Tag: fiction

Galveston

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.

Whenever I Call You “Friend”

Good morning, Sunday! I slept late again this morning despite Sparky’s best efforts, and after all those years of insomnia, I do enjoy getting up later. Yesterday was a pretty decent day, overall. I did some things, ran some errands, did chores and kind of overdid it…I was tired by the mid-afternoon, so just hung out in my chair with Sparky in my lap, and we watched some television while Paul dozed on and off for the rest of the day. Some of what we watched was research, so it’s not like I blew off the entire day or anything. The weather has also cooled; it was in the mid-eighties yesterday with a very low degree of humidity so it was actually pleasant outside (and yes, calling the mid-eighties pleasant and almost fall-like is an indication of how hellishly hot here these last few months)–supposed to be similar today, and since I have to walk to Walgreens later on, I’m hoping it is just like yesterday. I think we’re supposed to have cooler weather the rest of the week? The Katrina anniversary is also this Friday–so glad it’s my work-at-home day.

We finished watching Smoke last night and we really enjoyed it. Taron Egerton is a terrific actor, and I love Jurnee Smollett in everything I see her in. There were lots of twists and turns, and the show changes its centering in almost every episode, with some very clever writing sleight-of-hand along the way that always keeps you guessing. It was very well done, and I do recommend it.

I also watched the HBO documentary The Serial Killer’s Apprentice (I also have the book in my TBR stack). I’ve been interested in the Dean Corll/Candyman murders since I first heard about them when I lived in Houston back in 1989-1991, and one of my future projects is rooted in that horrific true crime story. We certainly do know a lot more about psychology, abuse, and grooming nowadays, and so Dr. Katherine Ramsland, who wrote the book based on her interviews with Corll’s teenaged ‘helper’, Elmer Wayne Henley Jr. The documentary doesn’t get into what Corll and his helpers did to those poor boys, but it was horrific. One torture detail that has stuck in my mind all these years since I first heard about the case and read a book about it–I don’t remember the title, but it was fairly old and was written shortly after the trials, and wasn’t terribly long. (When I talk about The Summer of Lost Boys, that’s my Candyman book.) Watching this documentary gave me some other ideas about how to write and structure said book.

I also had the television on for background noise while I was cleaning and doing things yesterday, and tuned in for the Kansas State-Iowa State game from Dublin (KSU lost). I cannot believe it’s football season already, with LSU playing this coming Saturday at Clemson.

The Cracker Barrel uproar from the MAGA morons has been incredibly amusing, but they do have a point. The redesign of the interiors is soulless and horrible, but as for removing the old man and the barrel and the words “old country store” off their logo? It is just rebranding to try to get a new customer base since theirs is dying off. Why is change so hard and terrifying for people to accept? I’ll never understand the perpetual victimhood of right-wingers, myself–yet they call us snowflakes. God, there are few things I despise more than hypocrisy. The only constant in life is change, so fighting change is a fool’s errand, and I sure don’t have time for that, although it sure seems a lot of other people do. It must be nice having a life that allows you the energy and time to waste bitching about a corporate decision that ultimately doesn’t affect or impact anyone in any way, shape or form.

But they have opinions, and of course, it’s the libs’ fault, even though most of couldn’t possibly give less of a shit about Cracker Barrel’s logo. But that redesign of the restaurant space is a mistake, a very big mistake. I maybe eat at a Cracker Barrel once a year with Dad when I’m in Kentucky, but that’s about it. Cracker Barrel hasn’t gotten this kind of attention since they were racist homophobes back in the day.

Had I but known how triggering this would be for the right-wing snowflakes, I would have pushed for a logo redesign for Cracker Barrel decades ago.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. There’s a lot of mess I need to clean up this morning, and I want to read a bit before Paul goes to his trainer. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back either later or tomorrow, okay?

Ah, those Chippendales calendars in the 80s!

