Tag: fiction

The Seventh Son

Saturday and I need to make a to-do list, as well as a packing list. I do get an extra hour of sleep tomorrow morning (thank you, daylight savings change!) which should make the drive somewhat easier. I am also kind of excited about trying a new route, which is oddly thrilling to get out of the usual rut of going the same way I have ever since I started driving up there around the turn of the century. I was still very tired yesterday from Thursday’s toe procedure (which isn’t difficult to care for, so that bit of anxiety was for nothing) so after I finished yesterday’s work, I ran my errands. I picked up my new glasses, got the mail, and picked up a prescription before heading home and just collapsing into my chair. Paul was working, so I watched the news clips and so forth to make certain I was aware of the daily madness that is the election, and then Paul and I finished off Agatha All Along, which was fan-fucking-tastic (more on that later, as the utter queerness of the show deserves more reflection and commentary) and for which I am hoping there will be another season, which was sort of set up in the show, too, although they may not be able to call it the same thing. Such brilliant writing and direction and production values and the acting! The show should get multiple Emmy nominations, but I am pulling mostly for Patti LuPone, who was fantastic as Lilia. Today I have to clean the house and make groceries for Paul and run a few errands and pack. LSU is off this weekend, so I don’t care about the games today–background noise, more than anything else, really–and hopefully, I’ll get to read some today as well. I just don’t want to get lazy, you know, and blow everything off and leave it for next Saturday when I am home again.

It’s kind of nice not to have my toe hurting again. I have to go back to the podiatrist next month (how is next month December already?) to have it looked over again. Yay! Closing out the year with non-stop doctor appointments constantly isn’t exactly the biggest thrill of my life but might as well use the insurance as much as possible before the deductible kicks in again…and I am rather pleased with both the dermatologist and the podiatrist; I’ve really felt like I am in better care than I ever have been since I fired that primary care doctor last year. I am dragging a bit today, too–carryover from the shock to my system as well as exhaustion from the week, which is okay; I usually am dragging a bit on Saturdays lately, which is why watching games all day on Saturdays usually is so appealing. But I’ll finish this, take a reading break, get cleaned up and redress the wound, and then run those errands. I’m not terribly concerned about doing any writing today, although I might so as not to lose the time. I mean, I probably won’t even be here after tomorrow until Saturday anyway. And so much will have changed by then, too. The election will be over, for one–I can’t be the only person who is sick of the endless elections cycles; elections were never meant to be a billion dollar industry, let alone a life-career path. They also didn’t expect people to make a life out of public service, either, but here we are.

Imagine my shock, when sitting down at my desk and waking up my computer simply to see that I never finished writing this, let alone never posted it. Bad Greg! I am getting older, you know. Yikes. I don’t think I’ve ever started in the morning and never finished the entry till later, which is bizarre. Ah, well. I did run my errands, and it was a lovely day outside. I Armor-All’ed the inside of the car, vacuumed it out, and washed it. I should do that every few weeks, frankly, and maybe going forward that will be my plan. I got the mail (another royalty payment; that’s two this week!), made groceries, came home, went to the car wash and then stopped at the Fresh Market. I think I have Paul supplied, plus he can always eat out whenever he wants to or doesn’t want to mess with making anything. Now I just need to make my packing list and get started on that, too. I’d like to get the suitcase packed and loaded into the car today, and then tomorrow morning the other things can go into the car as I depart New Orleans for the week. I did spend some time this morning with House of Bone and Rain (I keep saying blood instead of bone, which also works, but not as well), which continues to be extraordinary; I’ve decided to finish listening to it in the car on the way north tomorrow, move on to The Reformatory in the car, which I’ll finish up there, and then on the way home I can listen to Shadowlands, which I’ll finish reading when I get home next weekend. A very good plan, methinks.

And on that note, I am going to bring this to a close as it is LONG overdue. Have a great Saturday, and I’ll post tomorrow before leaving town.

A Walk in the Black Forest

Thursday leaving work early because I have an appointment with a podiatrist (for the very first time in my life) to see if a) I have arthritis in my big toes and b) if there’s anything that can be done to stop, or at least delay, the continuing pronation of my feet. I have finally found an every day shoe that is incredibly comfortable and my leg joints finally feel good again–or at least, don’t ache. (Air Monarchs, to be exact. I love my new shoes.) I slept really well again, which is great, but I do feel a bit wrung out, if that makes sense? I was very tired yesterday when I got home from work–came straight home, too–and so took the evening off after finishing the character list (so far) and starting the outline. Maybe, if I’m not too tired from running errands tonight after work, I’ll be able to get some writing done on the book before the trip, which is Sunday.

