Tag: John Copenhaver

Two Dollars in the Jukebox

This marvelous interview with the amazing Margot Douaihy dropped while I was in the midst of Bouchercon or preparing for it, so I always intended to share it around on social media (what a thrill to be name-checked by such an amazing new star in the world of crime fiction). Her debut crime novel Scorched Grace was so phenomenal that I still think about it from time to time; her New Orleans was so exquisitely and artistically rendered that it gave me pause–and also made me wonder if I’ve been coasting and not working as hard as I should. (I always think that when I read a work that blows me away–I should try harder.)

Yesterday was spent in my chair watching college football and making notes in my journal on projects that are upcoming or are currently in progress. Despite all the sleep (I slept for eleven hours Friday night, and again last night) I still feel a bit out of it and drained and tired; but I am going to take a shower in a little bit and I am sure that will perk me right up. I did read some more of Shawn Cosby’s newest book but those opening few chapters hit me right in the soul and it’s going to take me a minute to process it. I also posted like three or four entries yesterday, too–I finished turning John Copenhaver’s questions for the Outwrite DC panel into a Greg interview (I plan on doing the same with the questions from the Bouchercon panels because I can, mwa-ha-ha!), also finished my entry announcing Death Drop, and another one about how The Children’s Bible was one of my first sources for images of hot muscular men (thanks again, Golden Press, for those sexy illustrations! I didn’t even mention Samson), so I am making progress on getting these drafted blogs finished and posted.

I feel a little pain in my mouth this morning, so I rinsed with salt water and took my pain pills. Pain is draining and exhausting, even if you take something for it, so that’s why I think I was so behind the eight ball with everything yesterday–it’s certainly why I am sleeping so much and so deeply, for which I am eternally grateful. There’s no more bleeding, which is great, and I am trying out hot coffee this morning (caffeine deficiency may have played a huge part in the tired thing yesterday). All I ate yesterday was protein shakes and ice cream (Haagen-Dasz strawberry; today is vanilla bean) which was weird and not very filling; I am going to have to go buy yogurt and more ice cream tomorrow, methinks, and explore some other soft food options, like oatmeal. I am going to have oatmeal for breakfast this morning–I actually like oatmeal and am not sure why I stopped having it in the mornings–and then see if I can figure out some other things. I bought some soups, so maybe I can soften crackers in the soup too. I remember moving back onto solid foods was an issue the first time around, so I have to keep that in mind as I slowly start reintroducing solids back. I know I will miss this unashamed and unabashed deep dive back into ice cream. My face also never swelled up, which is another indication of how good my dental surgeon was. Well done and bravo, sir!

The highlight of the day yesterday for me was watching Coco Gauff win the US Open. How absolutely delightful, and how delightful to have a young American star again to root for. I love tennis, but there really hasn’t been anyone on the women’s side with a larger than life personality like Serena Williams, or just flat out charismatic and likable (like Kim Clijsters) to watch and root for in a very long time. I think the guard is also gradually changing on the men’s side, with the Federer/Nadal/Djokovic triume slowly retiring as they get older, and it’s fun to see rising young stars like Carlos Alcazar play, too.

As for football, well…the Alabama-Texas game was exciting to watch, if strange; I’ve not seen Alabama play that sloppy or poorly very often in the seventeen years or so since Nick Saban came to Tuscaloosa. I also can’t remember the last time Alabama lost so early in the year–which means a second loss ends any play-off hopes they may have unless they go on to win the SEC. To see Alabama lose in Tuscaloosa by ten points to a non-SEC team early in the season? Unthinkable. The conference is not off to a great start this year; Miami roasted Jimbo and A&M yesterday; LSU’s horrific loss last weekend to Florida State; Mississippi got super-lucky to beat Tulane yesterday; and the rest of the conference isn’t exactly off to a great start either–even Georgia hasn’t looked invincible in their two wins, despite the margin of victory. The SEC is due for an off-year anyway; we’ve literally won four national championships in a row (2019 LSU, 2020 Alabama, 2021-22 Georgia) with three different teams, which is something no other conference can say this century, and also doesn’t include Florida, who won two in the aughts (as did LSU: LSU was the first team to win two titles since championship games were implemented). The only teams not from the south to win national titles this century are Oklahoma and Ohio State, and Oklahoma might as well be a Southern state as it’s not really in the Midwest either. In fact, the only two Big Twelve team to win national titles this century–Oklahoma and Texas–are joining the SEC next year. I’m still not sure how I feel about the realignments and conferences being killed off, but…the sport has changed dramatically since I was a child and ABC held the exclusive right to air games. LSU blew out Grambling State last night 72-10, and looked much better than they had the week before in that embarrassing loss to Florida State; but there’s also a big difference between FSU and GSU. I guess we’ll get a better idea of what LSU is like once we play at Mississippi State next week, and we’ll see how well Alabama bounces back from this disappointment for them. Auburn did manage to hold off California last night (I went to bed), but I also think Florida lost their opener to Utah? Yes, they did, or maybe it was Oregon? Regardless, they lost. Pity. (I despise Florida, and will only root for them when they play someone I hate even more, like Tennessee.)

So, today I am going to take it easy one more time without feeling guilty for not doing anything productive. I am going to do some chores–emptying the dishwasher, maybe some filing to clean up the mess that is currently my desk situation, and the refrigerator needs cleaning up too–and repair to the chair to read Shawn’s book for a bit. I also am going to make another cup of coffee and perhaps some oatmeal, washed down by a protein shake. I don’t know if my heart and blood pressure can take watching a Saints game, but Paul will want to watch and there’s also the men’s final for the US Open today. And maybe I will finish some other blog posts. One never knows, really.

Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader–and if I’m not back later, be sure I’ll be back in the morning.

Near You

Several weekends ago, I did an on-line panel for Outwrite DC. The moderator was John Copenhaver (whom you should already be reading), and my co-panelists were the always delightful and intelligent Kelly J. Ford, Margot Douaihy, Renee James, and Robyn Gigl. The video is actually up on Youtube, if you would like to watch it. John’s questions were insightful and intelligent (as always), and the conversation was marvelous, inspiring, and fun; there’s nothing I love more than communing with other queer crime writers (or any writers, to be certain), and I always try very hard to not monopolize panels because I do have a tendency to talk too much–especially if and when I get going on a topic I am passionate about. So, I thought it might be fun to take John’s questions and turn them into a long form interview, for thoroughly selfish and totally self-promotional reasons.

The panel blurb claims that “queer characters are riveting and necessary material for crime fiction and how those stories can shape (and perhaps reshape) the landscape of contemporary crime fiction.” Do you agree with this statement—and why do the stories of queer characters have the potential to shape crime fiction?

