Tag: Edna Ferber

A Horse With No Name

Monday morning has rolled around again and no, I didn’t want to get out of the comfortably warm cocoon of blankets yet again today. It was a nice, relaxing weekend. I didn’t go out to see any parades yesterday because I felt exhausted on Saturday and while i felt much better yesterday than I had, I thought it best to stay inside and rest for the day rather than push myself by going to stand on or around the corner for a few hours. This weekend is the big final push (I have to leave work early both Wednesday and Thursday), and I decided it was wisest to take Lundi Gras (Monday) off; Orpheus is that night and there’s no way I’d ever be able to find a place to park anywhere near the house. I do have PT that morning, so I’ll go to that and run some errands before heading back home and parking the car for another two days.

It actually turned out to be the best choice I could have made for the day because a friend called that I hadn’t spoken to in nearly two years (a myriad of reasons, mostly due to health concerns and my own insane rollercoaster life) and had I been out at the corner, i would have missed the call. It was a lovely conversation, and I realized once again how much I’ve missed, not only her, but so many others of my friends. I have always had the misfortune to have the majority of my writer friends not live anywhere near me, so it’s not like I can meet someone for a drink or lunch or anything at any time we so please. This has always been fine with me, but every once in a while it gets a bit lonely, so the few local friends I have are very precious to me. It was absolutely delightful to hear from her, and we were on the phone for nearly an hour, which was marvelous. (I’d been watching the Philip Seymour Hoffman Capote at long last when she called, which was really quite good and Hoffman deserved his Oscar, I think.) So yes, I kind of went down a Truman Capote wormhole yesterday. I am thinking Other Voices Other Rooms needs a reread, and maybe even a dip back into his short stories wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. My former antipathy for Mr. Capote (still processing it) has now turned to fascination; who was he behind that mask, that persona, he developed to hide behind? It’s also been years since I saw the film of In Cold Blood, too; it might be worth another look, too. This newfound obsession with Capote is multi-layered, too; it might take more than one lengthy post once I work my way through the way I’ve always reacted to Capote’s public face. (The self-loathing is coming from inside the house!) But after the call and after the film, I pretty much spent the rest of the night scribbling in my journal while watching an endless stream of Youtube videos, just to see what the algorithm thought I’d be interested in (Constant Reader, I was not interested in most of them, but I wound up watching a series of short histories of Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of my favorite historical women of all time.).

I didn’t write as much as I would have liked this weekend, either, but it’s also Carnival. Very little gets done during Carnival as I am too busy juggling and planning around parades to have much energy left to devote to writing. I did write some really good notes in my journal, though, which was fun; I always forget how much fun it is to freeform scribble in my journal and see where my subconscious mind takes me. It never matters if anything ever comes of it; it’s just playing around with words and ideas and names and form. I’ve been joking with myself that I should write a memoir called I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind of Thing, which is a terrific title for something like that (shout out to the Pet Shop Boys, because almost every song title is unabashedly clever and brutally honest and would make for a great title for essays or something), but as I always say, my memories lie to me all the time–which can be a problem when writing a memoir. Maybe personal essays would be a better idea than an actual memoir…and really, has my life been interesting enough for a memoir, anyway?

But I suppose that’s always in the eye of the beholder. I don’t think my life is anything special, or even unusual other than I am out of pace with traditional society with my sexuality and my chosen profession…but then other people will be amazed at some story of my past that I tell (usually after a few drinks) and I guess I never really think of me or anything that happens to me as anything other than normal and I always think everyone else has the same sort of things go on in their lives so it’s nothing out of the ordinary. But I have met a lot of important people and important writers. Larry Kramer used to call me periodically at Lambda Book Report to yell at me, but that was just Larry–he always seemed to be angry about something, but was actually also a really nice man (your mileage might vary, of course, but he also always made me laugh). Barbara Grier also used to call me about once a month to yell and swear at me, but I found her terrifically amusing and I could listen to her all day (and Barbara loved nothing more than a captive audience). There were only a few people in the business, actually, who were terrible to me when I worked there; I always seemed to have the ability to listen to everyone politely and was always pleasant and never argued with anyone….but there were a few I’d rather run over with my car and then back over them again rather than ever deal with them under any circumstance for any reason.