And it’s Halloween! Yay! I didn’t get as much horror read this year as I would have liked, but I think I am still going to read some more horror for a while, just for the fun of it, before going back to my usual crime novels. I am so far behind on my reading it’s not even funny at this point. I will try to read some tonight, since tomorrow is a work-at-home day and I don’t have to get up at six (Sparky to the contrary). My new glasses also have come in, so I need to pick them up before I leave town. Yay! I’m not dressing up for work–I always go as Bitter Old Queen Close to Retirement— but I do miss the days when I would wear costumes for Halloween. I was never good at costumes; I always say the descriptor for my costumes started with ‘slutty.’ Yup, I used to be one of those gay men, ready for any opportunity to go shirtless and/or dress ‘slutty.’ I don’t see anything wrong with it, though–then or now, for that matter. I’ve never been one to turn up my nose at embracing our bodies and our sexuality in a positive, healthy way, and yes, I’ve had people explain to me almost my entirely openly queer adulthood about how ‘desperate’ and ‘thirsty’ that is, that gays who dress like that1 and show off their bodies are just attention-seeking narcissists who love to show off, etc. etc. etc. I’d listen to them, all the while thinking and if one of them was interested in you, you wouldn’t say no2 and wow you are really saying this to me. Bold choice to insult me right to my face!3

The thing is, gay men are just as guilty as everyone else of making assumptions on other gay men, based on superficiality, and sometimes place more value on how people look than who they are. This is not peculiar to gay men, either; everyone does this. When I lost weight and joined a gym, it was astonishing how differently I was treated by strangers…

Envy is always ugly, for the record, which is why I refuse to go down that path with my writing colleagues. No good ever comes from envy (as opposed to spite, my primary motivator), it’s a waste of time and energy because it doesn’t change anything, and so I don’t indulge myself with it anymore, and haven’t in over twenty years. I never envy anyone their talent or their careers. That’s pointless, and who wants to head down the path of negativity like that? My focus going forward is to try to stay positive, while making myself and my career more of a priority than it ever has been before. And it kind of feels good, you know? It’s so incredibly freeing to say “I don’t care” and “no thank you” and “sorry that just doesn’t work for me.” (That last is my absolute favorite.)

I actually do feel a bit rundown this morning, now that the coffee’s hit and I’ve had some sugary treats for breakfast (follow me for tips on how to live a more healthy lifestyle!), I do feel a bit of fatigue and some slight brain fog. At least I’m not exhausted, the way I used to get by the time Thursday rolled around again. That’s progress.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, and I may be back later.

  1. A former woman friend of mine, when I once complained about being groped without my consent in gay bars, replied, without missing a beat, “That’s what you get for dressing like a whore” to which I replied, “so you’re saying I’m asking to get raped?” and the look on her face was priceless as that reality dawned on her. I really should have cut her off at least a decade before I did. She was the kind of Trumpelthinskin asshole I have come to detest: “I get to say horrible and cruel things to and about people because I’m being funny but IT IS NOT FUNNY WHEN PEOPLE DO THAT TO ME AND HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE SO HEARTLESS AND MEEEEEEAAAAAAANNNNNN TO MEEEEEEEEE???.” Immature piece of shit. ↩︎
  2. Trust me, scruples go out the window for gay men when someone hot is interested. You’d be surprised (maybe not) at how many gay men want that homophobic POS Nick Bosa to fuck them…and let’s not forget Aaron Schock. I appreciate their looks, but who they literally are as human beings is so revolting to me that I could never. ↩︎
  3. I have so many marvelous stories about not being taken seriously because of how I looked, but that’s a story for another time. ↩︎

Down in the Boondocks

What exactly are boondocks, anyway?1

Monday morning and back to work with me today, which is fine. Yesterday was nice–despite the Saints losing; not a good weekend for Louisiana football outside of Tulane–and I feel rested and relaxed this morning, which is great. I have a lot to do today, and am really looking forward to having a good day. I did work on the book; I got the outlining of the first seven chapters done; I made a character list (a good start); and also recognized in the rereading what needs fixing and what needs adding and what needs redoing. I also outlined the rest of a short story I am working on, and figured out how to solve the problem of another one, too, which is very cool. I also read for a while, and really am enjoying House of Rain and Bone. I also figured out why it’s taking me so long to read, which I am puzzling over, and it hit me this morning–I am reading it slowly because I am savoring it, and because it’s making me think as I engage with it, and that’s not an easy thing for any writer to do with their work. The book is also a lot of things I generally don’t care for or like–lots of violence–but the language is very beautiful yet raw, the emotion is like an exposed nerve, but I am enjoying it very much, and it’s very intense…but takes me a while to process and digest what I read, so it’s not going very quickly. This is not a bad thing. Most readers will take this ride and not be able to put it down–it moves very quickly, the characters are remarkably likable, the main character is a relatable guy–but as a fellow author, I want to savor the language, the structure, the pacing, all the things that make the book so stunningly brilliant.

And that’s a good thing.

I feel pretty good this morning, actually. I slept really well last night, and feel rested and relaxed as I face the day. It’s my Admin day at work, so I have no pressures or stress and no interactions with clients, unless I see one by chance as I walk around doing other things this morning. I love my clients–I really do, and the long-termers are lovely to see every quarter–but interacting with people all day as someone who is, at heart, an introvert despite being a Leo (I like attention but it also makes me uncomfortable2), wears me out a bit.