I completely agree with this statement. Queer crime fiction has a very proud history that was never really recognized or appreciated by the mainstream crime writers, readers, organizations, and conferences. That is changing for the better.

New blood is always necessary for any genre–horror, romance, crime, literary fiction–because genres tend to stagnate after a certain period of time. The cultural shifts of the late 1960’s and 1970’s echoed in crime fiction, for example; you couldn’t write crime in those periods without addressing all the cultural and social shifts; Ross Macdonald’s later novels are a good example of this. The 1970’s saw a lot of anti-hero books being written. The private eye sub-genre had grown quite stale by this time, which was when the women really moved in and gave it a shot of adrenaline–Marcia Muller, Sara Paretsky, and Sue Grafton blazed that trail, and revitalized a sub-genre that had kind of lost its way. Queer writers and crime writers of color are currently doing the same to the entire genre. Voices and perspectives we aren’t used to seeing are now getting into print and changing how we see, not only our genre, but each other. Crime fiction has always given voice to societal outsiders and outliers; queer people and people of color are the ultimate outsiders and outliers in this country. Who better to tell stories of societal alienation?

Why did you choose your sub-genre? How do you think the sub-genre has influenced the types of characters you write?

Well, I write in several different ones. Chanse MacLeod was a straight private-eye series; Scotty Bradley was more of an amateur sleuth/humorous series, but he does have a private eye license in Louisiana. A Streetcar Named Murder was a cozy, with an amateur sleuth heroine who gets caught up in a family mystery. I’ve also done young adult and “new adult,” whatever that is (it’s been described as ages 16-25), and Gothics with a touch of the supernatural. I tend to write things that I like to read, and I have a varied reading taste. I started writing the Chanse series because I wanted to do a harder-edged private eye series with a queer twist and set it in New Orleans. I didn’t know about J. M. Redmann’s Micky Knight series when I started writing Chanse; would I have done something different had I known she’d already covered the hardboiled lesbian private eye in New Orleans? We’ll never know, I suppose. Scotty was meant to be a lark; a funny caper novel and a one-off. And here we are nine books later…

As for Streetcar, I had been wanting to try a traditional mystery with a straight woman main character for a long time. When the opportunity presented itself, I jumped in with both feet. I like trying new things and pushing myself. Having to follow the “rules” of a traditional cozy was a challenge–especially because I have such a foul mouth in real life. I love noir so am working on two different gay ones at the moment.

Why do you think amateur detectives are appealing? Do you think there’s a reason queer characters often find themselves in the role of amateur detective?

I think it’s because we all think we’re smarter than the police? We enjoy seeing a character we can identify with figuring things out faster than the cops, especially without access to all the evidence, interviews, and forensics the cops do. Murder She Wrote has been off the air for about thirty years and yet the books based on the show continue coming out every year. If we start out in mysteries reading the juvenile series–Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys and Judy Bolton and all the rest were amateurs, so we always cut our teeth in the genre with them to begin with. Scotty is basically an amateur, even though he has a private eye license he rarely uses; he and the boys never get hired (although they kind of do in the new one, coming this November.)

Let’s talk about place. Greg, your books take place in the South. Why is place important to the crime novel—why is it especially important to the queer crime novel?

Place shapes who we are–not just as queer people, but as people in general. There are similarities between growing up in a small town in the Midwest and growing up in one in the South, but the differences are very marked. I’ve lived all over the country–pretty much everywhere but New England or the Northwest–and always felt, as a Southerner (despite no accent and not growing up there) like an outsider. Couple that with being gay in a time when it was still considered a mental illness, and you have someone always on the outside looking in. But I have that Southern pull to write about the South–although many would say that writing about New Orleans and writing about the South are not the same; like me, New Orleans both is and isn’t of the South, and I feel that very strongly. I’ve written books set in California and Kansas, even one in upstate New York, but I very much consider myself a Southern writer.

Place is even more important in a queer crime novel because place shapes the queer people so much. As a writer, I think one of my strengths is setting and place, and I think that comes from being very much a fan of Gothics growing up. Gothics are known for place and mood, and I think those are two things I do well.

All of you write wonderfully flawed characters. Sometimes, as LGBTQ+ writers, we feel the burden of representation and the urge to write only positive LGBTQ+ characters as an attempt to undo history’s (the dominant culture’s) demonization of us. Unfortunately, that can be limiting—even flattening. Clearly, you’ve all struck a beautiful balance with your characters. Talk a bit about how you approached this issue.

The flaws, to me, are what make the characters seem real. Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys always annoyed me because they were so perfect; no one is that perfect, and anyone that close to perfect in real life would be irritating and insufferable. I am am quite aware that I am flawed (one of my biggest flaws is believing I am self-aware because I most definitely am not), but I am not trying to be perfect; I just want to be the best version of myself that I can be. By showing queer people with all their facets and flaws and failures and blind spots, we’re showing the reader that we are human; despite what those who hate us say or claim, we are human beings just like everyone else, just trying to get through life and do the best that we can. The villain in my first book was a gay man–and the entire book was a commentary on how we, as queer people, tend to overlook flaws and red flags from members of our own community. Just because someone is queer doesn’t mean they are a good person–and queers with a criminal bent do exist, and often take advantage of that sense of camaraderie we feel with each other, especially when we don’t know the person well. I tend to trust a queer person more readily than I will a straight person, and that’s wrong–which is why I think we feel so much more hurt when queer people betray us.

Speaking of the demonization of LGBTQ+ folks … Ray Bradbury of Fahrenheit 451 fame said, “There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running around with lit matches.” What do you think about the current tactics to ban queer books from schools, libraries, and even bookstores in places like Florida, Arkansas, and Texas? Why are they targeting queer books?

This is, I hope, the last gasp of the homophobes who’ve never updated their hate speech in over fifty years. What the hate group “Moms for Liberty” are doing and saying is no different than what Anita Bryant said and did in the 1970’s, what Maggie Gallagher and her evil co-horts at the National Organization for Marriage repeated, then came the One Million Moms…all too often it’s the cisgender straight white women who are the real foes of progressive politics who fight to uphold a bigoted status quo. They always claim they’re concerned moms worried about their children–but are perfectly fine with them being shot up at school; working in a meat factory on the night shift at thirteen (have fun in hell, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, when you get there and French-kiss your Lord and Master Lucifer); or shouldn’t have the right to vote…they know better than a child’s actual parents, you see, about what the child needs or wants. Maybe they should spend more time with their own children than worrying about everyone else’s? Phyllis Schlafly, queen skank of the conservative right, ignored her own family while she embarked on her crusade to strip women of their rights and autonomy–all the while shrieking like a hyena into any microphone nearby that she was fighting progress to save the American family while selling some Leave it to Beaver-like nonsense as reality. I always felt sorry for her gay son. Imagine that as your mother.