Candy-O

Thursday and it’s not my last day in the office this week. We’re have a staff development day tomorrow, so I have to go in for the full day. I’m not as bitter about this as one might think, primarily because next weekend is Labor Day so I get a three day weekend on top of working at home next Friday. Huzzah!

Working on my birthday was interesting. Nobody made a fuss1, which was so greatly appreciated, but everyone wished me a happy birthday, which was nice. I woke up feeling some fatigue in my legs (which is where it always starts), but that gradually went away during the day. I had a lovely day at the office, came straight home, and did little to nothing the rest of the night–no reading, no writing (I did work on a newsletter entry, tho), no anything–other than relax, catch up on the news, and watched some television when Paul was done with working before I went to bed. I don’t feel fatigued in any way this morning, which is nice, other than some tiredness in my legs–which I am thinking will clear up as the day progresses, the same as yesterday. I slept really well last night and feel mentally alert this morning, which is a good thing. I don’t have any errands to run tonight, either–so I get to come straight home after work, which is great; and for tomorrow, we don’t have to be at the office until nine-thirty…so I can sleep a little later tomorrow morning.

I also got a ton of birthday wishes on social media. I tried to like every post, but am not sure what degree of success I had with that. It was kind of nice. Nobody has to, after all, so getting so many is really nice. If I didn’t like your post, it was an oversight and my apologies. (I am never sure what the etiquette is with these sorts of things, either….I never know what the proper etiquette is in any situation.)

I think my favorite thing I saw yesterday while getting caught up on the news after work was watching conservatives melting down over Gavin Newsom’s tweets mocking their pathetic god-emperor2. Listening to them describing the mockery as childish, immature, and unbecoming for a GOVERNOR…while not realizing that everything they were saying applied tenfold to their POS fascist sun-downing grandpa poopy-pants lord and master. (The fact said orange-faced child rapist shit-gibbon has discovered and turned off the caps-lock and exclamation point key on his phone tells me its working on the shitgibbon. We never should have stopped calling them weird last summer.) But intellect has never been MAGA’s strong suit, has it?

And where are the Epstein files?

I also spent some time revisiting the early days of my blog, as I am writing about Katrina again. It is kind of amazing that I’ve been maintaining a blog for over twenty years. This December it will be twenty-one years. I sure didn’t think I’d be doing this for that long when I started all those years ago; I assumed I’d eventually bore of it and start missing days (also important to note that in the early days I didn’t write an entry every day, either) then weeks, and one morning I’d realize I’d not done one in years. I’m also researching hurricanes as I am writing a fictional one in the will-it-ever-be-finished Scotty book. The nice thing about writing is you can always do research when you’re not actually up for putting words on the page. Of course, it’s also incredibly easy to think “I’ll just do some research instead of writing” which happens far too frequently.

I am also sidetracked easily by things I find interesting. Oh, there’s a new three-hour documentary about the Thirty Years’ War on Youtube? Let me watch this even though I’ll probably never write about that war or that time period…and then I have to try to figure out a way to write a short story or something so I didn’t waste the time. I did watch some videos about the 1915 New Orleans hurricane, which has always interested me–still trying to figure out a way to write about Julia Brown, the “voodoo queen” of Frenier, a community completely destroyed by the storm. Frenier also interests me because it was only accessible by either train or boat; talk about a cut off, insular community! The storm also destroyed the Filipino community of St. Malo on Lake Borgne, which I also want to write about at some point. (I should read Isaac’s Storm by Erik Larson–which is about the 1900 storm that destroyed Galveston; I’ve always thought Galveston and its great storm would be a good foundation for a romantic suspense novel set in the present, a la Phyllis A. Whitney.

