Hello Walls

Well, hello Thursday morning and a beautiful looking morning outside of my windows.

I’m not really sure what to make of what is going on in the world today. One of the reasons I always loved Stephen King’s The Stand so much was because it seemed so brutally realistic; I was amazed at how it played out and thinking wow this is exactly how it would happen, right down to the government lying and covering it up to suppression of the news and people spreading it despite containment policies, procedures and protocols. How on earth did he ever think this up?

Which is one of the biggest parts of why I love Stephen King’s writing. For one, the imagination to think up the stories–and the scale! I don’t know that I could ever create something like The Stand and do that kind of world-building, let alone keep track of all the individual characters and their story arcs, both their individual personal arcs as well as the over-arching arc of the main story. I’ve considered writing post-apocalyptic fiction–I have a really good idea for one, but I can’t make up my mind how to precisely do it, to be honest, and so it has always languished in the back of my mind. I had several different ideas for stories, actually; primarily triggered by the HIV/AIDS crisis of the 1980’s, and then I realized how I could weave them all into the same story. But…it’s an epic story and a massive undertaking, and I simply don’t have the confidence in my own writing abilities to actually try writing it.

And that’s the bottom line for the vast majority of the ideas and stories I have that would probably make amazing books–I just don’t have the confidence to write them.

Okay, here I am later in the evening, and I am still not sure what to think or how to process everything. Twitter and social media and the news are determined to terrify me; I don’t know what I should be thinking or worrying about or doing. I know I should use this time creatively; I should block everything out and just write and check in on the world later this evening. And yet…

I’m not sure what the deep root of the insecurity I was talking about earlier comes from. I feel confident that I’m good at what I do, but when you send a manuscript to twenty agents and only even bothers to write back to say, “Thank you but no thank you; I’m not taking on more clients at this time” it tends to wear on you. Manuscripts editors passed on were later published. Needless to say, I am very wary of agents, and still am to this day. I know I need one, should have kept trying years ago until I got one, but now…I go back and forth between your career isn’t the greatest but at least you have one, be happy with what you have and an agent will help me get better deals and better sales and my books more attention. This week I got my fifteenth Lambda Literary Award nomination; and I sold a gay-themed short story to a mainstream market (well, I haven’t heard back from them, but it’s been a bit of a week, hasn’t it?) so one would think I write well enough to draw even a little bit of interest from an agent. I’ve been nominated for numerous other, mainstream awards; I’ve even won some of them.

And yet…

AH, well. I think I need to spend some time with Scooter. Til tomorrow.

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Smoke on the Water

Why, Gregalicious, do you always include a picture of a hot, shirtless guy in every one of your blog posts?

AH, Constant Reader, you’ve asked me this several times, but I don’t mind explaining yet again.

Back in the olden days when social media was still quite young and hope was still alive, I had a blog on Livejournal. I started the blog in December 2004, after a long period of personal issues and not really writing anything in months. I had a book that was long since overdue, but the stuff going on in my personal life was too overwhelming for me to do anything other than handle my day-to-day life and get through every day. A friend, Poppy Z. Brite, suggested to me that I should start blogging; I’d been a fan of his blog for quite some time (“Dispatches from Tanganyika”, I think, was what he called his blog at the time) and I’d never really thought about it much. So, Poppy was on Livejournal, so I opened a Livejournal account and started my blog–“Queer and Loathing in America” around Christmas of 2004. The idea was primarily to get myself writing every day again, and hopefully, use that as a springboard to get back to writing fiction. I was excited about starting a blog for several reasons–not the least of which was I had so many thoughts and opinions on so many things; things I wanted to write about but no one would ever let me write about them. So, I saw the blog as a tool to get me writing again, and as a way to improve my negligible essay writing skills.

It also gave me the opportunity to write about things no one else would let me write about–like sports I enjoy watching, television and movies and books I’ve enjoyed, politics, gay activism, etc. I didn’t care if anyone read what I was writing–I was writing again, and I was doing it every day, and I was sticking to it, and I was happy with it. People did, as a matter of course and over time, start reading it and it was fun to interact with the people who read my blog–and in many cases, they also read my books, so it was a nice way to interact with my readers. I have never changed my mentality about my blog; I still write it and think no one’s reading it, of course; I write it first and foremost for myself, more than anything else, but once the other social media sites–Twitter and Facebook and so forth, started up and I joined, it only made sense to share my blog with the few folks who I was friends with on Facebook and who followed me on Twitter…and that is where the problem started.

Originally, when I posted my blog, it would cross-post to both Facebook and Twitter, in a really nice way that indicated to everyone it was a  link to a blog, what the name of the blog entry was, and the first few sentences, as a teaser. I liked this a lot, and was content with it.

And then, as is their wont, both Facebook and Twitter changed their interfaces with Livejournal, so if there was no image in the blog for them to put up along with the blog link–on Facebook it was a big blue box with a pencil in it, the generic Twitter image that got thrown up was equally awful. I hated it, and was ready to stop cross-posting when I noticed that whenever there was an image in the blog–a book cover, say–that image got put up instead of the generic image they usually used.

But I don’t write about a book every day. So what images to use? I finally decided to use pictures of hot sexy men without shirts. Sue me.