As for why, it’s about control and power. I actually respected Anita Bryant more, because she truly believed all the vile, horrible, unChristian things she said and espoused. Most of the others, including the unspeakably vile and disgusting Moms for Liberty, are working a grift for money, attention and power. Hilariously, they’ve sold their souls in the worst possible way in the guise of family, religion and God; if they’ve ever actually read their Bibles, they need to work on their reading comprehension skills as they are both apostates and blasphemers who will spend eternity doing the breast stroke in the lake of eternal fire. Hope they enjoy it.

Sorry your husbands and children don’t love you, but who can really blame them?

What are you working on next? What’s coming up?

I have a short story in an anthology called School of Hard Knox from Crippen and Landru (and somehow got a co-editor credit for the book with Donna Andrews and Art Taylor); Death Drop, the first in a new series from Golden Notebook press, drops in October; and the ninth Scotty comes out in November, Mississippi River Mischief. I am writing a gay noir, and may be writing second books for the new series I started with Crooked Lane last year as well as a sequel to Death Drop, and have a couple of short stories I want to finish to submit to anthologies I’d love to be in.

That Was Yesterday

Your biweekly Pays the Bills Wednesday had somehow rolled around again, and yes, I have bills to pay before I put my sleepy head to rest tonight. I slept very well last night–didn’t even hear the alarm at first this morning–and certainly didn’t want to get up; the rain, however brief it was last night, apparently dropped the temperature and so it’s actually cold in the apartment this morning; I suspect the coldness overnight inside was part of the reason I slept so deeply and well, only getting up once. (It’s a chilly 79 degrees outside right now; I may need a jacket after this summer’s blistering heat.)

In very exciting news, I got my edits for Mississippi River Mischief yesterday, and my editor loved my book. Cue enormous sigh of relief. I was worried (I worry about everything) that it wasn’t good and that it didn’t do what I wanted it to do, but I can now breathe a sigh of relief. I am starting to feel–partly from all these Alfred Hitchcock Presents short stories–a lot more confident, more brave, and perhaps even more daring about my work and what I try to accomplish with what I am writing. John (Copenhaver, you can check out his books here, thank me later) asked so many smart and insightful questions of us on the Queer Crime Panel (which you can watch right here!) on Sunday afternoon–as well as listening to the brilliant answers given by my oh-so-talented co-panelists (Renee James, Robyn Gigl, Margot Douaihy, and Kelly J. Ford) made me start looking at my work, what I do with it, what I am trying to do with it, and what I can do with it. I’m starting to feel inspired again, which is absolutely lovely, and even if my creative ADHD is really flying off the charts lately, it’s been kind of nice. I’m always afraid I’m going to stop having ideas or being able to write. *shudders at mere thought*

But I ran my errands and got home relatively easily and efficiently, and I beat the short thunderstorm home. It didn’t last near long enough, but maybe it cooled things down a little for a bit, which is all any of us can even dare to dream of at this point in the summer. I got two more Alfred Hitchcock Presents anthologies at the post office: Stories to Be Told With the Lights On and The Master’s Choice. What I am really loving about these stories is they kind of exist in that shadow world between crime and speculative fiction. I should probably turn this into a project, as I tend to do to everything at some point. I am learning from every story I read, and I am also working on my critical skills while I do. What didn’t I like about this story? How could it have been made better? All of these things are subjective, of course, and then I also kind of try to analyze why I didn’t like the things I didn’t like; I think the concept behind every story is a good one–and authors don’t always succeed in pulling off what they are attempting with, and for, the reader.

I kind of was dragging a bit yesterday, and kind of have been all week thus far. I think part of it is the readjustment to Paul being home and my supervisor being back after her unexpected and unforeseen absence, which mirrored his almost exactly. But I am also digging myself out from under the malaise or whatever has been gripping me recently, and I really need to get back to the writing. I wrote a little yesterday, but not nearly enough–fatigue and inability to string a sentence together forced me to give up about one hundred words in. But it was a hundred more words than the day before, and it whetted my appetite a bit. I also did some more mindless research into the historical period I am thinking about setting a book in, which was interesting. It’s not really world-building since the world existed at the time, but rather world-reconstructing. This weekend I am going to try to get more writing done, and hopefully we’ll also be getting a cat (fingers crossed). I think the heat wave is going to be continuing, with a bit of a break; the temperature isn’t supposed to go above 93 today, which means no 120+…and how sad it is that it’s being called by local meteorologists (I think they’re in on the joke, however) a “cold front”?

Bouchercon is nigh, and my birthday is this weekend. I am trying to fit in a lot before San Diego because I am having oral surgery the Friday after I get back (at last) and at some point I’m going to probably have to have surgery to repair my left biceps (sorry if I’ve mentioned this before) so I don’t know how I will be or how long the recovery will be or what I’ll be able to do or deal with during said recovery. This is part and parcel, one supposes, of the decline and decay of my body as I get older, and it’s not like I ever took super good care of it before. Hell, when I was a personal trainer teaching aerobics I smoked cigarettes and spent my weekends drinking in the gay bars. (Facebook memories recently reminded me of how and who I was when I first broke into print with my first novels and short stories…my naïveté was really something. I was always who I was, only now I was a published author and I dressed like, well, like I always did. I rarely wore pants! I was always either in sweats, workout shorts, or shorts; T-shirts and sweatshirts and tank tops. That will be a topic for another time, though.) I’ll be sixty-two this weekend. Sixty-two! Lord, that will be an interesting blog post to write.

I also realized last night that this year the Scotty series turns twenty! I wish I had thought about that ahead of time; I could have done something to celebrate and mark this landmark in the series. Maybe I’ll do a Scotty-centric entry; I should be doing that anyway since Mississippi River Mischief is coming out this November….it was a bit of a jolt to realize it’s been twenty years–over twenty years, actually, since Bourbon Street Blues was a spring release–April 1 or May 1, I am not sure which. Twenty years of Scotty. My God, I can hardly believe it.

The joys of birthdays once you’re past a certain age, I suppose.

And on that note, I am. heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely, lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow. Or later; one never knows.

Some Broken Hearts Never Mend

Ah, Monday morning and back into the office with me. I slept a little late yesterday, got up feeling very refreshed and rested, then spent the morning doing research, some touch-up chores, and some reading. I also did some writing before my 5 pm EST panel, moderated by the marvelous John Copenhaver and including four of my favorite queer writers: Robyn Gigl, Renee James, Kelly J. Ford, and Margot Douaihy. They were all brilliant, and I was my usual incoherent rambling mess who then proceeds to forget what the actual question was. I should probably prepare for these things, but why start now? After all, no matter how much I prepare, my co-panelists will always be incisive and insightful and intelligent and I will be….Gregalicious.