I also picked up some new-to-me books on Tuesday: Trespassers at the Golden Gate by Gary Krist; First Lie Wins by Ashley Elston (whom I met at the TWFest this past year and loved her); Havoc by Christopher Bollen; Mississippi Blue 42 by Eli Cranor; and Bitter Blood by Jerry Bledsoe (true crime). Yes, I know, I need to get rid of books instead of adding news ones to the TBR pile (I think I am now three books behind on Eli Cranor, and so many books behind that Christopher Bollen has published!). I also got my contributor copy of Crime Ink: Iconic, which is gorgeous and I will talk about some more at another time.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back in the morning, undoubtedly whining about having to go into the office.

  1. I don’t really like making a big deal out of my birthday–cakes, balloons, cards, all that stuff associated with “my big day”–and haven’t for at least thirty years, if not longer. ↩︎
  2. I wish someone would redo the paperback cover of God Emperor of Dune changing it from ‘Dune’ to ‘MAGA’ and imposing his hideous face on the sandworm. ↩︎

Double Life

Man, yesterday was rough.

I do not know what was up with that final infusion, but I was very fatigued physically yesterday, and while my mind was alert, it was incredibly foggy. I managed to get through my work day, but in the late afternoon I began to wonder. I was exhausted when I got home (I did stop and make some groceries) and was asleep before Paul got home around nine. I was too tired to do much of anything last night other than watch videos on Youtube. I am physically exhausted this morning already; making today into a definite challenge. We’re not as busy as we were yesterday, so we’ll see how I am doing at the end of the day. Today is also Pay-the-Bills Day, which I’ll try to get taken care of at some point today–and probably during my lunch break.

I really just want to go back to bed.

My birthday is a week from today, but I think I’m not going to take the day off and will just go in; I have to take some time off at the end of the month and I’m supposed to go to the panhandle for a week in October, so I need to be hoarding my vacation time as much as I can until I have a week of it, and right now I am sort of skating the line as to whether I will have enough time accrued for the trip. Heavy heaving sigh. I need to figure all this shit out, don’t I? Heavier heaving sigh. But I don’t want to. Which is always how my tendency to laziness resurfaces and I revert to the spoiled little boy I was (still am) and pout, “I don’t want to.”

I am looking forward to reading The Hunting Wives, but was too fatigued last night to really do anything productive. I hate that for me, really. I did remember to turn the dishwasher on, though, so at least everything in it is clean. I’ll unload it tonight when I get home, and do another load…unless the fatigue is completely out of control by then. My preference would be to run uptown to get the mail, pick up some prescriptions that are ready, and swing by the pet store to get Sparky some treats. I just have to make it through today and tomorrow, because I work at home on Fridays and thus don’t have to be at work before eight am.

I see that Kim Davis has gotten some attention again for trying to get the Supreme Court to overturn marriage equality. She looks exactly the same as she did all those years ago when she put her religion ahead of her job (“render unto Caesar” and all that) despite her multiple divorces, bastard children, and adultery; and clearly has not removed the mote from her own eye. Of course, Christian apologists will claim that she repented and found God so is forgiven her earlier sins, yet that forgiveness certainly didn’t engender any love, compassion, or empathy in her stony heart, so I’d say her “repentance and forgiveness” is clearly on shaky ground; frankly, if people like her have a golden ticket to Heaven isn’t exactly the kind of ringing endorsement that will get people to start going back to church, is it?

She also still dresses like she only shops at the Little House on the Prairie collection for K-Mart, and that hideous hair and eyebrows. She doesn’t really have much standing to get a personal appeal heard by SCOTUS…but this court cannot be trusted. They do not respect precedent, they issue contradictory rulings based on their morning prayers, and are a disgrace to both the country and the legal profession. But what can you expect from cosplay Christians, who are just in it for the judging and superiority, with no basis in Jesus or his actual ministry. That is the kind of shit that drives me insane–and droves of others from the church.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. See you tomorrow morning, and have a lovely rest of your day.

My Best Friend’s Girlfriend

I’ve always thought today’s title, an old classic by the Cars, would make for a great y/a title. What if a gay teenager was in love with his straight best friend (it happens), only to have the best friend get a girlfriend the gay kid suspects is evil, as in occult evil? No one believes him because they think it’s jealousy…this story always springs to mind whenever I hear the song.