I also worked on the Scotty Bible some this weekend. I marked up the final volume that wasn’t (Royal Street Reveillon) and then took down the notes from those pages, and will need to get that typed up. The last step of finishing the Bible includes reorganizing the notes into book order, before sorting them all into categories and so forth. I also need to do a synopsis of each book, detailing not only the case but developments in Scotty’s personal life, the family tree, and so on. Also going through the books to do this–even just pulling the notes out–has given me the opportunity (without the anxiety and all the little naysaying voices in my head, banished by my new medications) to reread (a bit) and reacquaint myself with the work with fresh eyes. As you probably already know, I am very hard of myself and was always dismissive of any achievements or recognition I may have received, and have forgotten a lot of the stories and what happened and why and where the idea came from and why I wanted to tell this story…but this revisitation without the usual Greg-crazy has made me appreciate the stories and the writing all the more, which is lovely and incredibly cool. I also realized yesterday while making the notes that while a Scotty Bible is needed and necessary, that an overall Greg Multiverse of New Orleans Bible is necessary; I’ve crossed over all my New Orleans writing (short stories and novels), using the same fictitious spaces and minor characters. (For example, Cooper Construction from A Streetcar Named Murder is also the construction company Scotty is using to renovate the building on Decatur Street.) So, yes, it needs to be more encompassing. I realized that Paige–Chanse’s best friend–whom I’ve also used in the Scotty series–most of her background is in the Chanse books, and yes, I should probably do one for him, too….sigh. It’s like pulling a string from something knit.

I’m kind of going to miss the Swifties, to be honest. We’re used to tourism here–non-stop conventions, the big events, and so on–but there was a marked difference between the Swifties and other big groups that take over New Orleans. For one thing, they were incredibly friendly and nice! So much good energy that I didn’t mind the crowds of them I had to pass through, and the outfits and everything. They were here to have a good time, of course, and the city welcomed them (and their wallets) with open arms so that it became almost a symbiotic pairing. Hospitality workers marveled at their kindness and their generous tipping; store owners and workers didn’t mind being busy because everyone was nice and polite and didn’t complain about anything. I loved the friendship bracelets adorning the Superdome. I loved the endless karaoke of Taylor’s songs that went on as they took over Bourbon Street. Every bar and every shop was playing her music. Her economic impact on the city was undeniable, and I can’t wait to hear about her local charity giving, which she always does–usually food banks and homeless shelters, bless her.

It’s no wonder MAGA hates her. They hate anyone who is kind and giving–they certainly do not recognize Jesus’ messages in her (which goes to show you how they would react to Jesus’ return, doesn’t it? I find it very interesting that his followers are the ones most likely to reject and crucify him). I won’t talk about the Nazi rally at Madison Square Garden yesterday because what else is there to say, other than “we’ve not seen anything like this since the Nuremburg rallies” but we did have one in MSG back in 1939, didn’t we? (And it should come as no surprise that it was conservatives who were pro-Hitler in 1939 America, does it? They hated FDR with the same kind of passion Trump ignites in his acolytes, and since they smeared him as a socialist/communist, naturally they got into bed with Nazis.)

Everything old is new again.

And on that note I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back later or tomorrow, we’ll see!

  1. So, turns out it means “rough, isolated country”–and has come to mean, in slang, a remote place with little to no civilization. Interesting. ↩︎
  2. And yes, that is on the list of issues to unpack and make peace with. ↩︎

Game of Love

Thursday morning and I forgot to set my alarm last night; oh my! Bad Gregalicious; bad Gregalicious! I did run my errands last night after I got off work, but by the time I got home I was more tired than I expected. I intended to do the dishes at the very least, if nothing else, and sure enough, I sat down in my chair to catch up on the news and let Sparky treat me like prey (my entire body is covered in scabs), but relaxed so deeply that when Paul came downstairs–he was home and I didn’t know it–to watch some television, I was all fuck it and blew everything off. We watched this week’s English Teacher, which isn’t as funny as it initially was? Paul agreed with me, so it’s not just me being hypercritical of a show with a gay male lead–which is always my fear. The representation is great, but I am not sure if I’m missing something, or if it is the show itself. Something for me to think about, I guess, in greater length once the season is over and we can reflect on it as a whole, rather than just as individual episodes. It’s a very fine line–you don’t want to idealize a marginalized character, but at the same time the series lead has to be likable and relatable; which is a problem because you run the risk of castrating him–and this character has a MUCH healthier sex-life than Will Truman ever had in all those many seasons of Will and Grace. we also watched an episode of American Horror Stories, which was creepy and disturbing, but at least it was interesting. The show reminds me of the great old anthology shows, like Tales from the Crypt and Night Gallery1, and yes, some episodes are better than others.

So tonight, obviously, I need to write some and clean up the house before my work-at-home day tomorrow. I know we’re planning on a Costco run, so I am going to need to do some serious work on the apartment to get ready for that. I also need to finish the desk chair, which is sitting, unassembled, in front of the fireplace–and there are any number of things in the living room that need to be gotten rid of. I have to take the boxes of books to the library sale Saturday; and I also need to start boxing up the books in the kitchen cupboards and moving them up to the attic, which also needs to be cleaned out. I need to work on the book this weekend, and maybe do some serious decision-making; I also need to work on polishing that short story and revising/finishing another by the end of the month. I feel a bit out of it this morning–the oversleeping didn’t help matters much by throwing off my daily rhythm, but I was wide awake when I got up finally, and I managed to not forget anything on my way out of the house. This should be a relatively easy and uneventful day at the office, and my supervisor will be back on Monday, thank you Jesus and pass the ammunition.