You know who you are, trash.

But I survived the first weekend of Carnival, and I am now thinking I want to watch the other Capote film, the one with Toby Jones–and maybe even revisit Murder by Death, which was another one of those after-church matinee movies Mom used to take my sister and I to. I just need to get through today at the office, and then I need to do my errands and go to PT before settling into my easy chair for the evening. I may go back to Lina Chern’s Play the Fool, which I am really enjoying, or my reread of Edna Ferber’s Saratoga Trunk, or Rival Queens, or even some short stories. I have some of Capote’s, and that might be interesting to reread. My friend who called yesterday afternoon recommended pairing Other Voices Other Rooms with To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a book I have issues with (more on that later at some point), but reading them as parallels to each other; the same childhood from different points of view in the same small Alabama town; it’s been a hot minute since I read the Capote novel but I did love it when I did. I don’t think I still have a copy of it, though.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. It’s a windy, gray wet day in New Orleans, and so I don’t think I’ll have a lot of issues sleeping tonight, either. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and you never know–I may be back later. Stranger things have indeed happened!

Let It Whip

Tuesday, and we survived Monday again! I believe in celebrating even the smallest of achievements, so here we are. I left work early yesterday for PT–I beat the kettlebell this time, and some of the exercises that were dreadful last time were much better this time; still dreadful, but more easily borne than before. I easily could have slept longer this morning, but alas, it was not to be. I also worked on the story some more last night and I was correct; the missing piece of the puzzle I’d worked out over the weekend was exactly what was wrong with the story and why it wasn’t gelling, but the revision is working quite well, which is very pleasing to our eyes. I am slowly waking up–the coffee is quite marvelous this morning and most definitely hitting the spot for sure–and while I didn’t want to get up, I think it’s going to be a terrific day.

The other day I came across something while wandering around on-line which caught me off guard and yet was kind of cool at the same time–Ann Patchett doing a tiktok or a Facebook reel or something like that, in which she was talking about how she’d recently read So Big by Edna Ferber and really enjoyed it. Edna Ferber! I’d had a Ferber phase the last two years of high school, when I read everything I could get my hands on that she’d written–So Big, Come and Get It, Cimarron, Giant, Ice Palace, Saratoga Trunk, Show Boat–and I really enjoyed her work. Ferber was a very successful and very well known writer of the early to mid-twentieth century; many of her books were made into Oscar winning films; and they were mostly Americana, books set in some region of the US during its history and shining a light on the time. She was very well-regarded also as a playwright and short story writer. She was also a member of the Algonquin Round Table. So I thought, “I should reread Saratoga Trunk, which is partly set in New Orleans and I barely remember it” (although I also remember enjoying the film, with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman) so I went on ebay and found a decent old copy.

Because I don’t already have enough to read on my plate, right?

I also met Ann Patchett a very long time ago, before she published Bel Canto and became ANN PATCHETT. She was very kind, very nice, and I liked her an awful lot. I think her only book at the time was The Patron Saint of Liars, which I read and enjoyed. I doubt very seriously she remembers me, of course; she’s become a huge literary star since I met her and I was just another face among many others that she’s met over the year, but I can say that I met and liked Ann Patchett very early in her career. Watching her success explode has also been a pleasure because it’s always lovely when someone super-nice actually finds enormous success. It restores my faith in humanity and the world.

I also started reading something over the past couple of days–exhausted brain, really–that I am enjoying for its bitchy wit but am not quite ready to talk about just yet, but it’s not anything I’ve been talking about reading on here lately. It’s also not that I am not enjoying the book I was reading–which I was, and look forward to diving back into when I can get it my full and not tired attention–but this is an easier read, if that makes sense? I already know the characters and the story because it’s one of my favorite films, and that’s all I will say about it at this time.

I also made the Saltburn connection that I’d been trying to make since seeing the film the first time–everyone keeps talking about it in reference to either The Talented Mr. Ripley or Brideshead Revisited, and while I could see that, there was always a nagging sense that there was another, more obscure film that it was more like than either of its regular comparisons/influences, and then this weekend it hit me between the eyes what film it was–because in rearranging the books, I discovered the book the film was based on, and the proverbial lightbulb went on over my head. Yes, yes, this film is more Saltburn than the others, and I did wonder if Emerald Fennell had seen the bizarre little film I watched during the pandemic while making condom packs and revisiting (or watching for the first time) /classic films from the Cynical 70’s–and now I have the hook for my essay/blog entry on Saltburn, so watch this space because I’ll eventually get around to writing it; I inevitably do, and I do think this conversation about the film is actually timeless, so there you go.

But it’s time to start getting cleaned up, pack my lunch box, and head out on the highway to the office to start my work day. I get to come straight home from work tonight, which is lovely, and maybe can get some chores done as well as some writing before Sparky bonding time. Until my next appearance, have a lovely one, Constant Reader!

destination unknown

Thursday, and I am so relieved that the recovery is going well, and that I can actually start fending for myself. The brace isn’t rigidly locked anymore, and I have a lot more freedom of movement–plus I no longer need that wretched sling, which I hated, and I am no longer attached to anything. Granted, I haven’t been since last Friday, when the pain ball1 was removed Later this morning I am calling to make my first PT appointment, and another referral to follow up on as well. I also slept in my bed last night for the first time since the surgery. I was sleeping super-well in my easy chair, and was a little worried about going back to the bed (I will worry about anything, thanks, anxiety!) because I usually sleep on my left side–which is the bad arm–but I fell asleep lying on my back and shifted to the right side and back a couple of times, but other than that, I was dead to the world. I also slept for another ten hours last night, and I am thinking that I need to get this rest. My body is demanding it, and it feels marvelous to sleep so deeply and restfully–this is what I am always longing for most of the time….but I’m not going to start going to bed at eight once I am back to work because yeah, that would be terrible.

I took it easy yesterday after getting home from my appointment and a couple of errands. The temperature has turned cold (for New Orleans, don’t @ me), which always makes the apartment feel a bit more snug. I did some straightening up, took a long hot shower (still not easy, but so much better than before), and then curled up in my chair with Sparky and J. D. O’Brien’s Zig Zag, which I enjoyed very much (more on that later). I’m still trying to figure out a way to comfortably type with the brace, which isn’t as easy as one might expect. because the brace raises the hand so it’s not flush with the keyboard. It just feels awkward and so I need to find a position to type that doesn’t feel awkward–or I need to get used to it. I don’t know that I’ll have the brace on long enough to worry about Carpal tunnel syndrome, but you know me–anxiety always on the starting line waiting for the starting gun. We also finished watching Bodies, which I also highly recommend. It’s extremely well done, and very clever. If you liked Dark, you’ll definitely enjoy Bodies. I haven’t picked out my next read yet, but I have some incredibly delightful options to choose from. Yay! I love having a massive TBR-pile filled with terrific books by great writers. I am leaning towards Christmas Presents by Lisa Unger; I do want to read some holiday themed novels this Christmas season.

Christ, it’s Christmas season already. I may have to have my annual viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas soon. I feel more like being in the holiday spirit this year. We haven’t decorated in years (and what little decorating we did was kind of half-assed, anyway) because the one thing Scooter would–in his long, comfortable life as a lap cat–actually spring into action against was the tree. That first Scooter Christmas was the last time we decorated, and I feel pretty confident that Sparky would see the tree as an amusement park, since everything is a toy to him and all he wants to do is play. I didn’t notice until the other day–and maybe it’s a recent development–but Sparky has some orange in his coat. It’s more obvious when he’s lying on his back, but we did end up with another orange cat, even though we didn’t realize it! The string of orange babies continues!