And that first album by the Cars is still a jam, almost forty years (!!!!) after release.

Saturday morning here in the Lost Apartment, and Sparky let me stay in bed later than usual, which was lovely. I am slurping down my first cup of coffee and have already had my coffee cake, probably moving on to cereal in a moment. I do feel good and rested this morning. I took it easy after work yesterday, simply sitting in my easy chair and morphing into a cat bed for a worn out purring kitty. I finished watching Hurricane Katrina: Race Against Time, which I really appreciated. I did get a little teary when listening to the experiences of the people who couldn’t leave and the clusterfuck of the response to the catastrophic levee failure (which failure was lain entirely at the door of the US Army Corps of Engineers, where it belonged), and the response was entirely a systemic failure. It also went after the media reporting, which was wrong and caused problems for the efforts to rescue people and get them out. I did remember how angry the reporting by the legacy media made me (fuck Fox News and their racism now, then, and forever) because I had a flash of anger again at the incompetence. I’m glad I watched, but I will never stop mourning the New Orleans that was before, or the people we lost. I also decided to go ahead and write a twenty years later essay for the newsletter. Last night as I watched, I was trying to remember what I actually did write about Hurricane Katrina and the aftermath (besides the blog): my novel Murder in the Rue Chartres; my essay “I Haven’t Stopped Dancing Yet” and a shorter, edited down version called “I’m Still Dancing”; and the short stories “Annunciation Shotgun” and “Survivor’s Guilt.” I think part of the reason I wrote so little about Katrina and the rebuilding was because I didn’t want to be defined as a writer by the storm.

But I think there is another essay about Katrina inside of me that I need to write. I may start writing it this weekend, but we shall see.

I do have to go pick up some prescriptions and some groceries while I am out, and I am going to potentially order some more to be delivered this afternoon. I also made good progress on chores yesterday; I did all the bed clothes, and a load of dishes that needs to be put away, and I also cleaned off my kitchen counters. I also picked some things up around here, too. I want to write and read today, too–once I finish this I will go to my chair and read for a bit before I go run those errands and get them out of the way so I don’t have to leave the house tomorrow. Monday is my last infusion and I took the day off so I can come home and rest and read some more. Huzzah? Huzzah! I think we’re probably going to move on to watching Wednesday’s second season tonight, too.

I do feel good this morning–the cereal was an excellent choice, but now I need toast–and so I am hopeful I’ll be able to get some things done today. So, I probably should put some bread in the toaster and bring this effort to a close for the day by heading into the spice mines for the rest of the morning. Have a lovely and terrific Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back either later today or again tomorrow morning.

Adorable out gay Olympic gold medalist in diving Tom Daley of the UK

All Mixed Up

There are three “disturbances” out in the Atlantic with the potential to develop into tropical systems. None are a threat to the Gulf Coast (at least, not yet), but we are heading into the time where hurricane season is super-busy. This year is also the twenty-year anniversary of Katrina, so I’ll be avoiding all the coverage of that for the most part. Even after twenty years, it’s still hard for me to watch any of that stuff–but maybe this year I should break the power of the PTSD and watch it all. It was such a horrible time, truly…but we did watch that show about Memorial Hospital (Baptist). But twenty years on, maybe it is time to watch some of the coverage that I pointedly ignore every year. I dunno, we’ll see.

Yesterday I felt a little under the weather–stomach again–which had me concerned that I was having a reoccurrence of the colitis, but this morning I feel fine, even well rested for a change. I managed to get a lot done at work yesterday, which was great, and I made groceries on my way home. I was tired when I got home, but I wrote for a very little while before Sparky’s need for attention wore me down and I went to my chair. We watched some more Unspeakable Sins, which is such an amazing rollercoaster ride. More has happened in the seven or eight episodes we’ve watched than happened in an entire season of Melrose Place. Nobody does soapy thrillers quite like the Spanish language production companies. So far, we’ve had a failed blackmail seduction, two kidnappings, one faked death, and several criminal syndicates–and of course, lots of videos of wealthy and prominent people at sex parties. We also have a teenager whose stepfather got him addicted to drugs and abused him.