Wish me luck on all of that, please. I also need to make a to-do list for this weekend. There are some great football games on Saturday; LSU at Arkansas, Alabama at Tennessee, for starters. I’ll definitely need to run my Saturday morning errands early! I also need to read Gabino’s book; I hope I’m not giving the wrong impression–it’s nothing to do with the book, but more along the lines of being too tired to focus to read once I’ve done everything I’ve needed to get done every day. I am feeling better, getting more restful sleep, and I think I’ve adjusted to getting up early, little as I like to do so, but I always have that little rundown in the afternoon when I get overwhelmed with being tired…but it’s usually low blood sugar or something, because a snack will rev me back up again.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Thursday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. It’ll be a surprise!

  1. I remember watching Night Gallery as a child and loving it; I wasn’t able to catch reruns of The Twilight Zone until many years later; so to me, I always think Night Gallery when I think about Rod Serling, whose daughter I met and she was absolutely charming. ↩︎

Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag

Well, yesterday wasn’t so bad, really. The office didn’t burn down in my absence (didn’t think it would) and there was no mess for me to clean up anywhere, so that was nice. I also felt good for most of the day; I had energy and didn’t feel sleepy in the least. I managed to come home from work and get the thing done that needed to be done for today; I also revised and rewrote that short story before discovering the deadline is actually October 20th, so I have time to go over it once again before turning it in for the perusal of the editors. It’s a reach to meet their theme, but nothing ventured and all that. I won’t be disappointed too much if they turn me down. I also have another story to write by the end of the month, and I am not sure which one I have on hand to use for it. Something to look into for this weekend, methinks. And I need to get back to work on Scotty. Heavy sigh.

But I never felt any stress about the deadlines, and I managed to get both things worked on, which I am quite pleased with myself about, frankly. I am rather pleased with the new version of the story; it really does need to be revised one more time (not the least of which is that it’s too long; I always think 5k when writing a story but the CFS for this is 4k max, so some pruning and tightening is in order. I also managed to sleep really well again last night and feel great this morning. I wasn’t tired when I got home, either. After I got through with working, I happily collapsed into my easy chair and caught up on the news. I do think this approach to this year’s election–staying calm and blocking the legacy media1–is the right way to go. I have felt a lot less stressed about everything without losing my shit at the insanity of said legacy media’s insane bias. It doesn’t mean that I’m not worried about the outcome–I am, very much so–but the weight of it all doesn’t need to rest on my shoulders. Thank God for anxiety medications, and the clear-headedness those medications give me.

Today’s goal is to figure out what short story to use for this other call for submissions that is due at the end of the month. I literally have no clue, off the top of my head, and so I am going to have to go through the files and figure out which one I can either finish or revise. A tough problem to have, don’t you think? I kind of want to work on short stories at the moment, which has everything to do with revising one yesterday. Once the dam breaks, and all that stuff and nonsense. I’m just delighted to be writing again, and even more delighted that I am prioritizing my work for once (and from now on). I’ll still do the occasional volunteer thing now and again, but nothing that requires a lengthy commitment or has any urgency; I’ve sacrificed my mental health and my writing for far too long on things that ultimately had no benefit for me other than satisfaction–and sometimes I never even got that, so it’s time for someone else to do whatever it was I thought I was accomplishing. I also have little to no interest in my legacy. I am always amused a bit when I hear writers talk about things like that. For one thing, that’s not for me to decide. Did I make a contribution to American letters? The mystery genre? Queer writing? Most likely not; I am not going to be studied in future college lit courses–genre, for one; gay for the other–and once I’m gone–or stop producing work, I’ll be forgotten, and I am fine with that. The books will all float around on the Internet for years after my death so they are there for the finding. Maybe in a hundred years some scholar will stumble over my work and make a case for me as one of the unsung heroes of crime fiction, but I rather doubt it. In either case, I won’t be here to see it, so why even worry about it? Talk about a waste of energy!

We’re having a cold spell–a front for a few days–where the highs will be in the sixties and the lows in the fifties. It’s fifty-nine right now, brisk and crisp; it will definitely help me sleep and will definitely help bring the power bill down. We resist turning on the heat until it’s actually in the fifties inside, and the heat is far cheaper than air conditioning. I also need to run errands after work today, and then once I am home I need to progress on the apartment before settling into my chair for the evening. I’ve also got to figure out my doctor’s appointments and try to reschedule them all for the same day–or at least to have as many on the same day as possible. Sigh. This is what we call gumbo weather; when you spend the morning in the kitchen making a nice big pot of it–the cooking of it also keeps you warm, and it certainly does warm you up on the inside when you eat it. If the weather holds through the weekend I’ll probably make some kind of shrimp dish–shrimp creole or shrimp scampi or something like that. I also like making potato leek soup and white bean chicken chili (but that will require a Costco trip at some point). I do love the fall here in Louisiana…and it also looks like the two systems the Hurricane Center is monitoring aren’t going to develop into anything for a brief respite.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; one never really knows for certain, does one?

