Tag: Memory

Lay A Little Lovin’ On Me

Thursday last day in the office for me for the week blog, and I am glad it’s nearing the end of this week. I got tired yesterday afternoon at work–the big tired; not fatigue but just super-tired from getting up and working so much already. The book continues to go well, and I got more work done on it last night, too. Huzzah! I am also having dinner tonight in the Marigny with a good friend, which I am also looking forward to. We’re having a bit of a thunderstorm this morning–thunder woke me up before either the alarm or the alarm kitty–but I remained snug in my bed under my pile of blankets and wishing I didn’t have to get up at all. I love rain so much. I am also a little bit on the tired side this morning, par for the course for a rainy Thursday morning. I hope the fatigue doesn’t set in, else I’ll be a drag at dinner.

And that won’t be much fun, will it?

Probably not.

Gloom and rain all day, though, should pick me right up, right? LOL. I do hope, though, that it rains through the night.

I did come straight home from work yesterday, and the groceries were delivered shortly after I got home. We caught up on the news (Paul worked at home, so was here when I got home), and watched this week’s episode of The Morning Show before we went to bed early. Exciting, isn’t it? I also worked on the book last night and I am very pleased with how it is all coming together. It’s been so long, you know, since I’ve finished a book. Did I just go two years without a book being released? Yep, it looks that way, and so much has happened since the last time I finished a book that I don’t really remember much of writing or finishing it, and frankly, I’m not even sure what my last book published was, in all honesty. My memory issues are becoming a little bit on the scary side…but it’s probably all related to trauma and surgeries and getting older. It also started getting worse when I changed medications…but trading my memory for no anxiety was well worth it, frankly. I sleep better, I don’t freak out, my moods don’t swing…it’s really lovely.

Although the frequent memory lapses get concerning occasionally.

I’m also very glad I am back into the right writing headspace. I am enjoying doing the work again–memory lapses mean I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed the work and didn’t view it as drudgery, in all honesty. The book is becoming much better as I work through it, and yes, I do have some chapters to write still, of course; but I am confident I can get all of it done by the revised deadline, which is next week. I will be watching football games on Saturday, but will most likely work on the book in the morning before the games start. I can also copy edit with the manuscript in my lap, too. I also need to finish reading The Hunting Wives so I can officially move into Halloween Horror Month, kicking it off with the annual reread and discussion of The Haunting of Hill House, which I consider a perfect novel. I may reread The Dead Zone by Stephen King as well; it has seemed very timely since 2015 to me, and I’ve wanted to reread it again ever since the bloated monster’s escalator ride. (Et tu, UN escalator?) I am also going to work on short stories during October, methinks, because I don’t want to immerse myself in another book while working with my editor on making this new Scotty an excellent read. Huzzah! I’m kind of excited about it, to be honest.

I can’t wait to get my box o’books.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines on this gloomy and rainy day. Hope you have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I will commune with you again tomorrow morning!

Zero to Hero

I came to Disney later in life. You also have to remember that I grew up in a different world than the one everyone who grew up in the 1970’s or later did; we couldn’t rent movies, there were only three television networks plus PBS and whatever local independents there might be, and so the only chance to actually see classics of Disney’s past was if they were re-released, and that didn’t happen very often. My parents, despite their youth, weren’t going to spend the money to take us to see something they didn’t care about seeing, either; money was tight, and Mom used to take us to see movies when we were little in the summer to get out of the heat. I do vaguely remember seeing The Happiest Millionaire on the big screen–my only real memory of it was he owned an alligator–but for the most part, we never really saw many Disney movies, and especially not animated ones.

Yes, when I was a child I watched Disney’s Wonderful World of Color every Sunday night after Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom for years. But my childhood was also not a great time for Disney, either in animation or live action. Sure, some films were gems, but not in the same vein as the big classics, like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Peter Pan and Cinderella. Disney was more focused on live animation movies (this was the period of The Love Bug movies and Kurt Russell’s college student movies (and beautiful Jan-Michael Vincent in The World’s Greatest Athlete.) at this time.

It was the Disney renaissance of my late twenties/early thirties, timed with my self-discovery journey about who I was and wanted to be and figuring out everything, really, that turned me into a Disney Queen. It was hard not to get up caught up in Disney’s beautiful visuals and songs about misunderstood outsiders who eventually find where they belong, from The Little Mermaid to Beauty and the Beast to so many others. All the films essentially had the same basic story beats: someone who doesn’t feel like they belong goes on an adventure, where they find themselves and what they were meant to be, and wind up with a great final reward of love and acceptance. How does that not resonate with gay men in the time of HIV/AIDS? The fact that songwriter Howard Ashman was a gay man dying of AIDS while working on The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast1 only made the films resonate with gay men all the more–and I went whole hog on the Disney Queen roleplay. (My favorite character of all Disney animation remains Malificent, of course.)

But I also always had a very soft spot for Hercules, even though it wasn’t one of the more popular animated Disney films. I’m always a little curious when Disney announces it’s making an animated film out of something that hardly seems kid-friendly; like The Little Mermaid, which is a horrible Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Likewise, when I heard they were making Hercules I arched an eyebrow. I loved Greek mythology and ancient Greece when I was a kid (my three favorite ancient civilizations were Greek, Roman, and of course Egyptian), and I was always interested in Hercules–although as a child I knew the correct Greek name was Heracles–because I kind of saw him as an ancient Greek Superman; the heavily muscled physique he was always depicted as having was just a bonus for little gay Greg, and I always wanted to write about him; discovering that in the original myths he had both male and female loves once I became an adult was just more fire to the flame. The Disney film, of course, altered a lot of the not-so-kid-friendly aspects of the myth, obviously; they made Hera his mother rather than his principle enemy, they cut the Muses down from nine to five, and eliminated his cruelty, his bouts of madness, and his insane all over the map sexuality to make him another Disney prince, who grows up an outsider and has to prove himself and that he not only belongs but is a hero.