That is seriously one fucked up family.

We’re finally out of the heat advisories, and the maximum temperature for today is 89…which is low for August but I’ll gladly take it. Rain (gasp) is also in the forecast. The rain is predicted for late this afternoon, around when I’ll be coming home, actually, so no errands tonight for sure. I didn’t want to get up this morning, but…that’s really nothing new on a work day, is it? This is a slow week in the clinic (next week is busy busy busy), which is nice, since we’re having a site visit tomorrow. I think I have everything done that I need to have done for the visit, which was the entire goal for yesterday.

I am feeling good about most everything and am not being critical of myself for not pushing myself harder, you know? I’m also kind of still adjusting to life again, which seems to take longer to do the older I get, and seems more necessary as well more often. This has not been a great decade for me, and I can definitely state that my sixties haven’t been the best so far (I’ve pretty much forgotten the fifties, in all honesty). But the inexorable passing of time continues, as the sand in my hourglass continues to run, and my instincts are telling me to make the most of my time, so…sure, I get the I don’t want to’s still, and of course, the temptation of recharging with Sparky in my lap is always there, but I know I can get the work done when I put my nose to the grindstone.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow.

Run Riot

Wednesday Pay-the-Bills Day has rolled around yet again! Seems like it was just yesterday, doesn’t it? Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future…sorry for the musical interlude1, but surely I cannot be the only one who writes a sentence that’s a song lyric and has the song itself crowd its way into my consciousness? My life has always had a soundtrack; music has always been important to me, and I love listening to it. I wish I had any musical ability, really. I can’t sing and I play no instruments…well, I can sing in the sense that we can all do so, but doing it well? That’s a whole other subject.

I found out this week that National Geographic included the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival/Saints & Sinners as one of the top literary festivals in the world! How fucking cool is that? If you want to see it, you can click above to get there. Paul is very good at his job, I have to say.

I wrote last night. It was editing/rewriting/revising work, so I don’t know how much work I actually did2, but the file was a couple of dozen words over four thousand when I started and when I finished, working from front to back (as one does), it was a few words past five thousand. Some came easily, some did not; but when it would be difficult I didn’t give up but thought some more and looked ahead and back and it worked, I got unstuck. It felt good to write, I didn’t once have a moment of doubting myself or Imposter Syndrome3, which really made me feel better about everything and good about myself. It’s easy to slip into depression and bad thoughts when I am not writing, or am having difficulty with it. I am also looking forward to getting back to work tonight after work as well.

I have to run errands tonight on the way home from work; I’d rather not, to be honest, but we’re halfway through the week and said errands will cut down on leaving the house on the weekend, which is looming. Now that I am getting back into my writing every day I hope to get a lot done this weekend. I’d love to work through the month of August–despite the heat and tropical weather–so I can get everything finished by Labor Day so I can spend September figuring out what to write next. I also have a lot of short stories I need to revise and rework and get out on submission somewhere…anywhere.

We had a nice thunderstorm last night as I finished my writing work; thunder and lightning and a downpour, none of which were mentioned in the forecast. The heat advisory is still in place, and today’s forecast was updated to include a thunderstorm later this morning, and throughout the afternoon. Clearly the forecast changed since yesterday morning, as the rain was for later in the week. AH, well, I don’t mind rain as long as I am not out in it. Paul was home late–he waited to come home until the storm passed–and so we watched another episode of The Hunting Wives, which continues to be a trashy joy on the lines of classic television like Dynasty or Melrose Place. I actually hope Paul will be home earlier so we can watch two episodes tonight. Dermot Mulroney is also aging like a really fine wine…

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines and need to start paying bills. Have a great day, and I may be back later. You never know.