  1. They have been committing journalistic malpractice since at least 2015, if not longer. ↩︎

Old Man from the Mountain

Tuesday morning and back to the spice mines blog. Huzzah! I feel a bit disoriented this morning, as one always does after even the shortest of trips, and was still pretty tired from the driving yesterday. I ran a few errands and cleaned up the kitchen, doing the dishes and puttering around the house for the most part. I’m still digesting Survivor Song–thinking about dystopian novels and stories–and we watched Outer Banks last night, finishing the first half of the season (all that’s available; the second half will probably drop in a month or do), which is ridiculous and campy and weird and fun, like the first two seasons were (the third was disappointing, really), so I hope that it will continue in this vein and leave the third season in the dust and past. But of course, taking a much-needed rest day has kind of put me behind the eight ball; I have work that’s due tomorrow and I don’t know how much time I will have this evening to try to get everything done as much as possible.

There are also two areas meteorologists are watching for hurricane development–one in the Atlantic, the other in the western Caribbean, off the coast of Central America–so we’re not out of the woods yet; hurricane season after all doesn’t end until December 1. We’re also getting a cold front coming in tonight, which means overnight temperatures in the fifties. Yikes! Practically the dead of winter. But I’ll be coming straight home from work, too, so hopefully the nice weather will hold out until then.

My, I’m exciting this morning. I do feel rested, and I do feel like I can get everything done I need to get done by tomorrow, but it’s still a bit daunting to think ahead and hope I won’t have to work through being tired. I also need to get some work done on the book, and I also need to finish the Scotty Bible; I only have three books left to get the notes from, and then I need to go through the whole thing one last time, and voila! It will be finished. I also need to fix some things in the chapters I’ve already written. I think I shall plan to get everything now finished by the end of the month, so I can spend November getting the rest of the first draft done. That sounds perfectly reasonable to me, actually, and so I think that’s going to be the plan going forward. I need to get this story revised, and I need to revise another for the Bouchercon anthology; I’m thinking I should submit something to it. It’ll depend on any number of other factors, of course; but a reasonable writing schedule should be easy to follow, methinks.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about that wretched professor who told me at seventeen I would never be published as a writer. In my utter obliviousness (part of never looking back, I’m afraid) I never made the connection in my head that it was that experience that derailed my college career and my twenties. I always assumed that it was the entire duality of living two completely separate lives as well as the HIV/AIDS pandemic that sent me spiraling down into a pit from which I didn’t think I’d ever emerge. I never wanted to be anything other than a writer, and being told by a person in authority (I was also always taught to respect authority, and I was only seventeen, so he was a PROFESSOR who KNEW what he was talking about, so if he said it–well, I had to believe it. I had been groomed my entire life to take the voice of authority as gospel and never to question it; so when he said that to me I saw my future yawning open as a life of quiet desperation and misery. I didn’t think I could ever truly be myself, and the only thing that had gotten me through my childhood–the dream of being an author–was ripped away from me. Is it any wonder that what I started basically doing was putting off adulthood? My development was so derailed, which is why I always write off my twenties as the lost decade (although it really carried over for another three years), and just don’t think about it much. But my resentment for that fucking asshole college professor is far deeper and much more powerful now, and I may need to revisit that essay I wrote about his skank ass.

Of course, I am over forty novels and fifty short stories into my professional writing career…and he never published anything. In fact, he was a bitter failed author; the definition of “those who can’t, teach” (which is a horrible phrase, really, that I hate and usually refuse to use, but I have no problem using it on that bottom-feeder) in bright three dimensional living color.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I hope you have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll chat at you later, okay?

Somebody’s Watching Me

A month or so ago, Ira Levin’s A Kiss Before Dying was one of those “special deals for ebooks,” and I can never pass up a classic for a mere $1.99 (I generally replace my hard copy books with ebooks when they are on sale, so I can donate the real book; but Ira Levin novels will never be donated), which put me in mind of him again (the book is a crime fiction classic), and I started thinking about what is the best part of two of my favorites by him, Rosemary’s Baby and The Stepford Wives, which is the slow build of paranoia until the heroines are completely convinced that everyone is in on it and there’s no one she can trust. This is what I consider “women’s noir,” which is books that depict and explore women’s fears (which is why Gothics were so popular, I think; the wife can never trust the husband and always thinks he is trying to kill her–before the real culprit is exposed and they have their happily ever after. This, to me, mimics what it’s like for a woman when she gets married in real life; she wants to believe in her marriage and love, but how many times has that turned to ashes and dust in reality? Husbands kill wives or cheat on them or leave them; all these marriage fears were tentpoles of Gothics). I was going to revisit both novels–I had some other things I wanted to talk about with The Stepford Wives, and its similarities to Rosemary’s Baby, but I couldn’t find my copy of the latter so went with the former.

Since 2015, the term “gaslighting” has come back into vogue, with small wonder. Gaslighting can make you question your own judgment and your grasp on reality1; something many of us have experienced over the past nearly ten years and it isn’t an enjoyable experience.

Paranoia, combined with not being believed, makes for a fantastic novel that is very difficult to pull off; I can think of any number of films and books that use paranoia as a driving theme for their plots, and I always enjoy them. There really is nothing more frustrating than being being not believed about something that’s happened–or is happening–to you. It can make you crazy, make you question yourself and your own grasp of reality. It’s horrible and cruel in reality, and it’s something everyone can relate to because we have all not been believed at some point in our lives. It’s happened to me enough times (including losing jobs) that it certainly resonates with me. (I have an idea for a gaslighting/paranoia short story that I’ve been wanting to write for some time now.)

So, needless to say, I greatly enjoyed reading my advance copy of Alison Gaylin’s upcoming January release, We Are Watching.

It’s been the longest day of Meg Russo’s life, and it isn’t even half over. Her stomach gnaws at her, her hands heavy on the steering wheel. But when she glances at the clock on the dashboard, she sees that it’s a little shy of 11:30 a.m., which means that Meg, her husband, Justin, and their daugheter, Lily, have only been on the road for an hour. They’ve got at least three more hours on the thruway, and then they’ll have to contend with the series of veinlike country roads Meg and Justin haven’t traversed since their own college days. If they don’t hit too much traffic, they should be in Ithaca by five, which now feels like some point in a future so distant, Meg is incapable of envisioning it.

Time is strange that, the past eighteen years zooming by in an instant, all of it leading up to a single day that’s already lasted eons. Meg blames the stress of last night, wanting everything to be perfect for their daughter’s send-off, which led to thoughts of Lily’s first visit home for Thanksgiving break, which in turn made Meg think for the millionth time about how cold their house gets in the fall, and how Lily always complains about it. New windows, Meg had thought, lying in bed with her eyes open, envisioning insulated windows to replace those paper-thin sheets of glass, the same windows that were here when she and Justin bought the place twenty years ago–and it was a fixer-upper then. What if Lily came home to new windows? Meg mused, still awake in the wee hours of the morning. Will she have changed by then? Will she have grown too sophisticated to get excited over a warmer house? And so on, until the sky was pink and it was time to wake up and Meg had barely slept at all.

I’ve enjoyed Alison Gaylin’s work since I first read And She Was back in 2012, and have been a fan ever since, gobbling up each new book as she releases them. She has always been a terrific novelist, but what has been amazing to watch is how she pushes herself to do better with each book, tackling bigger themes and creating believable, relatable characters you can’t help but want to root for. We Are Watching may be her best yet, starting as a slow burn but building into an adrenaline boosting rollercoaster of a thriller.

The book opens with Meg and Justin taking their daughter Lily off to college, with all the emotions and fears and sense of loss that comes with a child leaving home and starting to move into their adulthood. Meg is likable, and so is her family. But as they drive a carload of skinheads pulls up alongside of them and start taking pictures. Meg reacts very strongly–so strongly that even I was like take a chill pill, girl!–which eventually leads to a crash that kills Justin, leaving the two women shattered shells of their previous selves. Lily decides to take time off from college and even Meg becomes housebound, despite needing to run her book store in the small Hudson Valley town they live in.

But things slowly begin closing in on both Meg and Lily; who were those skinheads in the other car? Why are truly strange, cult-like people showing up in the store or in town, chanting weird things at them? As Meg’s paranoia and fear grows, it soon becomes apparent that a religious cult is targeting her and her family, but why? But to find the truth, Meg has to not only survive the cult, which seems determined to kill her and her child, but when she has the time, to dig back into her own past to discover the truth–because the truth is the only thing that can set them free.

This book is fantastic, and I couldn’t put it down. It has all the hallmarks of a great Gaylin novel–a compelling and relatable main character doing the best she can in a terrible situation; a twisty plot full of surprises; and the kind of strong writing that makes her sentences and paragraphs sing.

Preorder it now and thank me in January when you finish reading it.

  1. The film this term comes from, Gaslight, is a great movie and Ingrid Bergman is terrific as the wife who isn’t sure if she is losing her mind; she deserved her Oscar and the film still holds up–and a very young Angela Lansbury makes her screen debut in it. ↩︎

I See The Want To In Your Eyes

Ah, Thursday and my last day at the office for this week. Huzzah?

Yesterday was a good day at work. I managed to get caught up on all my paperwork and admin stuff (just in time to get trained for some more new duties, woo-hoo!) before getting the mail on my way home. I also managed to finish Chapter Six (it’s terrible, but that’s what future drafts are for) before repairing to my easy chair for Sparky cuddle time. He was especially sweet last night; he even went and cuddled up to Paul on the couch on his own, which was delightful for Paul. Our cats have always been more Paul’s pet than mine (not that I didn’t love them), so having me be Sparky’s primary parent has been a bit weird for us. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, he was curled up at the foot of the bed between my feet and Paul’s–so he’s starting to sleep in the bed, too. Progress! The problem, of course, is that we got Sparky right before my surgery, so I was stuck in my easy chair for several weeks while Paul was gone all the time because of work…so Sparky got used to me. It’s also kind of hard to believe that the one-year anniversary of the surgery is coming up. Last fall was rough for me, wasn’t it? LOL. I went to Bouchercon for Labor Day, came home to oral surgery, and once that was all taken care of I had my other surgery.

2023 was quite a year.

Helene is battering Florida today, should make landfall this evening, so stay safe, my Florida peeps. This storm is large enough to effect everyone in the state–Miami is getting strong winds already, and they aren’t even in the cone–and it looks like it’s going to be even rougher the further inland and north it goes. Looking at the map, even Kentucky is going to get slammed with about 2-4 inches of rain, which I know is a lot for a place that doesn’t really get flooding rains regularly. Everyone in the path, please be careful and I hope you’re prepared for it.

We watched this week’s episodes of Bad Monkey, English Teacher, and Agatha All Along, all of which we are thoroughly enjoying, and I think we’re going to start Grotesquerie and American Sports Story tonight. I don’t have to go into the office tomorrow, which is a lovely thought, and then it’s the weekend. Woo-hoo! I want to get to work on Chapter Seven, and I also want to finish a couple of essays. I still want to rewatch the first episode of Monsters before I write about the show (it truly deserves its own entry), and I also would like to get some of my other essays completed this weekend. I think I’ll try to make a to-do list at work between clients this morning.

I was realizing last night that my life seems so weird to me now because I was on a serious treadmill for well over a decade and now I am no longer on a treadmill with an inbox full of emails every morning needing to be answered and books and stories to write and volunteering on top of my day job and that I was also editing anywhere from fourteen to thirty novels a year. Editing was the first thing I cut loose to try to get myself more rest and free time, but the last almost but not quite two years has been very rough for and on me, and also made me realize that giving up on the volunteer work was the smartest thing I could have ever done for myself; there is no way I could have handled everything since January 2023 on while still trying to get the volunteer work done, too–so that was the right decision. Right now, I am using the free time to acclimate and write and clean and organize and read and to relax, which is very lovely and nice.

It’s also super lovely to not worry about making sure I answer all my emails within 24 hours of receiving them, either.

Oh! And in another great and delightful development this week, I solved the primary problem with another thing I am working on and am delighted and excited to get back to it. Yay! I also got some thrilling (for me) news from Paul last night re: the Festivals, which is going to be awesome.

Louisiana politicians continue to prove they are raw sewage, and will always try to one-up each other: “Oh, Senator Kennedy went all Klan Master on someone at a Senate hearing? HOLD MY MOONSHINE!” Clay Higgins continues to embarrass the state and his constituents, and it’s really amazing how the quality of national politicians from the state of Louisiana has declined since the rise of the Tea Party and the horror of the country electing a biracial president two elections in a row. Louisiana used to have people like Hale Boggs, Russell Long, and Mary Landrieu on the national stage–now we have garbage like Kennedy and Cassidy and Higgins;1 who is probably more racist than David Duke. We also can lay claim to disgusting piece of shit Steve Scalise, a power-hungry hateful bigot whose only god is power and money. I’m not sure what happened to the Democratic Party in Louisiana, but it’s been pretty ineffectual for quite some time. Louisiana has always been a banana republic under one-party rule, but there are still Democrats in Louisiana and the Project 2025 takeover of the state has been unopposed for the most part. Part of is the national party’s total disinterest in red states to the point they’ve written them off completely. We do get some decent candidates in races, but without money or active boots-on-the-ground work, we will continue our slide into a third-world country (we’ve always joked about the state being just that, but now it’s not a joke anymore). Alas, I don’t have the energy or time to do much about any of this, and so that’s why I don’t complain about the situation more. But on the other hand, if I can bring attention to what’s going on in Louisiana to my small audience, that is something, isn’t it? Utilize my own gifts and focus on writing about situations that concern me? Well, I can try but I make no promises. (For the record, I love when I post something on social media about something going on here that’s horrible and then people come shrieking in to scream about how horrible it is here…um, thanks I HADN’T NOTICED)

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and please stay safe all those in the path of Helene.

Screenshot
  1. And Moses himself, the false prophet Mike Johnson, who is no Christian. ↩︎

Friends

After we moved to the suburbs and had not only a house but a second car, my mother decided that maybe religion was missing from the lives of my sister and I, and began taking us to church–not the Southern Baptist faith she herself was raised in, but the Church of Christ, which was my father’s family’s faith. It wasn’t like my sister and I hadn’t been to church before; whenever we visited relatives in Alabama we were inevitably dragged to church with them, whether we wanted to go or not. It wasn’t even up for debate, so yes, in some ways, my father’s family kind of forced religion on us when we didn’t really go to church at home with our parents. I never knew why Mom decided we needed to start going–she wound up having an off-and-on relationship with the church for the rest of her life–but we did. Dad played golf every Sunday morning and often hit buckets of balls after or maybe went out for lunch with the other players; I don’t know. But not only did we start going to church, she rewarded us by taking us to Ponderosa for lunch (where I first discovered Catalina French salad dressing, a favorite to this day) and then we’d go see a movie. Most of the movies are forgotten now, collecting dust and cobwebs until I think about that movie again and remember it was one Mom took us to.

The Last of Sheila was one of those movies, and I fell in love with it as I watched. It had everything I could possibly want: an incredibly clever murder mystery, a cast of movie stars I recognized, and it was about Hollywood, even though set and shot along the Riviera. It was an inside look at the rich and glamorous–something I felt was like another planet to me in my subdivision house, in my lower middle class existence which was a place where I felt like I didn’t belong.

Shortly after seeing the movie, I was at Zayre’s with a couple of bucks to buy books with, and there were three I wanted–The Last of Sheila and two others, but I could only afford two of them, and I regretfully put The Last of Sheila back because I’d already seen the movie and I could get it the next time.