I did finish reading the remaining short stories in Alfred Hitchcock Presents My Favorites in Suspense, and enjoyed all three–and again, like the others, reminded me the only thing limiting my short stories in what I write about and try to accomplish is my own insecurities as a writer and laziness about doing research. The final three stories (“Treasure Trove” by F. Tennyson Jesse, “The Body of the Crime” by Wilbur Daniel Steele, and “A Nice Touch” by Mann Rubin) were all marvelous, all containing that delightfully nasty twist at the end that is so reminiscent of so much of Hitchcock’s television shows and anthologies. Reading these stories–these old anthologies–has really been quite an education in short story writing–and I’ve also learned a lot about my own limitations when it comes to my creativity and what is possible. I need to, as I said the other day, write precisely the things I don’t think I can, or have the knowledge or skillset to tackle. If it’s a research issue, write the fucking story first if the research is fucking intimidating and make the research part of the editing/revision process. It’s really not as hard as I make it out to be for myself all the fucking time, seriously.

If there’s a way to make it harder I can assure you I will find it.

I also read the first story in Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories to Be Read With the Door Locked, “Hijack” by Robert L. Fish. Mr. Fish was a prolific short story writer, and his estate endowed Mystery Writers of America to present an award in his honor every year to an outstanding short story by a first time published author every year (Rob Osler won this last year, the first of a lot of award recognition for him; his debut novel Devil’s Chew Toy has turned up on almost every awards short-list for the year). “Hijack” is a story that doesn’t hold up well; airline and airport security measures have amped up in the decades since the World Trade Center was bombed for the first time back in 1993 or 1994; ur could have been 1995. All I know is 1) I was in Manhattan when it happened and 2) I was working at the airport when the new security protocols were put into place. There probably aren’t many of us around who remember the hijacking plague of the late 1960s and early 1970s; it seemed like almost every day a flight to Miami was being hijacked to Cuba. It was so commonplace it became part of popular culture; comedians and movies and television shows constantly making hijacking jokes. But it’s a very good story with, as always, the requisite twist that comes at the end (hilariously, the ransom demand is for $250,000–a lot of money when the story was written but practically nothing in terms of today’s money and wealth) which I wasn’t quite expecting; it’s not a spoiler because the story is at least forty years old so–turns out the crew hijacked the plane themselves and killed a passenger to frame for it. It actually could have worked back then, too–and it made me want to read more of Mr. Fish.

I intended to try to write or edit before the panel yesterday, but as always with something like this, I was too antsy and nervous to focus, so I spent most of the day doing some more research–old New Orleans, Mayan gods, homosexuality in old Hollywood–and cleaning and picking things up. I also ordered some more of these Arctic Air hydration coolers; they really work well, and if you freeze the filter, well, they blow extremely cold air. I have three from several years ago before we got the new a/c system (summer of 2020, it must have been, as we got the new system after Mardi Gras in 2021), but lost the power cord for one of them. I’ve had them going since Paul left and they’ve really helped in the kitchen. I also bought a really powerful if small fan for the living room while making groceries Saturday afternoon, and it is super powerful, too–I also ordered another of those, too. I know I sound like a wimp, but you try cooling down your house when the heat index is 120+ every day for weeks on end–and of course, the kitchen add-on is always so much hotter than the rest of the apartment.

I slept okay last night, feel a bit groggy this morning, but hopefully the coffee with work its magic on me and I’ll be wide awake by the time I get to the office this morning. I think we have a busy schedule, my supervisor is back from having COVID (haven’t see her in over a week), and of course, after work today I ordered some things from Sam’s Club to be delivered. Next week I have my meeting with the orthopedic surgeon to see when we can schedule my biceps surgery–assuming I need it, which I am pretty certain I do–and then after the recovery for that I can start exercising again. I have to remember I am older and more frail than I used to be, so getting back into shape in my sixties is going to take far longer and be more painful and slow than it was in my thirties when I did it the first time. I didn’t write anything all weekend (or for most of the week last week, really) so I need to get back on that horse this week as well. Bouchercon is looming on the horizon as well.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines and getting another cup of coffee. Have a great Monday and I will check in with you again tomorrow.

Here You Come Again

Monday! Back to the office for the weekly routine! It took me awhile to fall asleep last night, but eventually Morpheus opened his arms and welcomed me into the Dreaming, although I don’t remember anything I dreamt last night. Yesterday was, over all, not bad. I’d slept fairly decently Saturday night, but had some trouble with motivation yesterday. I did write a little bit, but for the most part felt burned out and mostly tired for most of the day. The end of the month is nigh, of course, which is a bit of a trip–can it really be August already–and the year is slipping past. I have a busy rest of the year ahead of me, too–after Bouchercon I am having oral surgery, and I am trying to schedule a consultation so I can get my arm surgery scheduled before the end of the year. I’d prefer to do neither, but I am tired of mouth pain and am not sure how much longer I could last dealing with the pain from my teeth. I am just ready to be done permanently with mouth pain.

It was raining when I went to bed last night, so I imagine the sound of rain helped me fall into a deep sleep; if only we could have a thunderstorm every night when it’s time for bed. Paul is leaving Wednesday, so when I get home from work that night he won’t be here. I am kind of in denial about it, to be completely honest. I’m going to be excessively bored, undoubtedly, but the key is to make sure I utilize the time effectively rather than allowing myself to be bored, you know? I can always read something, there’s a lot of shows for me to catch up on that Paul’s not interested in–Superman and Lois, and I should finish Titans, and My Adventures with Superman–and there are other classic films I’d like to watch as well. I can also watch the television in the bedroom and read in bed every night if I so desire.

We did finish watching Last Call last night, which was terribly sad because of how the killer was able to get away with it–twice!–before they finally linked him to the gruesome murders, and the difficulties prosecutors had in determining jurisdiction. We had a serial killer in the aughts who was preying on gay men down in the bayou parishes of Terrebonne and Lafourche back in those pre-Katrina times; no one’s ever written about him as far as I know, and most of his victims were homeless and/or hustlers, so no one cared much about the victims (similar to what happened with the Jeff Davis Eight in the same time period–women with records for prostitution and drugs murdered and no one ever caught or prosecuted) but at least they did finally catch the Bayou Killer (that’s not what his name was; I’m not even sure they gave him one since no one cared about the victims), but what the primary underlying theme to both true crime stories is that the police, for the most part, didn’t care about the victims so they didn’t try terribly hard to find them justice.

Yet another example of the fraught relationship between my community and the cops.

We also watched the first three episodes of Gotham Knights, which was better than I was expecting. DC’s continuity is something I no longer understand, as there are any number of Batman children and Robins and so forth having accumulated over the years, so I am not really sure about how the cast of this show came together–Batman’s adopted son, who isn’t a Robin, is accused of hiring the Joker’s daughter and some sidekicks to murder Bruce Wayne/Batman for the inheritance. Now they–with the help of a young Black female Robin–have to clear their names and catch the real killers, which involves the Court of Owls. I have no idea what’s going on these days in the comics with the Batman family–but I will always think of them as the originals I grew up with: Batman, Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing (my favorite).

I also spent some time reading Kelly J. Ford’s The Hunt, which I am enjoying a lot. Kelly really gets the Southern working class voice and setting perfectly, and of course, she’s very literate in the way she writes. The book is layered and textured, and captures that small Southern community feeling more perfectly than most writers I’ve encountered. The queers are doing some really great work in crime fiction these days, which is pretty amazing–with amazing new voices coming along, it seems, fairly regularly over the last few years. Kelly, John Copenhaver, Margot Douaihy, Marco Carocari, Rob Osler and PJ Vernon are all doing amazing work and getting mainstream recognition, which is even cooler. Rob’s Devil’s Chew Toy continues to wrack up award nominations for debut novel; he’s currently up for both the Anthony and Macavity, and was one of the finalists for the first ever Lillian Jackson Braun award. Well done, Rob!

I, of course, didn’t complete my ambitious plans for the weekend, and that was in no small part due to that little voice reminding me in my head repeatedly what are you going to do while Paul’s gone–and of course, it never takes much persuasion for me to procrastinate or to be lazy, so I would give in and go do something besides sit at the computer and write, which is of course terrible. But I also didn’t want to not spend time with Paul while he was awake, either, since he’s leaving on Wednesday. Sigh. It truly never ends.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have as lovely a Monday as possible, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again later.

Sideshow

One of the fun things you get to deal with when you’re a queer mystery writer is the diversity panel.

What, you may well ask, is a diversity panel?

It’s what used to happen back in the day when well-meaning non-minority people realized they had to do something with non-white non-straight mystery writers coming to mystery conventions. What better way than to wash your hands of working for diversity by throwing all of the non-white non-straight writers at a conference onto a “diversity panel”?

Back when I was getting started and still was doing touring for book store events, I used to joke that signings/readings always made me feel like a sideshow freak hawking snake oil; the mass signings at events like BEA (Book Expo America) were the worst for this. I always wound up sitting next to someone enormously popular or famous (when they’re done alphabetically, I always expect to be seated next to Charlaine Harris, which is quite humbling. The most humbling of all was sitting next to Sharyn McCrumb at the South Carolina Book Festival. Her line literally went out of the room and into the hallway….ao I just started opening the books for her to make it run more smoothly. Might as well be useful since I was just sitting there doing nothing.)

But that was years before I was ever put on a diversity panel. Ah, the well-meaning diversity panel. Make no mistake, it’s always meant well–the path to hell and all that–but inevitably these panels would devolve into let me teach you nice straight white cisgender people about homophobia/racism/misogyny. The problem was always not the intention, which was good (inclusivity is never a bad thing), but the mentality that you could throw everyone outside the straight white cisgender class onto that type of panel and not worry about actually putting those authors onto other panels wasn’t the best. Conference diversity was the goal, and tossing out a “diversity panel’ to check off that box…yeah, no thanks.

As if having your entire writing career reduced to, in my case, who I fuck isn’t a bit disheartening, to say the least. It also very clearly sends the message that the only benefit any audience would ever get out of listening to me speak would be my ability to teach them about what it’s like to be a GAY writer. Not a mystery writer, not a writer, but a GAY writer. When I taught the character/stereotype class for SinC into Good Writing at New Orleans Bouchercon, I opened with “I don’t get up in the morning and shut off my gay alarm and go down my gay staircase and make myself a gay cup of coffee. I shut off my alarm, go downstairs and make a cup of coffee like everyone else does.”

I’m a gay man, and I write (mostly) about gay men. I’ve written and centered characters who were gay men before, and will probably do so again. My driving passion, though, is to write about my community and people like me. I long ago accepted I’d never get rich doing so, but I write what interests me and the concerns and plights of gay men are usually at the top of that list. I bristled whenever I was assigned to a queer panel or a diversity panel at a mainstream community event, but I also felt obligated to do the work–and I’ve always (wrongly) believed that complaining sounds like ingratitude. (Ah, that Christian brainwashing!) If I do sit on the panel and talk about the history of queer crime fiction, writers from the past who influenced me but are out of print today, and talk about why I write what I write, maybe some hearts and minds can be changed, or at least influenced to do some reflection and processing that can lead to effective change.

But…I can also talk about writing, and inspiration, and plotting and character development and dialogue and the mechanics of novel/story construction. I can talk about suspense and cliff-hangers, and how to keep the reader turning the page. I can talk about setting and place, scene and mood and voice, first person v. third or present v. past tense. I mean, I get it. If you want someone to talk about gay crime writing, you should get a gay crime writer; every writer can speak to those things, but not every writer can talk about being a gay crime writer. But it’s so nice when I can talk about something else, you know?

The diversity panel all too often would also be the only panel we “others” would get assigned to, because clearly the only interesting thing about us and our work was it didn’t center straight white cisgender people. They were always scheduled at terrible times–either super-early in the morning or late in the afternoon; and inevitably, there would be panels scheduled against packed with superstars everyone wants to hear. If having your work and career distilled down into simply being about you fuck is disheartening, imagine being assigned to a panel at 4 in the afternoon on Friday to talk about how who you fuck makes you different from the majority of authors to the six or seven people who show up for it (if you were lucky).

If signings or readings made me feel like a sideshow freak hawking snake oil, diversity panels tend to make me feel like some exotic creature behind glass in a zoo somewhere. (There is, however, a defense for these panels, in that they do make marginalized writers easier to find for marginalized readers, but that’s an argument for another day.) I made the conscious decision to start refusing to do them quite a while ago, probably after the St. Petersburg Bouchercon. I did agree to do one at Bouchercon in Toronto, and I only agreed to do that one because Kristopher Zgorski was moderating and he pulled the panel together.

But I will say this: the diversity panel in Toronto was very well attended, and I met not only some writers and readers that were new to me, but those folks have become friends in the time since. I was pleasantly surprised that we had a full room; which I took as an incredible sign because it wasn’t an all-encompassing diversity panel but restricted to queer people, and that many people showed up. (I suspect a lot of that had to do with Kristopher’s blog readership more than any of us who were actually on the panel.) I believe the panel was–and forgive me if my faulty memory leaves someone out–Owen Laukkanen, Stephanie Gayle, John Copenhaver, Jessie Chandler, and me. It was great. We had an amazing conversation, I got to meet Stephanie and John for the first time, and it’s always fun hanging with Owen and Jessie. Kristopher asked great questions. When it was over, I was pleasantly surprised. The audience was receptive and also asked great questions.

When I was helping do the program for Dallas Bouchercon, the local committee really wanted a diversity panel. I agreed to put one together on two conditions: 1, that I would be the moderator so could control the topics under discussion* and 2. it would not be the only panel the participants would be assigned to. I made sure that was the case since I was helping write the program, and knowing I had the power to ensure that happened was the only reason I agreed to organize it. I also asked everyone who was on the Dallas panel if they minded being on the panel, and guaranteed them another panel while asking. I also assured them refusing the diversity panel would not affect any decisions about other panels, either–because you have to worry about that, too! I called it “Not a Diversity Panel” and I had planned on not talking about any of us being writers from the perspective of being marginalized, but at most, how being “on the margins” impacted how, what, and who we chose to write about.

Ironically, I wound up not going to Dallas after all; an inner ear infection kept me in New Orleans.

Diversity panels have come a long way from what they used to be, but that danger is still there. I would urge conference programmers to think long and hard before deciding to put together a diversity panel, and why you think it’s necessary to have one. If you do decide that it’s something needed for the program, remember that the authors on it should have a chance to be on a panel where they can be an author, not just a diverse author. Diversity issues and concerns should be discussed, and diversity panels are often the place for those conversations that are so important and necessary to happen. But they can easily can go down the path to the dark side, very easily, in which the panelists are made to feel like zoo animals being poked, prodded, and observed. It’s great that people will show up in droves to these panels now–but that’s why sensitivity and a moderator who has experience with marginalization is essential, to bar a repeat of that horrible diversity panel where a well-respected and lauded editor, about three quarters of the way through the panel where a very great discussion was being had decided to opine, But it has to be about the writing! The writing has to be good!

Because of course diversity is pushing bad work forward? Because work from non-white non-straight writers usually doesn’t measure up? I was horrified, and lost any respect I had for the editor along with any desire to ever work with said editor.

I will forever feel ashamed for not calling out that comment in the moment, but I was so stunned and shocked I didn’t know what to say.

Pride (In The Name of Love)

I had a revelation last night.

I’d been feeling sour lately; the constant hate attacks leveled at me and my community relentlessly; the bigotry and hatred against us so naked in its hostile resentment. I was also feeling sour about Pride and its co-opting by corporations eager for queer dollars but who cower before the bigots (here’s looking at you, Target and Anheuser-Busch), and I actually started writing an A Charlie Brown Christmas-type diatribe about how the meaning of Pride has changed and been demeaned and devalued and lost over the last few decades. I may still write it, I don’t know. But last night it occurred to me the best thing I could do to fight the bigots this month is to celebrate my joy in who I am, in my community, and in my country. Because yes, it’s my country, too–and don’t you ever fucking forget it.

I wasn’t meant to have the traditional American male life trajectory. There was never going to be a wife or children, even if I had been born straight. I realized very early on in life that I would be a terrible parent–I don’t pay enough attention to be a good one–and so I ruled that possibility out. I also always wanted to be a writer, and I honestly think being one is the only thing that could have possibly made me happy in this life, gay or straight; but it was such an overwhelming piece of who I am that I could have never committed to a white collar salaried job for a corporation. For me, the day job just needed to be enough to cover life’s necessities; it was never going to get my entire attention and dedication and energy. But not being straight, and not seeing any kind of representation of people who were like me in any medium–television, film, books, comic books–and seeing only the dominant societal paradigm modeled repeatedly, and knowing I didn’t fit comfortably into that paradigm, made me believe there was something wrong with me, something dark and horrible and shameful that couldn’t ever be public knowledge. Couldn’t ever be admitted. The overwhelming shame at being something different, something unusual, was engrained deep into my soul. I was miserable for many reasons for a very long time, but the primary was denying who I was: a gay male writer. Recognizing, and accepting, that truth has gone a long way towards helping me heal, become a better person, a better adult, and has certainly brought me a great deal of joy.

I love my writing career. I do. I’m very proud of it, every last bit and piece of it, whether it was crime or horror or suspense or sports journalism or erotica or romance or whatever it may have been that I created, that I wrote, that I put a piece of myself into. I’ve had some absolutely amazing highs in my career, and I also know that I don’t actually give myself enough credit (any credit, usually) for what I have done and accomplished. I’ve been nominated for a shit ton of awards. I complain about it a lot–there are many days when I don’t want to do it, times when I have to force myself to do it, and yet…I am never happier than I am when I am writing, creating, getting my daily word count, and rereading the book when going over the page proofs..which is when I usually realize (for the first time since starting to write the damned thing) that hey, I’m not so bad at this as I always think I am and then of course, there’s the day the box of books arrives.

I also got to interview the marvelous Margot Douaihy for Saints and Sinners’ Pride Month celebration, which you can find right here: https://youtu.be/RQ2e22mRFqw. I think it went pretty well, and is yet one another example of how wonderful and lucky my life is and how I should always be grateful. My last three novels accounted for some of the best reviews of my career, and accounted for seven (!) award nominations for me over the last couple of years–mainstream awards, at that. (I supposed it’s really only six; one of the nominations is for an anthology I edited, and I don’t really count that as one of my books; editing an anthology is an entirely different animal than writing a book. It’s still work, it’s still a lot to get through, and I am proud of my anthologies just as I am of the novels…but I don’t think of those as being wholly mine; the anthologies also primarily belong to the contributors, really.

This last year or so has actually been, despite all the personal drama and trauma, has actually been lovely for me on many levels. Over the past year, I’ve reconnected with the queer crime publishing community. I walked away from it over a decade ago; tired of people pretending to be my friend while driving the knife in and twisting it, tired of always being made to feel like my work wasn’t worthy or meant to be taken seriously, and so on. As I moved into and toward the more mainstream mystery community and trying to carve out a space for myself in that world, there were setbacks and pitfalls…and homophobia. As tiring as it is to have to deal with that kind of shit every day, I also recognized that the only way queer crime writers were going to get their due in the mainstream is if some of us went out there and made room at the table for us. That was why I joined various mainstream mystery organization’s boards of directors, not only to do work that would benefit the entire crime writing community but also to make space for queers, too–if by doing nothing more than showing up and being noticed. Presence makes an enormous difference, and sometimes…it helps to have a queer face and voice there to pipe up every once in a while. Over the last two years, thanks to making some terrific new friends who are also queer crime writers, and amazingly gifted and talented at what they do (John Copenhaver, Marco Carocari, Kelly J. Ford, Robyn Gigl, and so many more), and they are looking to form a queer crime writing community to organize and help the organizations and conferences be more inclusive and welcoming. It was lovely spending time with other queer crime writers at Bouchercon in Minneapolis. John and Marco also went out of their way to include me in things at Left Coast Crime and Sleuthfest last year, which was also marvelously kind.

So, yes, I am proud. I am proud to be a gay American, and I am proud to be a queer crime writer. I’m sorry that my existence bothers you, but my life is also none of your fucking business. It’s hilarious to me that the people who obsess about sex lives and genitals are the “christians”–you know, I spend absolutely zero time every day obsessing about the sex lives and genitals of other people…because it’s none of my fucking business.

And I am going to continue to be proud here, every fucking day of this motherfucking month. Fuck you, homophobes and haters.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll talk to you again later.

Like a Prayer

For me, one of the great joys and pleasures of being an author and being part of the business is getting to meet and discover new-to-me talents. I am very quirky when it comes to reading; I do things like always leave one book by an author unread so I know I still have one more book of theirs to read–there are a couple of authors I am caught up on completely and waiting for another title is agony (looking at you, Laura Lippman and Megan Abbott and John Copenhaver).

I had heard of Scorched Grace before this past Saints and Sinners; Paul had asked me if I knew the author and explained everything about her and her debut novel several months before the event. I was of course completely fascinated; how can you not be fascinated by “her main character is a chain-smoking tattooed lesbian former punk rocker who is now a nun”? I immediately ordered a copy–isn’t that cover amazing?–and then at Saints and Sinners, I heard Margot read from it, and then attended a panel she was on and was terribly impressed. I decided it absolutely had to be my next read. It took me a lot longer to read than it should have–particularly since I was enjoying it so much–which has more to do with other obligations and pure exhaustion so shouldn’t be used as a gauge of the book’s quality.

Because this book deserves your full attention.

The devil isn’t in the details. Evil thrives in blind spots. In absence, negative space, like the haze of a sleight-of-hand trick. The details are God’s work. My job is keeping those details in order.

It took me four and a half hours to do the laundry and clean the stained glass, and my whole body felt wrecked. Every tendon strained. Even swallowing hurt. So, when my Sisters glided into the staff lounge for the meeting, folders and papers pressed against their black tunics, I slipped into the alley for some divine reflection–a smoke break. It was Sunday, dusk.

Vice on the sabbath, I know. Not my finest moment. But carpe diem.

An hour to myself was all I needed. An aura of menace taunted me all day. The air was thick and gritty, like it wanted to bare-knuckle fight. Sticky heat, typical in New Orleans, but worse that day. The sun, the swollen red of a mosquito bite. Slow simmer belying the violence of the boil. I couldn’t sit through another reprimand.

Sister Holiday is easily one of the most compelling, and interesting, main characters to come along in crime fiction in quite some time. And while there is a good and involving mystery at the core of this novel–who is setting the fires at the convent school? Who killed the maintenance worker? Was the fire set to cover up the murder or are they part and parcel of the same thing?–the absolute strength and power of this book comes from the narrative voice of this peculiar, not your average not-taken-her-vows-yet nun. She’s fascinating, and the voice is so strong and powerful: cynical yet innocent, bitter yet hopeful, Christian yet not. Her back story, which we learn through her progression of following clues and interviewing suspects and trying to put all the shifty pieces together, is enough in and of itself to keep the reader involved and turning the page.

And the language! My word, the power of Douahy’s language choices, sentence and paragraph structure! Here are some examples I marked:

Revenge is a stupid way to feel in control. Like all drugs, it doesn’t last, but it sure is fun in the moment. (p. 75)

Most boys couldn’t be trusted. Testosterone poisoning, Moose was fond of saying about guys and their bluster. I imagined the cartoon poison flowing through boy veins whenever my brother said that. (p. 79)

There is a sublime wholeness in holding one another, fitting into other bodies. We eat the body of Christ. We drink the blood. So many years later, Nina’s taste still laced my mouth–champagne, sweat, graphite licked off a thumb. (p.106)

New Orleans was ornate in every way, especially in its punishment. Like wispy fiberglass, the city doesn’t feel like it is of this world. (p. 107)

Everything in New Orleans is overdue, overgrown, dripping. The oak trees decked with boas of Spanish moss. Frogs creaked and peeped until the moon set. Morning glory vines strangled pink roofs and wisteria tentacles swayed in the cross breeze. A row of traditional, one-level shotgun homes: bright orange window frames, mint-green wooden shutters, and bright white columns A cat meowed on a nearby porch. (p. 123)

We are all like stained glass, beautiful and complicated and fragile as fuck. We all need care. And some of us don’t get what we deserve. (p. 233)

What a glorious read this was. I look forward to the next in the (planned) trilogy; and will probably revisit this one, too. Get a copy now.

Burning Up

Back to life, and back to reality.

Sigh.

I am tired this morning and really wishing I had taken the day off so I can sleep in and get my act together today; the apartment is a mess and there are errands that I should run not to mention chores that built up while I was Festing this weekend. I am also a bit drained, like my batteries need recharging. I slept decently last night (Scooter kept waking me up throughout the night) but I easily felt like I could sleep more. Ah, well, no choice but to buckle up and dive headfirst into the week and just go to bed early every night so I can get somewhat recharged. I think the weekend went very well; I just wish I could divide myself up (or have clones) so I can see and hang out with everyone I want to; the problem is there is so little time to see and do everything and it kind of slips through my fingers. I also should have taken more time off from work–today, for example–to make it easier on me both physically and intellectually, so that I can commute from home to take care of Scooter while still seeing people and getting to do a lot more. I had to leave last night after dinner and walked home (it was rather hot and humid all weekend, which is unusual for March so I was sweating a lot, which is also unpleasant because even after it dries you feel sticky still), and of course was soaked and tired when I got home. (I walked home twice from the Quarter this weekend, which is more walking than I’ve done since probably Carnival, 2018.) Probably not the best thing to do, but no streetcar ever passed me on the walk home either night, but once I started walking I just kept walking and after I walk past Poydras I’m like kind of dumb to catch a cab or call a Lyft now so wind up walking on. It’s usually once I’ve walked under the highway that I think yeah walking wasn’t the best decision here.

The panel I moderated went well, I thought; my panelists (Marco Carocari, John Copenhaver, Kelly J. Ford) were spectacular, witty, smart and presented themselves extremely well and made me look intelligent and like a good moderator, so thanks, y’all. We had a nice turnout and some good questions from the audience. My reading went well on Saturday (I was also glad to get a chance to read “This Town”, which I’ve not had a chance to do before), and of course, I had some lovely meals with friends during the course of the weekend. Everyone seemed to be having a good time over the course of the weekend (one of the best things, for me, about Saints and Sinners is how it’s so incredibly upbeat; everyone is in a collegial mood, if not a good one. I generally come away from S&S inspired and ready to get back to the keyboard–and I do feel that way this morning, or would if I didn’t feel so tired. (I really should have taken a Lyft home last night; it was a bad decision to walk…but the exercise was something I needed and I need to do more of, and just because I’m out of shape and not used to walking distances anymore should serve as a wake-up call to start getting back in shape.) But my coffee is doing the trick this morning, and I am waking up mentally. Physically everything is tired–my toe is sore, another reason I shouldn’t have walked home twice–but mentally I’m okay, and I bet my shower will wake me up this morning. I probably should have taken one before I went to bed.

And now it’s reality time again, and back to the ritual of sleep, work, write, cuddle with the cat while watching television. The apartment somehow is a mess–I don’t know how that happened when neither one of us was home for most of the weekend, but it’s the case. I have laundry to do and dishes to put away and I need to go through the refrigerator and clean out stuff that spoiled over the weekend (always a joy!) and rearrange the rugs and the floors need cleaning and…sigh. It really never ends, does it? And I need to get back to work on the book. I was going to bring it with me to the Monteleone so I could work on it over the weekend, but as I was packing I said to myself you always do this and then you never even THINK about it and my interior voice was 100% correct. I am going to probably take the first half of the revision to my easy chair tonight at some point and start doing a line edit on it. I don’t think my brain is functioning well enough today for me to be able to work on revising tonight, but a line edit to check for sentence structure and rhythm and overuse of the same words? That I can do with a purring kitty asleep in my life…and I may just go to bed early, too.

Gosh, so many options! But I definitely need to get gas soon. I’d forgotten that I didn’t get gas Friday morning, which was on my errands-list before heading to the Quarter. But what a lovely weekend it was, from beginning to end. I had drinks with friends–lots and lots of drinks–and some lovely meals (Palace Cafe, Mr. B’s Bistro–one can never go wrong with a Brennan restaurant), and lots of laughter and hilarity and good times. I love being around writers.

And now I can look ahead to my trip to Bethesda for Malice Domestic, which will be the next time I will be around writers for an entire weekend, which is marvelous. (After that, it won’t be until Bouchercon in San Diego, which is far too long.)

And I think I am definitely reading Scorched Grace next. I heard Margot Douaihy read from it this weekend, and after listening to her on panels… yeah, I need to read about the lesbian amateur private eye nun with a gold tooth sooner rather than later.

And on that note, I am going to drag my butt to the office and get this week going. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader.

Everybody

Sunday morning in the Lost Apartment and I am sitting here, swilling my coffee and feeling very rested and relaxed, which is absolutely lovely. I came home last night after the Saints and Sinners anthology launch/reading; because I was exhausted and Scooter was home alone since Friday afternoon when I got my Lyft down to the Quarter. (And my poor baby kitty was lonely and needy, too.) I’m going to leisurely get ready this morning before I head back down to the Quarter. I have to moderate a panel at 1 with John Copenhaver, Kelly J. Ford, and Marco Carocari; and then I want to see the TWFest panel right after, moderated by Jean Redmann, with Shawn Cosby as one of the speakers (I don’t remember the other panelists and I don’t want to get it wrong, and of course, have no program here to consult. I was very tired yesterday. I had an eight am breakfast yesterday morning before my panel (young adult fiction) and so of course, spent the night at the hotel only to not sleep a wink all night–I should have just come home and gotten up early yesterday, dumb decision–and so was dragging most of the day. I had a reading in the late afternoon as well–I read from “This Town” from Murder-a-Go-Go’s, edited by the divine Holly West, and it went really well. I was also in the same reading session as Cheryl A. Head, Margot Douaihy, Chris Clarkson, and a couple of others whose names I’m blanking on. Everyone read very well, and Chris was on my young adult panel (he wrote That Summer Night on Frenchmen Street, which I am looking forward to read); he’s very charming and fun to talk to and smart. He also lives in our neighborhood!

As always, S&S is a whirlwind and the time just seems to fly by every day. I’ve had the great good fortune to be palling around with my panelists–which hopefully will make the panel easier to moderate–and been having a marvelous time. I’m feeling rather inspired about my own writing and my career–S&S always has that effect on me; all writer/lit cons do, really–and while I slept amazingly well last night, I know I’m probably going to tire out easily today. I also forget that I am not used to being around a lot of people all the time, plus public speaking has always tired me out; I have such stage fright that always triggers an adrenaline rush that departs from my body once its over, leaving me drained and tired. I think I’ve also changed my mind about what my next read is going to be; Margot’s book Scorched Grace, which she read from yesterday, just sounds so inventive and clever and original that I think I just want to go ahead and read it instead of Christopher Bollen’s The Lost Americans, which I am also really looking forward to, and then I want to read Chris Clarkson’s book. I am a reader first and foremost, and there’s nothing I love more than discovering great new books and finding new-to-me authors. (There’s also a lot of great books coming out this year yet, too–a new Shawn Cosby, a new Megan Abbott, a new Lou Berney, a new Laura Lippman; what an amazing year for reading this is going to be!)

My books also sold out this weekend by yesterday afternoon, which was really lovely.

This is also going to be a rough work week, as I will be heading into the week feeling exhausted and tired already. But that’s really okay; I will survive and that will make next weekend’s rest and relaxation that much better and needed.

It’s always weird every year when the Festivals are over. It’s always weird to go into the literary bubble for a weekend and then have to reenter reality again. But that’s the way my life goes; this weird duality and parallel lives I am living this time around. And everyone is always so kind about my books and my panels, it’s actually rather lovely. I guess I have, just by sheer determination and dogged perseverance, managed to stick around this crazy business for twenty-one years as an author; twenty-six if you count when I first started getting paid to write, and somehow maybe settled, unknowingly, into a ‘respected elder’ place. I don’t know, maybe my work has been respected all this time and I, being the oblivious type who always takes compliments with several spoonfuls of grains of salt, never noticed because I always had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Something to think about, anyway, on those rare occasions when I can just sit around and reflect on my life, career, and the passing of time. (I know I’ve recently had some insights on situations and people in the past that I didn’t quite see or understand at the time; the wisdom from time passing, I suppose.)

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I want to eat something and get cleaned up before I head back down to the Quarter; my panel is at 1 I think. Talk to you tomorrow, Constant Reader!