I’m developing a crush on handsome Will Sharpe.
  1. I’m also rediscovering my enjoyment of the Steve Miller Band. ↩︎
  2. I always measure it by word counts. ↩︎
  3. I am trying to not be so hard on myself, and Imposter Syndrome is one of those things that needs to be in the rearview mirror. ↩︎

Don’t Shoot Shotgun

Goodbye, ruby Tuesday! We’re still having a heat advoisory today, and at this point I am trying to remember the last time we weren’t in one. I slept well again last night, and again didn’t want to get out of my comfy bed this morning. Ah, well, get over it, Gregalicious. I had a good day at work yesterday and got a lot done; but once I was home my ambitious plans for the evening fell by the wayside yet again as I provided a cat bed for Sparky and actually fell asleep for a little over an hour! That never happens. I did get some work done last night before falling asleep, and I am hoping that I’ll get some more done tonight. I am not going to be hard on myself because part of this new leaf/new stage in my life is being kinder to myself when I don’t live up to my own expectations.

We’ll see how that goes.

I also wrote two more entries, about the short stories I contributed to a couple of anthologies that are about to drop, and that felt kind of good, you know? I reread the stories for the first time since copy edits and you know, they are pretty good stories, and I am very pleased to be in anthologies with such terrific writers surrounding me. I also sent out a newsletter, about my reread of The Dark on the Other Side by Barbara Michaels, so yeah, I did get some writing done yesterday. I usually don’t count the blog and the newsletter as writing work, but they really are so I really should, shouldn’t I? It’s sometimes hard to believe I’ve been blogging since December of 2004–so blogging will be turning twenty-two later this year. Since I will also be 64 shortly, that’s about a third of my life. And now I’ve been a published author longer than I was not, if that makes sense? I’ve been a published author over half of my life now.

A definite milestone.

It’s also nice to feel reconnected to writing again, which is something I just realized that I am feeling again after a very lengthy period of not feeling connected to it, if that makes sense? I barely remember the beginning of this year. anything before I got sick is just kind of a blur nowadays, but I do know the writing of the new book wasn’t going well–and I was really exhausted going into getting sick, which made writing even harder. I don’t remember last year a lot, either. My memory is rather pathetic these days, and I am having trouble remembering things I should know. (While watching Wicked the other afternoon I could not remember Michelle Yeoh’s name to save my life; I wound up looking it up on my phone.) But this morning I feel like of course I can get all this stuff done, which is a lovely feeling and one I’ve not had for a considerable time.

We started watching The Hunting Wives last night on Netflix, based on the recommendation of a co-worker, and while we only watched the opening, pilot episode, it seems like the kind of soap operatic melodrama I often can’t get enough of (see past addictions to All My Children, General Hospital, Dynasty, and Melrose Place) and I am really looking forward to the rest of this first season. I went straight home after work last night, no stops anywhere, and while I may not have gotten any chores done (I need to empty and reload the dishwasher, and there’s clothes in the dryer) but the straightening I did this weekend is still holding firm. I may go straight home tonight, too–I need to have some things either picked up at the grocery, or delivered–and I can wait to go by the postal service tomorrow on the way home.

So, once I make it through my day job, I can get straight home and get to work on the chores before settling in to do some writing. I’ve promised a short story to an anthology–I already have two that with a bit of revising would be perfect–so I need to get back on those revisions, and I still have some other writing to get done that I really need to get done by Friday as a preference, Monday as a last ditch effort.

So, on that optimistic note, I am going to head into the spice mines this fine hot Tuesday morning. Stay cool wherever you are, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back later or tomorrow morning to check in with you again!

Rhinestone Cowboy

Tennessee Williams is kind of responsible for my career, in a very indirect way. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? But it’s true, even if he had been dead almost two decades.