Constant Reader, it wasn’t there when I went back. I never forget there was a book, either–but I didn’t know whether it was a novelization or an actual book the film had been based on; and I didn’t mind reading novelizations, either. When I rewatched the film again during the pandemic, I remembered there was a book and started looking for it on-line. It was clearly rare and beloved, because whenever a copy would come up for sale on second-hand sites it was always priced anywhere from $150-$300, and I didn’t care about the nostalgic aspects of it that much. Then last summer two popped up on ebay; both more expensive than I would have liked but still–reasonable enough to consider. I put in a bid on one and then realized the other was a “buy it now”, so I went ahead and bought it. A few days later I won the bid–and a little confused, decided to go ahead and honor the bid since I had put one in but simply forgot about it, and I gave the other away to a friend who also loved the movie for Christmas.

And finally, I settled in to read it–after another, recent rewatch.

The Sheila rode at anchor, stern to the quay, stern lines fastened securely over the bollards. The Mediterranean sun glanced off the brightwork and made of the white hull a dazzling blur. Her eighty-seven feet dwarfed the sleek ketch on her port side, a racing vessel owned by the pretender to the Spanish throne, but the Sheila was in her turn outclassed by the ninety-five-footer on her starboard, a powerful yacht owned by a South African diamond billionaire. The Palma marina was, as usual in the summer, crowded with the pleasure craft of the wealthy, berthed as tightly together as possible, their anchor chains frequently fouling.

Lee Parkman swung her long slender legs out of the taxicab and stood somewhat shakily on the quay, shielding her eyes from the too-bright noonday sun that pierced even through the lenses of. her oversized sunglasses. Her legs still felt rubbery from the long, bumpy tide over the dursty roads that led from the Palma Airport to the marina. Mallorca was like that, she thought. The paradox of moderan airport and luxurious anchorage linked by an ancient and ill-kept road.

I don’t know if they still do novelizations of popular films as a merchandising gimmick–the cover of this one has a little admonition to see the film READ THE NOVEL and of course, the ever-popular Now a Major Motion Picture From Warner Brothers. There’s also a lovely cast photo prominently featured on the book cover–with the cast posed together in the same way they are in the photograph in the book, which holds the key to the very clever puzzle at the heart of the book, and what a cast of early 1970’s luminaries it contained! James Mason, Joan Hackett, Dyan Cannon, James Coburn, a gorgeous young Ian McShane, Richard Benjamin, and the fabulous Raquel Welch. All play, in a way, traditional Hollywood archetypes: Mason is the director fallen on hard times; Benjamin the writer who can’t get a script film so works on rewrites of other people’s work; Cannon the blowsy loud shark-like Hollywood agent (based on Sue Mengers, anyone remember her?), Coburn as the asshole abusive producer; Welch playing the stunningly beautiful actress with little talent; McShane as her loser husband/manager; and Hackett as the Hollywood heiress, whose father was a monstrous tyrannical producer like the Coburn character, married to the Benjamin character and the only thing keeping him out of hock.

Coburn’s character, Clinton, invites all the others for a week-long trip along the Riviera on his boat, the Sheila, named after his late wife, killed by a hit and run driver about a year earlier. Sheila was a gossip columnist that Clinton truly loved, but she was also a typical Hollywood rags-to-riches story. She started out as a call girl and worked her way up to gossip columnist and married a rich producer before her tragic death. The driver of the car that killed her was never found. He claims to want to produce a picture, a way to honor his dead wife, called The Last of Sheila, which he wants Benjamin/Tom to write, Mason/Philip to direct, and Welch/Alice to star in. They will also spend the week playing a game–each person is assigned a card, and every night they will get clues they will have to solve to figure out who has the card. Once the person who has the card solves it, the game is over for the night so you have to find out who has the card before the cardholder does to get a point. None of them really want to play–but once the first night gets underway, some of them get into it and some of them don’t. There are also all kinds of clues and hints that something a lot more sinister is going on below the surface, as the guests become uncomfortably aware that the game is really about them and their secrets…and then there’s an attempted murder, and then Clinton himself is murdered on the second night.

It’s a fantastic set-up, and it’s an incredibly clever plot. The film’s screenplay, from which the novelization was adapted, was written by closeted gay actor Anthony Perkins and Stephen Sondheim (yes, that same Stephen Sondheim), which also lends depth and insight into this world of cutthroat behavior, backstabbing, and vengeance. The novelization itself is one of the better ones I’ve ever read; they were usually cranked out quickly by a pseudonymous writer trying to make a quick buck (no harm there; I’d certainly write them if the price was right and they were still a thing) who basically simply turned the screenplay into a book, without getting much into the story or layers or character development. But this one of The Last of Sheila is the rare one that you put down when finished and think, Oh, there was so much more that could have been told there–and it even fleshes the characters and the backstory–and the motives–out even further. It actually helps with your appreciation of the film by giving necessary back story to the relationships between them and their individual motives, and I am very glad that I read it.

The Last of Sheila will always be one of my favorite films, because it remains fresh and interesting and its cleverness never stops amazing me every time I watch it.

And of course, Bette Midler’s “Friends” plays over the closing credits–after the perfect ending–which was also my first real exposure to the Divine Miss M, whose debut album I bought shortly after seeing the film and I’ve been a fan ever since.

How did anyone not know?

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!