Tag: Luke and Laura

I’m No Stranger to the Rain

Well, it’s Tuesday morning, so we clearly survived Monday, did we not? It was bitterly cold yesterday morning; I wore a sweater, a jacket, my hoodie under the jacket, and tights under my pants so it wasn’t terrible when I left the house in the morning, either. It’s cold again this morning, and will remain so for the morning; the afternoon won’t be too terrible. I didn’t mind the cold terribly yesterday, because I dressed for it for once rather than not doing so and whining all day about being cold. I hadn’t intended to dress for it again this morning, but looks like I will not have a choice. It’s chilly here inside the windows, but I slept well and feel pretty good this morning. I didn’t do much last night once I got home from work. I did make groceries on my way home, but once I was home and snug and comfy in my easy chair with a purring kitty and my blanket, I didn’t really want to get up and do much of anything, other than catch up on the news and do some more Youtube research. The news was its usual shit-show, the way it has been for at least ten or so years, if not this entire century. Whatever we thought the twenty-first century was going to be like in 1999 is not what we wound up with. Did anyone see this coming other than the Heritage Foundation, Faux News, and the Republican Party1?

I generally don’t comment on celebrity deaths; I don’t know the deceased, after all, and who cares what I think? I was a fan of Reiner and his work–The Princess Bride remains one of my all-time favorite movies, and so eminently quotable, too–and he made a lot of great films I enjoyed. He and his wife Michelle, as you know, were murdered on Sunday, allegedly by their son who has issues, which would have been bad enough but then, of course, sewage is always going to sewage. Even the dolts who are still hanging onto their belief in their tin-pot dictator wannabe, for the most part, were horrified by him this time; why was this time so different than every other time he’s been an insensitive spoiled brat? That’s what I truly find interesting about this latest idiocy. What was it about the Reiner tragedy that triggered such a response from his followers? I mean, it can’t have been empathy, right? So why this time? I can’t quite wrap my mind around this sea change for MAGAts, and I’ll probably wonder about it for a while. But the murders were a tragedy, but both Reiners left a distinguished legacy of work behind them–and Reiner’s films will continue to bring joy to viewers as long as streaming services carry them.

And I really need to do my essay on The Princess Bride, inspired by a conversation on Twitter where I wrote a lengthy tweet-string explaining why I find the movie so magical.

And while we’re commenting on celebrity death, Anthony Geary, long-time portrayer of the anti-hero Luke Spencer on General Hospital, also died recently. I watched the show in the 1970s and 1980s fervently, and Geary was no small part of that; and Luke-and-Laura were legendary in the world of soaps. Genie Francis still plays Laura on the show. The highest rated episode of any daytime soap was the wedding of Luke and Laura back in 1980 or 1981. Geary was gay; I don’t know that he ever publicly came out, but I read it in an article about him shortly after he retired from acting, I think. I guess that’s why I was always a fan. I never got a gay vibe from him, the way I have with other actors, either. So much for my Gaydar, although it’s easy to say it was a subconscious recognition.

I really need to write my General Hospital essay, too.

My God, I am so behind on literally everything. The good news is these are all just personal deadlines, so they are anxiety-inducing (not that I have anxiety anymore–at least certainly not to the life-controlling-and-strangling way I used to). Paul is doing an excellent job of clearing out the bedroom; and I should definitely take some time and do some pruning down of all my shit–including the books–and most especially my paper files. I don’t really feel like those need to be kept anymore, and it’s all just kind of hoarding of a different sort, isn’t it? I also need to clean out the kitchen cupboards, too, and the floors are just a given. Sigh.

We’re also supposed to have rain through the weekend beginning tomorrow, which is marvelous. Cold, gray and rainy makes for a snug weekend at home with Sparky, Paul and blankets. I am definitely going to do some reading this weekend, too.

I am also getting all of my Chlorine notes organized, so I can get into the feel of the book. As I said the other day (yesterday) I think I have finally landed on the character’s voice, and have decided that, despite it being technically a historical (it is set seventy years ago) I think I am going to write it in present tense. Maybe that’s a mistake, but switching from present to past would be time consuming but not terribly difficult to do. I may even try to write the first chapter this weekend, too, and see how it goes.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a toasty terrific Tuesday, and I’ll be back in the morning.

  1. Christ, I am neither an analyst nor a political reporter, but I predicted this outcome back during the Clinton Administration. How did I see it but none of the people paid to be political experts did? ↩︎

Pretty Baby

Tuesday morning and the year continues to wind down in the inimitable way that every year does, with a whimper rather than a bang, like the last of the helium escaping from the leaky balloon.

My new book will be out in sixteen days; slightly more than two weeks. Those who preordered from my publisher (as well as those who requested ARC’s–advance review copies)will be getting them within a few days, actually, which is panic-inducing as well as more than a little bit terrifying. I am not so certain that I am more nervous about the release of this book than I have been around the release of any others in my past, or if this is the same nervous condition I always experience when a book is about to be released with my name (or whatever name I chose to use at the time I signed the contract) on the spine. I don’t remember; I am not certain if that is symptomatic of me aging or if it’s some kind of protective thing the brain does to spare my psyche; much as how one forgets how painful a teeth cleaning or a blood draw is between the last time it was done and the next time such things are scheduled; if we don’t forget how awful or painful or uncomfortable those experiences actually are, we would most likely never schedule another. (It is most fortunate that it will be years before I need another colonoscopy; that is an experience I would prefer to never live through another time, quite frankly.)

But I am nervous about the book. This one, as I have mentioned tirelessly (tiresomely?) takes on a societal and cultural problem for which I have no solution–well, that’s not entirely true, I always have a solution, but it’s never one people are willing to actually adopt–but it’s also kind of shameful that it has actually taken me so long to address this actual social problem; it’s also kind of shameful for me to admit that it took me so long to realize it was actually a problem. I mean, I knew intellectually it was, but I never realized how extant and/or extreme the problem actually was until the last decade or so. Now I am hyper-aware of sexual assault and it’s plainer, but just as ugly sibling, sexual harassment.

When I became aware that I was different from other boys–from other males–I also became aware of strange disparities that caused some cognitive dissonance in my young, unformed mind; why is sexual expertise, and experience, for men something to be lauded and applauded while the same thing is a source of shame for women?

This never made sense to me; how could men get experience and expertise without women? Why was one thing something to be admired in one gender but must be shamed in the other? In order for men to get the “conquests” and “experience” they needed to be admired and respected (the word that so often pops up in older books is “cocksman,” a word I loathed when I first read it and still do to this day), there had to be women to accommodate those needs and desires…which, I guess, was my first introduction to the “madonna/whore” concept. Societal expectations on women were, frankly, ridiculous; they were supposed to be pure and chaste while at the same time doing nothing to inspire passion or desire in a man; to not attract his attention this way; in other words, if a man became overcome with desire to the point that he stopped listening to a woman telling him to stop…it was her fault, not his; men were clearly slaves to their own passions, while women needed to always keep theirs in check, or else.

Boys, after all, will be boys.

I knew the word rape before I actually knew what it meant–from reading history; barbarian hordes and invading armies inevitably “raped and pillaged.” There was the very famous story, part of the founding myth of Rome involving the “rape of the Sabine women”; I think that was around the time where I began thinking rape meant abduction. The 1970’s, and the burgeoning women’s movement, brought with it a discussion of rape into the public sphere; how it actually affected women and how the judicial system essentially punished women for daring to accuse a man of forcing himself on her; this was the horror known as stranger rape, which belied the sad truth that most sexual assaults inevitably are ones where the assailant and the victim knew each other: aka date rape.

Usually, when the subject was brought up on a daytime soap, it was a date rape situation; star-crossed lovers being kept apart for one reason or another until the man at some point becomes carried away and forces himself on his “true love” against her wishes. This played out on Days of Our Lives–later, and more notoriously, on General Hospital and as late as the 1990’s on One Life to Live (ironically, the story as depicted on One Life to Live was brutal and honest and horrible; the storyline went off the rails later as the lead rapist became redeemed and an anti-hero star of the show).

Rape was often used as a plot device in romance novels (horrifying, isn’t it?); who can ever forget the night Rhett get drunk and in his jealous rage rapes Scarlett in Gone with the Wind–which is also the first time in her life she actually enjoys sexual relations with a man? What precisely is the message being sent here to the readers?

One of the things that struck me the most about the Marysville and Steubenville cases–besides the horrific similarities–was the reaction of the girls in the towns about what happened. Rather than feeling solidarity with the victims–and realizing there but for the grace of God go I–the general reaction was the opposite: the victims deserved what happened to them. There are few crimes where the automatic default is to blame the victim–in fact, outside of sexual assault/harassment I can’t think of any–and the level of blaming and shaming in both of these cases was appalling. Steubenville, the more famous of the two cases, resulted in convictions (and notoriously several reporters editorializing the “waste” of the lives of the convicted rapists; my sympathy is with the victims, frankly); no charges were ever filed in the Marysville case, and the victim, Daisy Coleman, eventually committed suicide (that was still years in the future when I first started writing my book).

I couldn’t get past it. I tried to think about it in terms of my own sister: what if this had happened to MY sister? My niece? My mom?

And the hashtag from Marysville haunted my mind: #shedeservedit.

I knew the hashtag was going to be my title, and that I was going to change the Kansas book one last time; my quarterback was still going to disappear at the beginning, but the story wasn’t going to solely be about that. My fictional town already had a decades-long successful high school football program and was already dying economically; with a growing addiction epidemic and declining population as employment possibilities also dried up. And with all that success, with the town’s identity entirely subsumed by its high school football team (ironically, the Trojans), it stood to reason that the town would rally behind its team and the players–and woe be to anyone who stood against any of the team’s abuses.

But…the question remained: could a man–even a gay one, or especially a gay one–write such a book? Was it my place to do so? Was writing this book an attempt to atone for not being aware of the problem for so fucking long? Could I approach it with the proper amount of sensitivity?

I guess there’s nothing left for me to do than wait and see, I suppose. I have my author copies, ARC’s are going out, and soon those who want to read it will be reading it.

And on that cheery note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a happy Tuesday, Constant Reader.