When we first moved to New Orleans, Paul got a job working for the Grants Director of the Arts Council of New Orleans, and at that time, the Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival had an office in the Arts Council’s suite. Paul got to know the director, and he convinced me to volunteer with him at the 1997 Festival…which was my introduction to the world of the book/writing festival/conference. I had the best time. That first year I met so many authors, and they were so kind and lovely. I volunteered again the next year, after Paul was hired part time (he left the Arts Council), and that was the year I met the author who would offer to mentor me. Three years later, I had a book contract and had sold some short stories and there was no turning back for one Gregalicious at that point.

So, yes, Tennessee Williams had a hand in the establishment of my career as a professional writer. I began reading the plays again, and started using quotes from them as epigraphs for my books.

It was a no-brainer when John Copenhaver asked me to contribute to this anthology to write about Tennessee Williams, even if it wound up being kind of peripheral to the story itself. The anthology is up for preorders everywhere, or you can preorder from Bywater here.

There was a little brass plaque on the next to the table the host showed me to.

The plaque was below an enormous tinted picture window looking down Dauphine Street. Engraved on the face were the words “TENNESSEE’S TABLE.” The host offered me a menu as I sat in a chair facing the door, placing another down on the setting across from me. “Why Tennessee’s Table?” I asked. “Are there tables for Alabama and Mississippi, too?” 

I was joking, but in my two months in New Orleans thus far I’d found there were historic markers pretty much everywhere you looked. The others explained why the place was historic, but this one had no explanation, no words in smaller type below explaining why it was there.

This meant there was a story behind the plaque. I was also finding out the city had a story about almost everything.

His grin exposed a chipper incisor. “Tennessee is for Tennessee Williams, the playwright,” he explained, adding, “He loved the Quarter Scene and had lunch here every day he was in town. This was his favorite table, and he’d just call whenever he’d get in and let them know, so they’d reserve it for him. They put the plaque up after he died.” He winked. “We get a lot of Williams tourists who like to trace his steps—I guess to commune with his spirit, maybe? The plaque makes it easier for them.”

And less hassle for the staff, I added mentally.

I’d heard of Tennessee Williams. He’d also been out and proud when that could have been career and social suicide. The name brought up memories of chalk dust, a cold classroom in winter, and canned dry hot air. We must have studied him in high school. A Streetcar Named Desire and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, I think the plays were? I’d slept with a Williams scholar once, on a vacation in Honolulu. I’d met him on the beach. He had a stack of non-fiction books piled up on his nightstand for a paper he was writing, pages marked by a forest of Post-It notes.

You see the peripheral connection in that excerpt, don’t you? That’s all Tennessee had to do with my story, other than a later mention.

That table and plaque did exist. The Quarter Scene closed and was replaced by Eat, but it now called the Quarter Scene again. I don’t know if the plaque is still up by his table or not, but I always sat there whenever I ate there.

Years ago, when we first moved here, I started working on two novels. One became Murder in the Rue Dauphine, the other was a kind of Tales of the City kind of thing about three young gay men who rented apartments around a courtyard in the Quarter, with an older gay man living in the main house and kind of being a mentor to them all. I called that one The World is Full of Ex-Lovers, and began putting it together by writing short stories. One of those stories was called “Tennessee’s Table,” and that was what I immediately thought of when casting about in my head to write a Tennessee Williams inspired kind of story. I dug it out of the files–it was dreadful–and threw everything out except the very opening with the main character arriving at the Quarter Scene to meet someone for lunch. I also realized that this story would actually work in a longer project I am also writing–a book set in 1994 New Orleans called Never Kiss a Stranger, and so I wrote that story with the idea that I could insert it into the novel manuscript.

I am kind of pleased with it, to tell you the truth. It’s called “The Rhinestone.”

And just look at this contributors’ list!

A pretty impressive table of contents!

Have you preordered your copy yet?