I’ve been doing this now for years, and even after I moved from Livejournal to WordPress (I held out for a long time, but the fact that Livejournal was sold to some Russian company meant I started getting spam responses to the blog in Russian…plus Russia has become the motherland for homophobia, so I finally bit the bullet and moved), I have continued doing this. More of a habit than anything else, and I don’t know if the hideous generic images get thrown up on the two sites when I cross-post anymore–both sites have been redesigned and have been through numerous changes, but now it’s kind of my brand for my blog, and no one really seems to mind, and if they do….I don’t care.

And that, Constant Reader, is why I post pictures of hot guys in my blog.

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I Wanna Be Your Lover

So, Facebook was apparently wonky yesterday, and so was Instagram. I rarely go to Instagram–I’m not really sure what the point of it is, and I mostly follow male fitness models because I like to look at pictures of pretty men, feel free to judge me for this–but I did have some things I wanted to post on Facebook yesterday which kept failing on me. But the wonkiness kept me off of there for most of the day, and I have to say it was kind of lovely.

I am loving Alafair Burke’s The Better Sister, as I knew I would. This weekend I am going to have to spend most of my free time reading, because I still have two more books to read to prepare for my panel and time is running out.

Yesterday the box o’books for Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories arrived, and it looks fantastic. I can’t tell you, Constant Reader, how pleased I am with what Bold Strokes has been doing with the packaging of my books. Great covers, the interior with Janson (my favorite font); they look terrific, and I couldn’t be more pleased. It’s been a while since I got a box o’books; the last Todd Gregory novel came out in January of 2018, and this is the first fiction I’ve published since then (I don’t count anthologies, even though my name is on the spine). Yeah, I know that’s just over a year, but for me that’s a long time.

And no, the feeling of opening up a box o’books with my name on the cover still hasn’t gotten old.

I am really looking forward to getting the box o’books for Royal Street Reveillon.

I had hoped to have the first draft of the WIP finished by the end of this month, but I don’t really see how I can do that while getting the reading done that I need to do for my panel…which means, I suppose, that I’ll have to rejuggle my calendar for the year. Ha ha ha, like I actually have taken the time to make a to-do calendar for the year. I’ve not even been making to-do lists. Maybe this is why I’ve felt so at-sea this year; I should get back on that and get back to normal.

I started watching The Order on Netflix last night, per the recommendation of some of my co-workers, and I kind of enjoyed the first episode. It is a paranormal show of some sort, but it, like True Blood (and the grandmother of all these shows, Dark Shadows), doesn’t take itself seriously and there are some seriously funny moments on the show. I also watched the first episode of Gregg Araki’s new show on Starz, Now Apocalypse, and also am intrigued enough to watch more. American Gods is also apparently back for its second season, which is something else I can watch during these last few weeks pre-Festival while Paul is working around the clock.

My new computer was delivered yesterday–I did wind up ordering a new MacBook Air on-line on Monday (not that there’s anything wrong with the HP Stream; there’s not, but it’s a long story I won’t bore you with and it doesn’t hurt to use it as a back-up in case of other issues AND this way when we travel we won’t have to share a laptop which is always aggravating), and it did arrive and I am picking it up this morning on my way to the office. Today and tomorrow are, of course, my half-days, which is lovely, and so I can come home tonight and get things started on cleaning around here as well as reading, and then tomorrow I can make groceries on the way home and be in for the weekend. This weekend is St. Patrick’s Day, which means parades and day-drunks roaming around the neighborhood, so not leaving the house is optimal.

And on that note, I should return to the spice mines. Happy Thursday, Constant Reader,

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Hold on My Heart

It is rare, so rare, that something random can lead to an enormous breakthrough in something you are writing. And yet that very randomness is almost some kind of weird cosmic force. Imagine, for example, that you, a writer, have been working on a novel for nearly two years–off and on, really, around other books and other projects–but something has always been missing from that manuscript; something doesn’t work, you can’t quite get it to work, you write draft after draft after draft, you ask other friends to read it and give you input, you talk to other writers about it, and still…something’s just not quite right, not quite there. You know it’s missing something and you agonize over it, try to write it out in your journal.

And then one day, wasting time on a break scrolling through social media, someone posts a link to an essay which is basically a hatchet job on a writer you’ve come to appreciate, while still having some reservations about that writer’s art, and where it comes from, and the eye with which said writer sees the world might be colored in some ways by their own experience which might also not allow them to see things as empathetically as they might, as you yourself might wish they had. And during the course of this hatchet job, the essayist posts a link to a piece written by the problematic artist, and you arbitrarily click on the link–which only offers a strange title, the title the problematic artist gave to his/her piece.

And suddenly, you realize that this piece, originally published in 1992, was part and parcel of a much bigger story that you distinctly remember and completely forgot about. And as you read this piece, which you’ve actually not read before but had read other reportage of the story, you realize and remember that this is the thread of the novel you are writing and having so much trouble with.

This true crime story, in 1992, inspired you to create the town and characters and the story you are writing now…only you’d forgotten the inspiration, the original plot, everything but the town and the set-up and the characters.

And you realize that THIS is your answer. Using this as your basis for the story solved every single problem you have with your manuscript, your story, and its resolution.

And had you not been bored, had you not been scrolling through your Facebook feed, had some random friend not shared a random essay for some random reason, you never would have remembered, you never would have solved the problem.

And this is why writers drink.

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