I was also thinking some more yesterday about being a writer–and the many different ways there are to be one. What is the difference between an author and a writer? Are authors artists? What is literary art and what is not, and who decides? Can genre fiction be art (of fucking course)? This was triggered by one of those things on one of the social media platforms where you were supposed to “quote text” my favorite books by women, and right off the top of my head I rattled off five great ones…and then I started remembering more, and more, and still more. I’ve read hundreds, if not thousands, of marvelous novels and short stories and essays and columns written by women. Why were those the five that popped up into my brain at first, why are they so implanted on my brain that I would come forth with these titles; any such list from me will always include The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson and Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, and I will never apologize for that. Which left me with only four, and there were so many options. My mind immediately defaulted to four women writers I love, and then had to pick which of their canon was the best. Then I remembered a beautiful novel about friendship, love and loss that made me weep (Somewhere Off The Coast of Maine by Ann Hood) and thought, damn it, I loved that book and I want it on my list…and then started remembering all the others, the dozens if not hundreds, of other women writers whose works entertain, enlighten, and edify my life. There are so many great women writers, currently and in the past, who wrote so many amazing books that it would be hard to name them all, and I would certainly always forget scores of them. For some reason yesterday I was thinking about Taylor Caldwell–who used to write massive doorstopper books about rich people and industries, as well as interesting historical fiction. If remembered at all today, it would probably be for Captains and the Kings, but that wasn’t one of my favorites of hers–that would probably be Testimony of Two Men, which was about medicine in the late 1800’s and a courageous doctor who believed in modern breakthroughs rather than “we’ve always done it this way”–so of course the entire medical establishment was trying to ruin him as he bravely stuck to his principles and tried to modernize American medicine. I would probably hate it if I read it today for the first time–my politics, ethics, morals, and tastes have dramatically changed since I was a teenager, which was when I read Caldwell–but I do remember it fondly. And there’s Grace Metalious, who wrote Peyton Place; Jacqueline Susann and Valley of the Dolls; Jackie Collins and Hollywood Wives; any number of Agatha Christie novels–I mean, there have always been so many great women writers around. Does anyone remember Rona Jaffe? I’ve always wanted to reread The Best of Everything, and I think I have a copy of it somewhere. Then there’s the scifi/fantasy writers, too–Anne McCaffrey and The Dragonriders of Pern, Ursula LeGuin and A Wizard of Earthsea, the amazing Octavia Butler….as I said on whatever social media platform that was, I could sit here and name women writers who wrote books that I loved all day. Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, Dorothy Eden, Susan Howatch…seriously. Maybe I should write a book of essays about women writers that aren’t remembered much today? ANYA SETON! How I loved Anya Seton back in the day–and all the crime women–Margaret Millar, Charlotte Armstrong, Dorothy L. Hughes, Mary Roberts Rhinehart, Helen MacInnes, Patricia Highsmith, and Mignon Eberhard, to start.

I bet no one else remembers Edna Ferber–and if they do, it’s for Giant and it’s because of the movie (many of her books became famous films: Cimarron, Saratoga Trunk, Show Boat, and So Big). Now that I think about it, I think she addressed race issues in both Saratoga Trunk and Show Boat….which may be worth revisiting. She was also a member of the Algonquin Round Table.

This entry sounds and feels more like me than the more recent ones have, doesn’t it? I am itching to dive back into the book this morning, after I pay some bills and do some other aggravating chores. I also have a prescription ready to pick up; so since I have to go to a Midcity pharmacy to get it, I may as well make a grocery run on Carrollton.

I didn’t realize what a difference sleeping in the bed would actually make, really.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines for the day. Have a blessed Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again a little later, as I really need to do a lot more promo. OH! That reminds me, here is a lovely review of Mississippi River Mischief; check it out! That absolutely made my day–and reminded me that I need to do more self-promotion.

  1. I had a contraption attached to my left shoulder that dispensed a nerve-deadener to the arm, so I wouldn’t feel pain. It lasted for 72 hours, and by the time it was empty, I didn’t have any pain, which was great. I also had to carry it around in basically a fanny pack, so it was one more thing I had to drag around those stressful first 72 hours. However, if you are going to have surgery, ask for one. It was amazing. ↩︎

Paper Rings

And now it’s Tuesday again, huzzah! One day down, four to go.

Don’t mind me–I’m just over here wishing my life away.

The Saints managed to eke out a win last night, and it wasn’t pretty, frankly; 30-27 in overtime over the Chargers. I actually went to bed when the game went into overtime; I had to get up early and I really couldn’t justify staying up any later and risking being tired all day today, with so much that needs to get done. I was very tired and drained when I got home from work last night, to be honest; but after sitting in my easy chair for a little while and cuddling with Scooter, I put the dishes away and did another load; took a shower to wash the day off me and did a load of laundry, and basically took some time to clean and organize the kitchen with the end result that I came downstairs this morning to a clean kitchen, a dishwasher filled with newly washed and clean dishes, and feeling pretty awake and not tired. I also set out my clothes for today last night, and packed today’s lunch last night as well. I may have been too mentally tired to read or write anything last night, but overall, it was a much smarter way to spend the evening than i usually do on a day when I had to get up at six.

We’ll see if I can continue to be that smart tonight, shall we?

Highly unlikely, given my past history, but we shall see.

One never knows.

I emailed the essay off for another round of edits yesterday, and hopefully today will have time to start working on the edits for my story “The Snow Globe.” I have a shit ton of other things I need to get to–odds and ends, here and there, now and then–I am very behind on everything, as always, and trying to get caught up. But my email inbox is getting emptied, slowly but surely, and that’s always a good thing.

Over this past weekend, I was paging through my journal from two years or so ago or whenever St. Petersburg Bouchercon was; there are notes in there from St. Petersburg, so I know that’s when the journal was from (Dana Cameron and I stood around in the lobby near the hospitality suite, talking about a Nancy Drew spoof that someone needs to write called Escape from Canyon Ranch, and we literally laughed until we were in tears; I wrote some of it down in my journal, and rereading those notes reminded me of the good times I used to have when I could travel and go to conferences), and it was quite illuminating. I realized, while looking through it, that I really need to go back through old journals; there may be notes and ideas scribbled down that have completely escaped my mind, and some of it might be good, usable stuff. (My last two have pages with notes on Bury Me in Shadows marked by post-it notes; but there were also notes in this particular journal as well.) One of the lovely things about journals is the memories they can spark, and of course, there’s also the notes on works in progress or ideas that can spark even more inspiration…which is also lovely.

I’ve been reading Gore Vidal’s Lincoln, bit by bit; Vidal’s work is very well written but it’s not compulsive reading–it’s rather easy to put it down and walk away from it for a few days or so–but for some reason on Sunday I picked up my copy of Edna Ferber’s A Peculiar Treasure, which is a kind of memoir about her writing life (do people even remember Ferber today? She was kind of a big deal in her time, was a member of the Algonquin Round Table, and wrote a lot of successful novels and plays, including Giant, Show Boat, Cimarron, So Big, and many others), and it’s interesting to view her style of memoir-writing; slightly whimsical and self-deprecating while somehow at the same time kind of boastful? I was interested to see that she had a connection to Emporia, Kansas; she began as a journalist and was friends with Emporia’s most famous son, William Allen White, and visited there often; he was, in fact, the person who gave her the idea to write Cimarron. Ferber has always interested me–she never married, for example, which of course always made me wonder about her sexuality (as one always does with historical figures who died unwed) but I’ve never really been able to find out much about her, which is why I bought this used copy of her memoir, to see if there were any hints in it. She’s very good at deflection, and from the bits and pieces I’ve been able to read over the years since getting the book, she never really talks much about her personal life at all, other than in a whimsical, almost magic realism way, and mostly focuses on her professional life once you get past her childhood–but there are no stories about dates or crushes or teen heartbreaks or anything like that, alas.

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