Spirit in the Sky

I have written another Alabama story! It will be in the Crippen & Landru anthology Double Crossing Van Dine, which you can preorder right here. My story is called “The Spirit Tree,” which was a lot of fun to write, and am very excited that the anthology will release later this month/early September. I again got an editing credit (along with Donna Andrews and Art Taylor, both of whom do a lot more work than I do on these books), and I do absolutely love that cover.

Isn’t this a great cover?

Turn right on Simmons Road and in a half mile, your destination will be on the right.

Tom Forrester slowed his official State Bureau of Investigation SUV and glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing behind him but blacktop state highway back to the S curve he’d just negotiated. He flipped on the turn signal and made the turn onto a back road. It stretched out before him, a narrow expanse of red dirt and gravel down to the bottom of a hollow and climbing back up the other side. He was getting a headache and wished again he’d asked for someone to come with him. He’d never been to Corinth County before, hadn’t even driven through it. Yes, it was in his district, but it was remote. At least an hour to the nearest interstate. Outsiders had to want to come to Corinth County to get there.

It amazed him that there were still these random remote counties all over the deep South, seemingly untouched by the outside world.

But the county seat, for all its population of about three thousand, had a Wal-Mart and a McDonalds, and almost every house or trailer he’d seen from the road had a satellite dish either in the yard or affixed to the building. Was anything truly remote anymore?

The road wasn’t wide enough for two cars, so he hoped he didn’t meet anyone coming from the other direction. A cloud of red dust followed closely behind the vehicle. At the bottom of the hollow there was a small stream flowing through corrugated iron beneath the pitiful road. And he noticed a rusty barbed wire fence running along the front of the pine forest on the left side, caught a glimpse of a rusted tin roof surrounded by overgrowth.

It looked…familiar.

Not a bad start, right?

The anthology also has an impressive table of contents:

You can find Van Dine’s commandments (there are twenty) here, if you want to look them up.

Mine was: The problem of the crime must be solved by strictly naturalistic means. Such methods for learning the truth as slate-writing, ouija-boards, mind-reading, spiritualistic séances, crystal-gazing, and the like, are taboo. A reader has a chance when matching his wits with a rationalistic detective, but if he must compete with the world of spirits and go chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics, he is defeated ab initio.

So, yes, like I did in the last anthology of this nature that I was in, chose supernatural/occult as my way of breaking said rule. I’ve done this before, of course, in novels; two subgenres I prefer are crime and horror–and I do love crossing/blurring the lines between the two of them.

Several years ago (it may have been last year; my grasp of time isn’t the best anymore) I read a book called Salvation on Sand Mountain, about snake-handlers in north Alabama (I’d also watched a documentary called Alabama Rattlesnake) which reminded me of a bit of country magic. When I was a little boy–a very little boy–I remember visiting someone in Alabama–and there was a small tree beside the front porch, with bottles slipped over the ends and catching the sun in colorful flashes and making tinkling sounds when the wind blew the branches together. I asked, and was told it was a ‘spirit tree,’–the sound of the bottles kept evil spirits and ghosts out of the house. I’d forgotten about it until I read it in the book, and I remembered it all very clearly.

So, I sat down and wrote an opening scene, in which a state investigator is going to a crime scene, and when he gets there, there’s a spirit tree beside the porch. I had no idea what to do with the story–how to finish it, who was murdered and why, etc.–and it went into the files. When I was asked for a story (and a by-line credit) for this anthology, I looked for the supernatural rule, claimed it, and pulled out “The Spirit Tree.”

Yes, it’s another Corinth County story, like Bury Me in Shadows and “Smalltown Boy” and “The Ditch,” not connected to the others by anything other than location, really, but it’s location is pretty much everything!

Hope you enjoy it–and the rest of the contributors are exceptional writers, so I know you’ll enjoy theirs, too! What are you waiting for? PRE ORDERS ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED!