick the Traitor Bosa. Talk about pussy. Someone got slapped down by management when he hit the locker room and before he talked to the press, and like a good little beta soyboy, he caved and sulked like the pathetic emotionally-and-intellectually stunted bitch he is. He’s not being punished because when asked he shut his fucking mouth, which is the other primary difference between him and a true hero, Colin Kaepernick (besides the obvious “white man gets away with shit a Black man never could” racism).
And really, 49ers managers and coaching staff? Your team represents San Francisco, the most tolerant city in the country. Trade him to Dallas, where he belongs.
Thank God I am on anxiety medications. If not, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all since June. But the medications and my personal ban on legacy media companies who are garbage and untrustworthy has helped a lot with my election anxiety, and refusing to engage with the trash on-line (block, block, block) I’ve managed to take good care of my own mental health this time around. I refuse to worry about what will happen if he wins, or if he loses and they try another violent coup; I do, every once in a while, think you always wondered what it was like to be a Berliner in 1933…and I didn’t really need to get an answer to that question, you know?
I feel good this morning yet again; I’ve been sleeping well every night this week and it’s been really nice. I did my errands last night, got home and got started on the dishes and did some other clean-up around here. Paul didn’t get home until late, so I mostly went down Youtube idle curiosity research holes. I also managed to get the Scotty Bible’s first draft finished; it’s just raw information for now that I have to reorganize and pull together. I am also realizing, as I mentioned yesterday, that I should do a concordance of everything I’ve written by place; Kansas, California, New Orleans, Louisiana, Florida, and Alabama. That’s the problem of having characters cross over from stand-alones to the series and back again, you know? I was realizing that the lawyer the boys hire in Royal Street Reveillon doesn’t have as much information in the Scotty series about him as I would have thought…only to remember that Loren McKeithen has a much larger role in the Chanse series than the Scotty. Oops!
I also realized last night, as I watched news clips and documentaries about the Civil War, that with my anxiety gone I no longer feel the need to belittle and dismiss things I’ve accomplished in this wild and crazy career of mine. I’ve written a shit ton of books, short stories, and blog posts–and when I think about all the queer papers and magazines that I’ve written for over the years, yes, my output has been a bit prodigious. It wasn’t false humility (though I am often horrified at how easy it is to slip into egomania, and always over-correct once I catch myself); I honestly still thought I wasn’t very good at what I do. I always compare myself to other writers and come up wanting; but it’s really not a competition of any kind; I appreciate great writers who produce great work, and my work is different from theirs. I always strive to be better, to get better, and not stagnate–the problem that creates is it extrapolates to I could have done that better and dismissing it. Those are the kind of brain landmines I need to watch for, and avoid whenever possible. I’m proud of all my work, for the record. Sure, going through the old Scotty books was always difficult (I always edit it another time as I’m reading it) but doing it for the Bible, where I’m just looking for information, was different. Sure, there were some clunky things I could have said better, but overall, I was actually a little surprised to see how good–and clever–the books actually are. It also reminded me of how I used to write the first ones, what I have always tried to do in my work–whether anyone notices or not. (Someone once emailed me after reading one of my books and said, “Did you deliberately do this?” and delighted, I wrote back “Absolutely!” That was a big thrill for me.)
And I am proud of my work. I overcame so many obstacles to build this career, and I am pleased with myself, too. My books are pretty good–yes, there will always be a few where I think, God I wish I could give that one more pass, but even those are pretty good. There are some I am more pleased with than others; yes, I have favorite children. But that doesn’t mean that I am not pleased with all of them. How many people told me along the way that this would never happen for me, that I didn’t have what it takes, or that I have no ability at all? Maybe, maybe not–but if that’s what you think, how many books have you published? How many awards have you been nominated for, or won?
I really wish I’d known it was anxiety much sooner.
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, perhaps later!
I love that historians count all of the women he married as his wives; although technically the first two were actually annulled, so the marriages were never, at least legally, valid. ↩︎
I totally understand why films and television shows based on history have to make changes; the actual stories don’t play out perfectly for different media and thus must be adapted. I do ↩︎
I was really into soaps in the late 1970s and up until the mid 1990s or so. My fandom, how it came to be, and how much of an influence soaps were to me as a writer is a topic for another time, perhaps after Pride Month is over because it’s really not Pride related, except for how they related to me as a gay man. But by the late 70s, I was strictly an ABC guy: All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital and Edge of Night, with me having a special attachment to Edge, which will also be a subject for another time. But soaps were strictly a daytime medium for a very long time–at least until Dallas premiered. Originally, each episode was a stand-alone but the show very quickly moved to the serial format, and the ratings went through the roof–and of course, “Who Shot J.R.?” was a global phenomenon (I figured it out early on–when I saw that Mary Crosby was only contracted for four episodes in the following season and the reveal that the shooter’s identity would be revealed in episode 4…it wasn’t too big of a leap from there to “it must have been Kristin”. I was right.), and Dallas ruled the ratings from there on out..
The success of Dallas, of course, lead to copycats from other networks trying to cash in on the new craze; television is nothing if not a place where imitating success is seen as a no-brainer; the irony was that so many of the other soaps that launched at night in the wake of the huge success of Dallas…failed for the most part. The only post-Dallas night time soaps that enjoyed long runs were Knots Landing, Falcon Crest, and Dynasty.
I first learned of Dynasty in a People magazine profile on Linda Evans, who at the time was best known as the woman John Derek left for Bo (who was a huge star at the time), and it mentioned she’d done a two hour pilot for a night time soap called Oil. By the time the fall previews started dropping, the show’s name had been changed to Dynasty, and there was going to be a gay character on the show. Once I read that, I knew I was going to watch. And then the premiere of the show was delayed months because of a strike. The show also had some other cast members I knew of and was interested to see–Wayne Northrop, who’d played Roman on Days of Our Lives; Pamela Sue Martin, of Nancy Drew and The Poseidon Adventure fame; and of course long-time television star John Forsythe as Blake Carrington, the patriarch of the family.
The first season was interesting enough, but the show didn’t really catch fire until the second season, when Joan Collins joined the cast as Blake’s first wife and mother of his children, Alexis. By the end of the season Dynasty had climbed from middling ratings to the Top Five, and it had become must-watch television.
But my primary interest was the character of Steven.
Al Corley as Steven Carrington
Originally played by Al Corley, Steven’s storylines were made clear in the pilot; Steven is coming to terms with his sexuality, coming back to Denver for his father’s wedding despite the fact that Blake is homophobic and he’s been living with a man (Ted Dinard) in New York for the past few years. Steven still isn’t entirely sure of his sexuality (it never occurred to anyone in production that he could be bisexual; he only had a binary choice during the entire run of the show), and decided to go to work on an oil rig to “become a man.” His co-workers pranked and hazed him for being gay at first, and then tried to “straighten” him out by buying him a hooker, which doesn’t go well. He then embarks on an affair with his boss’ wife Claudia (played by Pamela Bellwood, who was probably one of the best actresses in the cast), who was also mentally ill and her sanity wavered throughout the run of the show. Ted comes to Denver to get Steven to come home, but Steven’s decided to stay in Denver and try to get on with his life and ends things with Ted. Unfortunately, Ted comes to the Carrington estate (which was ‘played’ by Filoli, gorgeous place that was also the ‘setting’ for Laurie R. King’s superb Back to the Garden) to say goodbye, Blake comes home already angry, becomes angrier to learn Ted is in the house, rushes upstairs to see them hugging goodbye, and in a homophobic rage pulls Ted off Steven, punches him and knocks him down–only he is killed when he hits his head on a fireplace guardrail–and now Blake has to go on trial for murdering his son’s gay lover; and now the entire world nows.
Alexis returned for the trial, entering the courtroom wearing a veil, and Fallon gasps, “oh my god that’s my mother” setting the stage for season two, and night time television’s greatest villains, Alexis.
Season 2 was disappointing in terms of Steven as he spent season two trying to be straight, getting involved with and marrying Sammie Jo (Heather Locklear in the role that made her famous), but eventually telling his entire family that he’s gay, he’s tired of trying to be someone he’s not, and leaves Denver. He is reported killed in a oil rig explosion in the south China Sea in season three, which was their way of recasting–“plastic surgery so he doesn’t look the same”–and he was replaced by Jack Coleman (at the time best known for playing a serial killer on Days of Our Lives).
Jack Coleman, the second Steven
Coleman was fine, but he was different, and the character changed to match the actor. His entire storyline for the rest of the series involved him getting married, ruining that by getting involved with another man–before deciding what to do with him again for the sake of storyline; showing how hard it was to actually integrate someone with a same sex attraction into the cast of a soap. Every man he was involved with was a new character, and soaps–whose mainstay bottom line is thwarted romances, marriage and divorce–really didn’t know what to do with a non-straight character, other than throwing him into relationships with women (???) to have them end badly and so on.
When the reunion film was done in the 1990s, Al Corley returned as Steven (no explanation of why he looked the way he did before the surgery) and he’d made peace with his sexuality, again living in New York happily with another man and raising his son (oh yes, the gay character also impregnated one of his ‘women’)…while never once raising the possibility of bisexuality; I guess getting the 1980’s home audience vested in a gay character was risky enough without bringing in bisexuality–which tells you where we were as a country in the 1980’s…and we shouldn’t also overlook the fact that it was Dynasty that brought HIV/AIDS to the forefront of conversations in this country. Rock Hudson’s AIDS diagnosis became public shortly after he appeared on the show, and there was a lot of panic because he’d kissed the Linda Evans character–had he infected her? (We didn’t know as much then as we do now; now that fear is laughable but it was palpable back then because there was so much ignorance about it then, thanks to the Reagan Administration and the deeply embedded homophobia in post-war American culture.)
I started rewatching the original show once it was available for streaming, and that first season really is a slog; Blake was the primary villain in the first season (Alexis took his place, turning him into a more traditional soap hero–flawed but a good person at heart) and he just didn’t have the gravitas to relish being evil the way Joan Collins jumped in with both hands and feet), so while I was enjoying seeing the more honest and realistic to life way Steven and his dilemma was displayed in that first season–even the affair with Claudia made sense the way it was written–they really didn’t know what to do with him after the recast, and he descended from the fully developed realistic character Corley played to the two-dimensional soap hero he devolved into after the recast.
But…it was still pretty daring for the 1980s, and I did appreciate the attempt at representation. I know the reboot, which I didn’t watch, made Steven straight up gay; even gender swapping Sammie Jo by turning her into Sammy Joe. Progress is progress, and we cannot ever dismiss out of hand the brave attempts at using homosexuality and familial homophobia as a source for story; they were fighting the network censors, the right wing, and most of the country was homophobic, too.
They did the best they could and it was important at the time…even if it doesn’t hold up well under modern understanding.
I have really come to love Bouchercon, and it’s always a highlight of my year.
Things have seriously changed for the better.
Queer Crime Writers after a dinner out in San Diego, with Marco’s lovely husband Mark Gutkowski
Bouchercon last week was a marvelous, marvelous experience. I had such an amazing time, saw some people I’ve not seen in quite some time (and quickly remembered why I love them so much), and stayed up way later every night than I should have–one of my many neuroses is FOMO, of course; I still regret not going to Dallas in 2019–but I laughed a lot, had some great panels, and made some new friends, too. I ate great meals, had some marvelous cocktails, and I really liked the hotel (once I figured out the shortcuts to the meeting spaces). It also made me think about my own history with the event, how things have changed for the better, and how I hope it keeps changing for the better. There were so few of us queer writers who used to go back in the day; now we have enough of us to have a happy hour where we get together and drink and chat about writing and the business and oh, how we all laugh. It’s wonderful.
When I first got started in this business, publishing was different. I had to explain this recently to someone I am hiring to do the ebook for Jackson Square Jazz for me; why I didn’t have a pdf file, because back then there were no ebooks and you got your page proofs in the mail, as well as your marked up manuscript for the editing process. So all I have on hand is the unedited version of the book I turned in. But what also was nice back then was there was a support system for queer writers that we no longer have–there were queer newspapers, queer magazines, and queer bookstores. We had a queer book of the month club–Insightoutbooks–and their influence in shaping and developing my career cannot be underestimated. After Hurricane Katrina and the six months spent touring for Mardi Gras Mambo, I kind of withdrew back into myself. I don’t remember much of 2006-2008, to be perfectly honest; I just know that I went back to work full time in 2008 and after adjusting my writing/editing schedule to that, it was around 2009 or 2010 that I resurfaced and started thinking about promotion and marketing again.
And what I found was that during those lost years (I call it the Hibernation) everything had changed. The queer newspapers and bookstores were mostly gone. ISO shut down. And I realized, with a sinking heart, that I was going to have to start going to mainstream conferences to promote myself. After working so hard in the mid to late 1990’s ensuring I could exist in almost entirely queer or queer-friendly places, I found myself having to essentially start over. Queer writers never mattered to the mainstream crime organizations and conferences, and I braced myself, knowing I was going to encounter homophobia yet again.
It didn’t take very long–although in retrospect, I’m actually surprised it took as long as it did.
I joined Mystery Writers of America, and later, Sisters in Crime. I also went to Bouchercon in Indianapolis and San Francisco. I didn’t know more than a handful of people and tended to glom onto the people I did know (sorry about that, guys; social interactions at events where I don’t know anyone ramps up my anxiety, so I glom onto the people I know). Indianapolis I wasn’t in the host hotel, I was across the street–and it was cold. It was the weekend of the Ohio State-Purdue game, I can remember that because my hotel was full of OSU fans, so I found myself mostly hanging out in my hotel room and reading, while braving the cold to go across the street for my panels and events. It was nice, and decided to go to San Francisco for it the next year. There I was in the host hotel and realized oh you really need to stay in the host hotel in the future, because it made everything easier. I was starstruck most of that weekend–I rode in the elevator with S. J. Rozan once and another time with Laurie R. King, which was incredible. I only had one panel, at 4 pm on Friday afternoon that no one came to, but I had a really good time—and even decided to put together a bid to host it in New Orleans (and that is a whole other story), before yet another person decided that it was time for a Bouchercon programmer to put the fag back in his place, letting me know that I and my books weren’t important enough (the exact wording was “surely you have to understand that someone who’s edited a couple of anthologies doesn’t really deserve to be on panels”–despite the fact that my tenth novel had just been released…and of course, the greatest irony of this was that I went on to edit three of their anthologies) to grace any panel, and that any panel I’d been given in the previous two years should be considered a gift.
Should be considered a gift.
A fucking GIFT.
(For the record, Paul is an event planner by trade. He is executive director of both the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival as well as Saints & Sinner, a queer litfest. Just to be certain I wasn’t overreacting and being a diva-bitch, I let him read the email. His response? “If one of my staff, interns or volunteers wrote an email like that to an attending author I would fire them on the spot.” And before anyone starts up with the “programming a Bouchercon is hard” I will remind you that Margery Flax and I wrote over one half of the program for Dallas in three fucking days and contacted everyone with their assignments and then reorganized and redid the program to accommodate schedules and wrong panel assignments for about two weeks before it was done–with the local chair constantly throwing things at us that made us start pulling threads and weaving it back together again….nothing like “oh, sorry, I forgot that I promised these people a panel for this” after you’ve redone it for the fourth time. That happened a lot. And the entire time, we were incredibly polite and friendly and did whatever we could to accommodate people; apologizing and fixing it repeatedly. NOT ONE PERSON RECEIVED A FUCKING EMAIL TELLING THEM TO CONSIDER ANY PANEL THEY GOT AS A GIFT.
But then, I’m not an unprofessional piece of shit whose pathetic ego sees programming as power to abuse, either.
I wasn’t saying (and was very respectful) oh I am such a big deal how could you not give me an assignment, all I asked was hey, I know how hard your job is, but I don’t understand how you get on a panel and what can I do differently in the future to get one? What am I doing wrong? I approached them with kindness and respect for the work they were doing and got bitch-slapped, demeaned, and insulted in response. No author who is paying their own way to a conference and essentially providing the event with free entertainment for its audience should ever be treated so contemptuously by event organizers, period. The fact that when I expressed these concerns to the national board all I got back was mealy-mouthed excuses and “we’re sorry you’re offended” told me everything I needed to know about the organization and its board; the way they were treating me about the New Orleans bid (I had planned on having Susan Larsen–former chair of the National Books Critic Circle, chair of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction twice, long time programmer for the TW Fest and a nationally respected book reviewer–help out along with Pat Brady, long time publications chair of the Historic New Orleans Collection, huge mystery fan, and also a long time programmer for TWFest only to be told their vast knowledge and experience wasn’t “good enough” and I needed to get the homophobic trash who told me I was nothing to program New Orleans–yeah, like that was ever going to happen) was also egregiously horrible, condescending, insulting, and unprofessional.
Needless to say I cancelled my trip to St. Louis and never considered attending Cleveland; I tend to not go where I am not welcome. I am not taking my hard-earned money from my “nothing career” and giving it to a homophobic organization, where I then get to beg for scraps and get treated like shit. I have better ways to spend my money, thank you. (And yes, I know who the programmers were and yes, I will carry that grudge to the grave.)
I withdrew my bid to host for New Orleans, and I washed my hands of the mainstream mystery community. Who needs it? They were never going to accept me or my work, they were never going to read my work, they didn’t give a shit about me, and it was pretty clear they never would. I was kind of at sea for a few years, there. There were no more queer newspapers, no more queer bookstores, no more gay Insightoutbooks.com book club, nothing. Outside of the TWFest and Saints & Sinners, I had no conference outlets to promote myself and my work. The mainstream mystery world clearly wanted no part of me, so what was I supposed to do? So, I just kept writing. I operated my social media pages as a promotional outlet for my work, and I kept writing this blog. I did finally return to Bouchercon when it went to Albany; friends convinced me to go, and one powerful friend requested me for a panel she assembled–and it came through. Having friends made a huge difference, really, and through my friends I met and made more friends, and Bouchercon slowly became a must-go event for me every year…eventually reaching the point where I never had to be concerned about getting on a panel, while at the same time no longer caring whether I did or not. It became more about seeing my friends and being around other writers than a work/promotional thing for me. Ironically, once I no longer cared or worried so much about being on things…I started getting put on more and more things, with bigger and increasingly more important co-panelists (I still can’t get over the fact that I was on a panel with ATTICA LOCKE in Minneapolis. I was too nervous to say anything to her; I spent that entire panel looking at my co-panelists and listening to them speak and wondering why the fuck I was on that panel).
And now, of course, we have a group: the Queer Crime Writers, and a core group of us have been showing up together at conferences ever since we bonded at Left Coast last year (and bonded even more with more of us at Bouchercon Minneapolis last year): John Copenhaver, Marco Carocari, Kelly J. Ford, and Robyn Gigl–who’ve all become very dear to me over the last year or so. Teresa Cain/Carsen Taite joined us in San Diego, and became my con-wife; what a great time we had!
And somehow, I am getting nominated for mainstream awards, an outcome I could have never predicted. I won the Anthony for Best Anthology for editing Blood on the Bayou, and was nominated for Best Short Story at the Dallas event for “Cold Beer No Flies” (I lost to S. A. Cosby, no disgrace there). Last year Bury Me in Shadows was nominated for Best Paperback Original (losing to Jess Lourey) and Best Children’s/Young Adult (losing to Alan Orloff); neither of those losses were devastating because Jess and Alan are also friends of mine, and I couldn’t have been happier for them both. This year I had three nominations in three categories for three different books–Best Anthology for Land of 10000 Thrills (losing to S. J. Rozan for MWA’s Crime Hits Home); Best Children’s/Young Adult (losing to Nancy Springer for the latest Enola Holmes, hello, no disgrace there); and Best Humorous for A Streetcar Named Murder (losing to Catriona McPherson for Scot in a Trap)–again, with the exception of Springer, I lost to very talented friends I like very much (I’ve not met Springer). That’s seven Anthony nominations in total, to go along with the Macavity, the Agatha, the Lefty, and the Shirley Jackson nominations. Not bad for a queer writer, wouldn’t you say? Ten mainstream award nominations? I certainly never would have dreamed all those years ago when I was told “any panel you get should be considered a gift” by Bouchercon programming.
That doesn’t mean the community is free from homophobia; it’s still there. I have mentioned before the mainstream cisgender male author who is clearly afraid to acknowledge my existence and always beats a hasty retreat whenever I walk up; I find his homophobia amusing. You’re not hurting me, bro, because I don’t want to know you, either. It doesn’t mean that I can’t be sitting in a booth in the hotel bar with a bunch of friends only to have a straight man look at me, smirk and say “faggy” in a sentence, as though daring me to call his ass out because he’s so much more important than I am; no worries, asshole, I don’t even have to repeat the story to anyone because since then you’ve shown all the big names you’re buddies with that you’re actually a piece of shit, and yes, I’ve watched it all with the same fucking smirk you had on your face when you thought you’d pull out your micro-penis and slap it down on the booth table in Toronto, and when I hear stories about you, I am delighted to pull out “Well, I’ve known he was trash since he said faggy in front of me, looking me in the face and smirking as he said it”.
Assholes will always out themselves, at least in my experience–and I’m very patient. I store the receipts and pull them out to corroborate horrific behavior when the timing is right.
I’ll save the racism, sexual harassment, and homophobia I faced in Albuquerque at Left Coast for another time.
I’m very pleased with the progress that has been made in our community over the last five or six years–I mean, the Rainbow Diversity panel about queer crime writing in Toronto was packed, when such panels in the past only drew maybe four or five audience members. Codes of conduct have been implemented to protect attendees from sexual harassment and pervy conduct, as well as racism and homophobia.
Progress is often slow, and it is easy to get impatient. I don’t know if my involvement with Bouchercon has made things better for queer writers there, but I do know the award nominations show other queer writers that such things are possible for them. Nothing says you’re welcome here than seeing members of your community nominated for the awards. The more of us that attend also means that more of us will get nominated, be on panels, and be able to talk about our work to readers who might open their minds and read our books. Being visible at these events is crucial and important.
And like water wearing down a stone, we have to keep relentlessly pushing.
(John, Marco, Kelly, and Rob Osler have all been nominated for mainstream awards over the last year, along with me. Edwin Hill and PJ Vernon have also been recognized for their brilliant work, too. This is so wonderful to see–I’d be delighted even if I weren’t with them in this grouping. And if you’ve not read any of us, there’s not a single person I’ve mentioned by name you can go wrong with. It’s also exciting seeing the new queer talent rising in writers like Margot Douaihy.)
I was torn about going to Nashville next year; their anti-trans and anti-queer laws have me not really wanting to spend my queer money there. But the point was made that going and being very present was an act of defiance…and Lord knows I love defying homophobes, so I guess I am probably going to go. I can visit Dad either before or after, so it actually makes sense for me to go. I’ve decided to write a very gay story to submit to their anthology (which means I need to get back to work on it), and so yeah…I think defiance is the way to go.
Plus….I love my Queer Crime Writers. I can’t imagine not being around them next year, and I would absolutely go nuts from FOMO.
So, in closing, thank you, Queer Crime Writers. I love you all, and thank you for letting me into your group. Let’s keep making a difference, shall we?
I write to you from a very lovely hotel room at the Marriott in foggy San Diego this morning. My room is quite nice; I have a lovely view of the marina and harbor and a balcony, and the room is actually quite large. I am already dehydrated, which means I need to drink water today rather than Coke–which is just as well; I always have trouble sleeping when I travel and the caffeine doesn’t help very much–and have already run into some people already; some of the Queer Crime Writers, and various other crime fiction friends and writers. I am still on central time, so I woke up at four my time like always–it was two here, so of course I was terribly confused, because I’d left the bathroom light on and in my sleepy confusion I thought it was the sun and thought how did I not close the curtains last night? But after a few moments, I remembered where I was and what time it actually was and the curtains were closed.
I posted yesterday that I was trying out a new thing called Stress-Free Traveling, or something like that. Now that I know that I have anxiety, and can recognize those feelings as what they are, I can handle and control them. My flight was at one thirty, so I scheduled an eye exam in Metairie on the way for 10:20, figuring I’d be that much closer to the airport and I could still get there in plenty of time to make it through security and so forth and have lunch. The focus was on remaining calm and not getting upset at anything that was out of my control. Airports and airplanes are huge triggers for me, primarily because I worked in one for so long and I get tired of being around inconsiderate and rude people; and every time I fly it seems people’s behavior gets worse. But I remained calm. I didn’t get annoyed or fidgety in the security line; I didn’t get worked up about boarding and the line and all of that stuff. I got my lunch at Shake Shack–it was quite tasty–and the flight to Dallas wasn’t even half full so I had a whole row to myself. The flight out of Dallas was delayed for an hour because of a mechanical issue and an equipment swap (the jargon still flows naturally out of me), but it was fine. It was lovely meeting Carsen Taite at the Dallas airport, and we managed to get an empty seat between us on the flight to San Diego. I did get a bit impatient–hot, sweaty, traveling all day–at the over-long wait to get checked in, but the young woman was lovely and gave me this lovely room. I went to the Cozies and Cocktails event, which was fun, and then I went to the bar and hung out with the Queer Crime Writers, which is always delightful, and also ran into other friends, equally delightful before calling it a night and coming up to my nice, properly cold room, and slept like I do at home–deep periods of sleep interrupted by wake-ups, some of which were disorienting (it was two not four a.m.; the light was on in the bathroom so I thought the sun was up which was odd at two because I couldn’t have slept around the clock, on and on and on). But I feel rested this morning, if a bit dehydrated and hungry–part of the anxiety-free travel plan is to be good to myself and remember to eat and hydrate and give up on FOMO, which always keeps me up until late and then I can’t sleep and it just builds from there.
But these entries–if I manage to make any–will be short, most likely. I am heading downstairs to start conferencing. Talk to you soon!
(Oh! I was able to read about 150 pages of Kelly J. Ford’s The Hunt and it is marvelous.)
…on a flight to Dallas this afternoon. However, in delightful news, I am sharing the Dallas-San Diego legs of the trip in both directions with none other than the Lady H, aka Lady Hermione, aka Carsen Taite. That is always fun. I don’t have enough time changing planes in Dallas on the way out to get Whataburger on the way (I’ll get Shake Shack at New Orleans airport before I leave) but here’s hoping I can get it on the way home, because I know I will be starving by the time I get to Dallas. (I just checked; I have two hours in Dallas on the way back so Whataburger fer shur! The departure flight is at eleven something California time, so I probably won’t eat anything before boarding….unless there’s donuts or something at the San Diego airport, which I am sure there is.) It’s truly sad how excited I can get about food options that I don’t normally have access to, isn’t it?
But I am all packed and ready to head to Metairie for my eye appointment on the way to the airport. It would probably be more accurate to say I overpacked–I really don’t know why every time I go to something like this I have to take so much with me, including books–what if I run out of something to read!?!?!? Um, bitch, you’re going to a convention for mystery readers. There will be free books in my conference book bag. Books will be given away at various times over the weekend. There’s a book room and several book sellers.
But yes, by all means, Greg, weight yourself down bringing coal to Newcastle.
My supervisor and I were looking around yesterday for pictures of our old office on Frenchmen Street for a presentation she is doing at the US Conference on AIDS (she’ll leave the day I return to work), and we couldn’t find any, anywhere. I knew I probably had some in my archive of photographs on the back-up hard drive (which is horribly horribly disorganized), and so I went digging around in those files after I finished packing last night. Oh, the memories–and oh, the fucking receipts! Apparently–not really a surprise to anyone who knows me–I’ve been keeping receipts for decades. Old assholish behavior from people who should know better that I’d completely forgotten about–both the person and the behavior. Also, some people have been assholes for a very long time. Stick with what you’re good at, I guess? But yes, at some point I am going to have to organize those picture files–and there are tons of duplicates.
So.
Many.
Duplicates.
Nevertheless it was a fun way to pass an hour or so while the laundry laundered and the dishes washed in their respective machines. There are so many things I need to be better about–the picture files, for example, could be incredibly useful for inspirations and/or putting me into the mood to write a particular kind of story. I found the photo file of the pictures I used to help me visualize and write Timothy; I did do this for Mississippi River Mischief, but never took the time to look at the photos before diving into writing or trying to get the work done. It probably would have helped some, and therefore I need to remember the value of visual aids for my writing going forward. I am taking stuff with me to edit over coffee, or to muse over and/or think about; I always take my journal with me when I go to panels because people say things I want to remember later, or make me think about something I am working on, sometimes solving a puzzle I’d be trying to untangle. I love being around other writers, I really do. It’s always fun, and I get to hang around smart people and listen to them tell funny stories and laugh and be amazed that I get to know all these amazingly brilliant and smart and witty people and get to call them friends? The teenaged kid in Kansas whose house had a corn field across the street and dreamed big dreams in that bedroom with the ugly beige walls and brown shag carpeting would have slept well and gotten through life a little easier had he known his life would turn out even better than he’d ever dared to dream. I complain a lot. I whine a lot. I get irritated easily and my temper frays and flares a little more lately than I’d prefer, frankly. It’s also so, so easy to go down the dark path to depression and who cares and why bother and all that morose self-pitying nonsense that doesn’t make anything any better but certainly can make everything seem worse. But I do know how incredibly lucky and blessed I am. People also seem to think I’ve led an interesting life. I don’t think so, but it’s also all I know so it just seems normal to me. I get to write books and stories and get them published. People read them, seem to like them, and want me to write more of them. I even get nominated for awards here and there and now and again…quite a lot of times, actually.
And while it may not seem like it most of the time when I’m complaining, I’m pretty happy with my life and how it’s all turned out. I’ve also realized that I’m incredibly lucky and blessed with my writing career. I’ve been nominated for the Anthony Award seven times now–twice for Best Anthology, once for Best Short Story, once for Best Paperback/Ebook Original, twice for Best Children’s/Young Adult, and once for Best Humorous. That’s really not a bad haul, you know. I’ve also been nominated for a Lefty and an Agatha and a Shirley Jackson and a Macavity–not bad for a big old queer writer of queer books, you know? It’s also lovely seeing these mainstream awards starting to slowly recognize queer writers and our books. I also found, you see, a lot of pictures of conferences and signings and readings and book events and conferences from throughout the length of my varied and odd career. It’s been a lovely ride so far, and I really wish I would allow myself the luxury of enjoying myself and enjoying my career.
My goal for this weekend is to have as much fun as possible, hug as many people as I can, and relax and enjoy the ride as a three-time Anthony nominee. That’s pretty amazing, and something that queer teenager back in Kansas couldn’t have dared to dream.
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. I need to do one more load of dishes before i depart and the kitchen will be thus clean. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and as always I will probably be updating social media with today’s travel shenanigans. Don’t know if or when I will be back here, but will do my best.
It literally just dawned on me that I will have two books out this fall, releasing in consecutive months. The cover for the one I’ve not talked about much is being revamped, so I had to delay sharing the post where I talk about the book (want to share with the actual cover rather than a simulation, of course), but yeah: I have a book out in October and then Mississippi River Mischief drops in November (pushed back from September because, well, life happened), how cool is that? Last night as I was driving home in the hellish heat (the few days of highs in the 90’s, that tragic temperature serving as a respite for the rest of the summer) I realized, you know, if you don’t feel like doing anything when you get home, you don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to work on a book, I don’t have to do anything unless I actually want to–which is hardly motivational. It also was warmer in the apartment when I got home, so I turned on the fans again and the portable coolers and that was that.
I spent most of the evening watching football highlights–August is when I prep for college football every year–and wondering about how LSU is going to fare this season. There’s a lot of hype for them–something we’ve not seen since 2019, frankly, and even then they over-performed by a long shot, and that has me a bit concerned. I have no doubt LSU will be better this year than they were last year, but all this hype-talk makes me a bit nervous. Their schedule is incredibly tough (although Auburn and Florida come to Baton Rouge this fall, and LSU’s last three national titles came in seasons where that happened), but this is also the last season of SEC football as we’ve come to know it since the last expansion, when Missouri and Texas A&M joined. Next year Texas and Oklahoma join, the conference realignments settle in, and college football will never be the same again. I don’t know how i feel about this stuff, to be completely honest. The college football I grew up watching hasn’t existed in a very long time–I remember when ABC exclusively held the TV rights for all NCAA football, so there would be one big game that aired every Saturday and then a local game of some importance–and that was it. When you look at the plethora of games to pick and choose from to watch on Saturdays in the fall now, and can remember pre-1980’s college football, it’s kind of wild.
I booked an appointment with the specialist yesterday. I didn’t get into this very much the other day, because I was frustrated and angry, but basically when I injured my left arm last January? I tore the biceps muscle. I saw my primary care doctor three days later for my biannual check-up, and he didn’t think it was anything. Flash forward to July’s biannual check-up, and now “oh yes, that’s torn, you need to see an orthopedic surgeon.” Well, it turns out that they do require surgery to repair–but it needs to be done, at most, within six weeks of the injury–you know, like when I saw my primary care physician three days after it happened? As such, the specialist he referred me to–whom I liked very much–didn’t feel comfortable performing the surgery because so much time had passed, and he referred me to a specialist at the Tulane Institute of Sports Medicine. I made the appointment yesterday, and here’s hoping we can get the surgery scheduled for sometime this fall. (The chances of full recovery, by the way, also are significantly reduced the more time that passes, so thanks again, primary care physician, whom I will never be seeing again.) So, yes, I have a big fall planned. I am getting my eyes examined on my way to the airport this coming Wednesday; I am getting fitted for hearing aids this Sunday, and I am getting my teeth fixed when I return from Bouchercon. Woo-hoo! Seriously, the excitement around here never stops. I also realized that I only have to go into the office twice this coming week before I leave for San Diego…so I probably should spend some time this weekend preparing.
I know what books I am taking with me to read on the flights there and back. I also figured out that I’ll probably get home in time to catch the final quarter of LSU’s season opener, so I will of course be checking the score regularly as I fly back to New Orleans. I am sharing the Dallas-San Diego legs with Carsen Taite, which will be a lot of fun. (I am getting Whataburger at Dallas Love and at some point whilst in California, I better get to go to In ‘n’ Out Burger.) I have a lot to do this weekend to prep. I am moderating a panel–asked to fill in at the last moment) so I need to reach out to my panelists and apologize for being so tardy to reach out, and start pulling the panel itself together. I need to write this weekend, or at least I should, but there’s a lot of other stuff I have to get done this weekend, too. I really should take the car in for an oil change tomorrow before I leave town, for one thing, and it won’t kill me, either. I can also make groceries while on the West Bank. I think I may just take the weekend as it comes and not put any pressure on myself. I need to make an updated to-do list, for sure, but I am really pleased that I conquered my anxiety to get all those appointments made.
I also had anxiety about moderating this panel, but the nice thing now is I can shrug off the panic as “oh, that’s just your anxiety trying to make you miserable” and you know what? That actually works! Oh, how I wish I had known this wasn’t normal years ago and had seen it for what it really is, because now I can come up with true coping mechanisms and work-arounds to keep it at bay. It was so freeing saying that to myself last night; the moment I said it, the power of the anxiety was defeated and I am no longer worried about how the panel will go. Like how I get anxious and put off making medical/dental appointments. It’s just anxiety, and making the calls isn’t horrible. None of this stuff is truly terrible, but my mind makes it that way.
We also started watching Swamp Kings last night, about the Urban Meyer years at Florida (he was 3-3 against LSU), which was interesting. We’ll keep watching; the first episode takes them through the 2005 season and up to the Auburn loss in 2006. (Spoiler: that would be their only loss and they’d beat Ohio State for the national championship.) I told you, I’m trying to get warmed up for football season!
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I may check in with you again later.
Sunday morning and I am driving to Alabama later on. Woo-hoo!
I finished the revisions of the manuscript yesterday, and sent it off to the editor and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I do think it’s a good book, and should there be a second one, I think it will be even better than this one, to be honest with you. I feel like I’ve been operating for a very long time under some sort of dark cloud, which makes things that should be incredibly obvious and apparent mysterious and unknowable instead. It was also an enormous relief to get it finished. I think I caught everything I needed to catch, and added what needed to be added. There might still be some tweaks and/or additions that need to be made, but I think it’s pretty solid right now and that’s a load off my mind, especially with a trip on the horizon tomorrow and not knowing how available I will be over the next week to make changes and/or get things done. I am actually departing on this trip with an actual clear conscience; there’s nothing really hanging over my head. Sure, I’ll have the edits for the Scotty at some point and the proofs/copy edits for this one, but I feel like I have finally gotten out from under everything and can breathe at long last.
Whew.
Then after that I went into my easy chair and collapsed, ready to watch the finals of the College World Series. LSU defeated Florida in eleven innings, thanks to another home run in the eleventh, and what an exciting and thrilling and nerve-wracking game it was. Props to Florida, they played some amazing defense, stranding a lot of LSU runners on base. After the pitchers’ duel with Wake Forest the other night, all the hits and men on base seemed almost weird, like I was watching a different type of game altogether. But then Cade Beloso blasted one out of the park in that eleventh inning (Tommy White, aka Tommy Tanks, heroically knocked one out to pull the Tigers back to 3-3, causing the game to go extra innings) and Paul and I were cheering and screaming. LSU fans also blasted through the Rocco’s College World Series Jello Shot Challenge, going over thirty thousand before they drank Rocco’s out of jello shots. LSU fans, notorious for traveling and drinking bars dry, has done it again! We did it in Atlanta for the college football playoffs in 2019; we may have done it in Dallas for the women’s final four in basketball this year; I know there’s another place it happened.
Never start a land war in Asia, or challenge LSU fans to a drinking contest. Period.
I am going to be listening to Carol Goodman in the car; the book is The Drowning Tree, which I am looking forward to, and I packed Megan Abbott’s Beware the Woman, Eli Cranor’s Ozark Dogs, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents My Favorites in Suspense to read to take with me; I doubt that I’ll have much time to read, but you never know. Dad and I are going to a minor league baseball game on Wednesday night in Lexington, and he’s made noises in the past about taking me sight-seeing when I come up sometime–so I imagine we’ll go visit the Kentucky Derby museum and the Cassius Clay home (we tried doing this once before when I was there for Thanksgiving, but everything was closed for the holidays or for COVID). I also have to pack and I need to run by the grocery store to lay in supplies; after I finished with the edits yesterday I wasn’t really in the mood to go out into the heat. I also need to clean out the refrigerator before I go; Paul won’t make salads, and even if he did make one, he wouldn’t slice up an onion or cut up a cucumber or use cherry tomatoes, so I may as well toss all of that. When I get back, that Sunday we’re going to have to make a Costco run as well as me making a grocery run. At least that week I only have to go in on Monday before the holiday for the 4th on Tuesday, and then three more days to finish off the week before the next weekend. It felt weird yesterday to be actually caught up on everything at long last; I’ve felt like I was drowning for the last three or four years, and finally now I can come up for air. The books still need work–I am waiting for the edits on Mississippi River Mischief, and of course will have to proof the new one as well–but I am caught up and that albatross (or albatrosses) have been removed from around my neck at long last.
I finished reading that Hilda Lawrence novella yesterday too, and it was really quite good. The premise of the story is a classic from that era (Cornell Woolrich also wrote a brilliant story with a similar premise, whose name I am blanking on right now), and it was interesting how it was constructed; I’m not sure you could publish a story structured the way this one was (“Composition for Four Hands” is the name of the story), because the point of view was constantly changing, but those POV changes made the story seem even more interesting that it already was. The premise of the story is wealthy Mrs. Manson has been invalided–we never are really told what precisely is wrong with her–but she cannot speak and she cannot move….and she’s certain someone in the house is trying to kill her, and she can’t communicate with anyone. While she is certain, she also cannot entirely remember what happened to her–but she knows it wasn’t an accident, which is what everyone else believes, and while she is lying there helpless, trying to figure out who she can trust while trying to figure out a way to communicate–yes, it’s very suspenseful and terrifying and so well-written you can absolutely empathize and put yourself into Mrs. Manson’s dreadful position. It’s fun to read old crime stories of suspense and mystery, to get a feel for the old styles of writing and story construction, plus it gives me a better feel for writing. I try not to “edit” when I read–it’s not as easy to turn off editor mode as one might think–because ultimately I read for pleasure first and foremost; any other edification that comes from reading is merely lagniappe for me.
And on that note, I’d best be signing off here and heading into the spice mines and start getting ready for the trip. I need to pack still, and of course I have to do some cleaning and make groceries. I don’t know how much I am going to be able to post once I get on the road and on this trip; I’ll probably never finish the pride posts I started, but hey, one also never knows. Stranger things have happened, after all. So maybe I’ll be around, maybe I won’t. If not, have a lovely week, Constant Reader, and I’ll talk more with you later.
I feel better this morning than I did yesterday. I didn’t sleep well last night but I rested, and I’ll frankly take that. I may be tired again later today, but it definitely beats yesterday. By the afternoon at work yesterday I was so tired I actually felt sick; I did run my errands after work (didn’t want to) and then came home to my easy chair and cat. I spent most of the evening sitting in my chair watching Youtube clips (and the Rihanna Super Bowl half-time show, which I think was fantastic) before finally tumbling into my bed around nine thirty. I did sleep some, but I was half-awake half-asleep most of the night, but…I feel rested and okay this morning, even getting out of bed before my alarm went off. I should have done laundry last night and emptied the dishwasher, but hey, it is what it is and i’d driven twelve hours the day before. I’ll have to do that tonight. Tonight is the final night of rest during parade season, and the madness all begins again tomorrow night, with Druids (the parade after is still trash and still being boycotted by New Orleans) rolling down the Avenue and me having to leave the office early so I can get home before they close the Avenue.
I was also so brain dead that I wasn’t able to make my to-do list, which is on my agenda for today. I did manage to muddle through the work day yesterday, but seriously, I was so tired I barely even remember being at work yesterday, let alone what all happened and what went on. I know I got all my work caught up–I was concerned, having left town so abruptly last week, about how behind I may have fallen but being competent really comes in handy sometimes. I need to write my review of The Stranger Behind You by Carol Goodman, which I loved, and need to get back to Abby Collette’s Body and Soul Food. I don’t even know where we are with our television shows that we were watching, but we’re also in crunch time for Paul at work so i don’t see him very often; he sometimes comes home after I’ve gone to bed and I of course leave before he gets up in the morning–long before he gets up in the morning–making me a Festival widow until it’s all over. He’s going to try to come home so we can have dinner together tonight for Valentine’s Day. but I’m not going to be holding my breath anytime soon.
Yesterday, a friend went public with something horrific that happened to her at Bouchercon in Dallas in 2019 (I didn’t go; I got an inner ear infection that week and as such couldn’t fly); you can read about here. I urge you to sign the Change.org petition on the page I linked to; I cannot state how much I admire Laurie for her courage and determination to make sure that what happened to her–a complete dismissal of her, no follow-up, and absolutely incredibly incompetent police work–never happens to another woman, at least in Dallas. It’s also no easy task to come forward about being drugged and possibly assaulted; we have in our culture and society a tendency to not believe women, and to dismiss them as being “overly-sensitive” and “well, it’s a he said/she said situation”. Part of the reason I wrote #shedeservedit was because I get so angry about how we treat women who are victims of predatory men. That book was of course inspired by the Steubensville/Marysville gang rape cases, but how many times do we have to go through and witness this same song-and-dance? The Stanford swimmer, Laurie in Dallas, Steubenville, Marysville…the list just goes on and on and on. (Which was why reading The Stranger Behind You was so serendipitous; it’s about #metoo) I’ve actually been thinking about writing another book about this, but wanting to do it from the perspective of say a woman like the Stanford swimmer’s mother; which was why the Goodman novel resonated so strongly with me.
Boys will be boys indeed.
I also need to get writing again. That will put me and everything in my life back into balance, methinks. But at least this morning I am awake and functioning and feeling rested; how long that will last remains to be seen. But on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check back in with you again tomorrow.
Thursday morning and my last day in the office for the week–woo-hoo! (I really do make it sound like I hate my job, don’t I? I actually don’t; I like my job a lot…but I’d prefer to stay home, always.) Paul is leaving tomorrow and I am trying to prepare myself for the emptiness; Paul is not a big man and he’s not loud, either–but when he is gone the house just feels enormous and empty. Scooter also gets lonely and needier–he’s used to having Paul to sleep on/with most of the time–and so I’ll probably spend a lot more time with my laptop in the bed with Scooter than I usually do. I also want to clean the upstairs while he’s gone, which is probably what I will do most of the day on Saturday; clean the upstairs while football games play on the television. Sounds like a good plan to me! I also have to take some more books to the library sale, and I can swing by and get the mail and stop at Fresh Market on the way home.
I feel rested again this morning. I had a very good night’s sleep last night, which was marvelous, and I hope this means a productive day. Yesterday was a pretty good day, actually; I managed to get quite a bit done and stopped to get the mail and to make a little groceries (amazing how you cannot get out of a store without spending a minimum of fifty bucks anymore) before coming home and relaxing a bit. I finished writing Chapter Eight (huzzah!) and am now going to move on to Chapter Nine. I am still further behind than I would prefer to be, but a strong push this weekend (Sunday all I plan to do is write) should get me back on schedule. I had wanted to be finished with the first draft by the end of the month, but somehow the month slipped through my fingers; Monday is Halloween, and this weekend of course is Gay Halloween, aka Halloween New Orleans. That, in the olden days, would have been my plans for the entire weekend, and whatever my costume for the Ball on Saturday might be would always start with the adjective “slutty.” Those days are past, long past, alas; no one wants to see sixty-one year old Greg in anything that starts with slutty, but hey–I had a great time back when I could get away with the look. And I got away with it, he typed modestly, far longer than I ever would have thought I could.
Last night we watched the new episode of Andor, but I am probably going to have to watch it again after Paul leaves, because my mind kept wandering–not because the show isn’t good, but because my mind kicked into “book mode” while I was sitting there watching and I kept thinking about the work I need to do on the book and how to revise the opening to make it stronger and move faster. I hope to get a good portion of the next chapter done today and another tomorrow before taking Saturday to rest and then diving back in headfirst on Sunday. I really need to update my to-do list because there are things I need to do that I keep forgetting about and they aren’t written down on the list which makes remembering them that much harder. Heavy heaving sigh.
I then watched the conclusion of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills reunion, which was interesting. I still might have to do an entire entry about this past season; I generally try not to get involved in conversations about reality television publicly–it’s ever so much more fun to do privately with friends–but I am often reminded of how vested viewers would get in soaps, both daytime and primetime; we used to have watch parties for Dynasty when I was in college, after all, and talked about the show incessantly, living for the bitchy cattiness and the surprise twists in the plot. Someone with whom I rarely ever agree–Camille Paglia–actually said something insightful when talking about these reality shows so many watch fervently: she said they were the modern-day versions of the 1980’s prime time soaps, and she wasn’t wrong. They aren’t the same kind of shows at all, but in some ways they are; the housewives shows have certainly taken the place of the old night time soaps, and just like them, the housewives began with a show with modest success and then branched out to replicate the formula, just as Dallas was the first and the rest sprang from its success. And I have to say, there were times last night once Kathy Hilton made her entrance that I was reminded, over and over again, of Dynasty: her entrance reminded me of Alexis entering the courtroom to appear on the show for the first time, and as Kathy sat there, shredding her foes with a razor-sharp tongue I kept seeing Alexis on the stand tearing down Blake, over and over again.
And yes, I can see my friends from college all sitting around today watching this show while getting really high and drinking lots of beer.
I also just realized that with Paul out of town I won’t be able to watch any of the shows we are watching together; I’m really glad House of the Dragon has already ended because I wouldn’t have been able to wait to watch! Hence I will be bored every night and therefore should use that time to either read or be productive.
We’ll see how it goes.
And on that note, tis the spice mines for me. Have a lovely day. Constant Reader.
Queer and Loathing in America 