The Muses were the narrators of the movie, and they were a delight. Their songs were all done in the style of old-time girl groups, and I thought they were a terrific narrative device. I loved the soundtrack, too.

Imagine my delight when I found out local New Orleans author Farrah Rochon, who is an highly acclaimed romance writer, was writing the backstory for the Muses in a young adult novel called Bemused.

And Reader, it was utterly charming.

I loved it.

Mnemosyne stood on the edge of the craggy cliff, listening to the whistle of the brisk windblowing through the barren tree branches below. The blanket of thick gray storm clouds that had shrouded the valley for the past few days had finally lifted. She took in a lungful of the clean mountain air. It was invigorating. And comforting.

And she was far enough away from the oppressive demands of Mount Olympus that she could finally feel a sense of calm. She had not experienced true peace in so long that even she, the Goddess of Memory, could barely recall what it was like.

Her fear had lessened with every moment that passed after she’d fled from Mount Olympus, the place where she’d spent so many onerous years. Now, she had a new destiny to fulfill. Had the time finally come?

A loud crack, followed by a harsh, high-pitched squawk, sent Mnenosyne scrambling for cover. She looked up just intime to see a bird swooping overhead, its wings extending out several feet on each side.

Mnenosyne, you see, was a Titan who didn’t fight Zeus and his siblings in their war to take over the heavens. She stayed on Olympus, and eventually developed relationships with several of the other goddesses in the pantheon, namely Athena and Artemis. But (this is the Disney universe, not the ancient Greek one) Hades spends a lot of time undermining her faith in capricious and fickle King of the Gods, Zeus, whom he resents for giving him the underworld to rule over and wants to overthrow (straight up from the film) him. He wants Mnenosyne on his side due to her control over memories; she can convince all the gods that Hades has always been the King of the Gods and Zeus the lord of the underworld, and so she is key to his plans. But she flees Olympus, making all of them forget she ever existed–but Hades kept a journal so she couldn’t do that to him as there was a written record. Hades is the big bad in this book, just as he was in the movie (which was probably the last time I’ve enjoyed James Woods in anything), and she creates her daughters, but keeps their gifts hidden as she keeps moving them around to avoid scrutiny and coming to the attention of the gods. But Hades finds her and kidnaps her, and her daughters now must use their powers to find her and save her from the clutches of Hades, so it’s also a very charming coming of age story as well as an interesting adventure.

This is an excellent read, and belongs on your shelves next to your Rick Riordan novels.

  1. Miss me with the “Stockholm syndrome” takes on Beauty and the Beast, thank you very much; the entire point of the film is that someone monstrous becomes capable of love and caring for someone besides himself, which finally breaks the curse on him. It’s actually a beautiful story, it makes me cry every time I watch it at least three times (when he loves her enough to let her go; when he dies; and when he transforms back), and at some point I am going to write about this masterpiece of a movie. ↩︎

Right on the Tip of My Tongue

Tuesday and it’s back into the office with me today. Huzzah.

Yesterday I entered data until my eyes crossed, but I got everything caught up. I also, once I was finished with my work for the day, walked over to Office Depot and got some more organizational items to try to make the kitchen workspace–and the kitchen overall–better organized and pulled together. It’s better now–looking around at the space this morning it certainly looks better than the hot mess it’s been for quite some time–so that’s something, I think. I slept fairly well last night, so as I am slowly waking up this morning over my coffee I am thinking this looks pretty good around here this morning. I also decided that since it’s still Pride Month my reading should continue to be queer books, at least for this month, so I plucked John Copenhaver’s The Savage Kind out of the TBR pile (it did win the Lambda Award for Best Mystery this past weekend after all) and hope to start reading it this evening when I get home from work. I made a binder for “Never Kiss a Stranger” as well as ones for Chlorine and Mississippi River Mischief–which definitely helped getting loose piles of paper and file folders off the counter tops, and at the same time felt strangely like I actually was making some kind of progress, which is always enormously helpful with feeling like you’ve gotten some place, accomplished something.

I just feel like I’m not getting anywhere with anything these days, but my mind has really worked strangely over the past few years. My concept of time is completely altered–not that it was ever really strong to begin with, honestly–and I struggle with memory lapses; my memory doesn’t really work the way it used to, which is incredibly concerning, or used to be; it seems like everyone is having the same kind of problems, and it probably is pandemic/interesting times causing it for everyone that seems to be affected (of course, if this was a suspense thriller, some mad genius would have done something to trigger this in people around the world for their own nefarious purposes–you can tell I watched a James Bond film last night), but it still is distressing to say the least.

I am also glad I took the weekend off. I feel like it was absolutely necessary, and there’s a three day weekend coming up this weekend, which is really nice as well. I don’t think I’ll be able to take the entire weekend off again this weekend–certainly not all three days–but it’s a very pleasant thought, I must say, and I am looking forward to getting through the rest of this week so I can rest up this weekend.

Whine, whine, whine.

And yes, we did watch the final Daniel Craig as James Bond thriller No Time to Die last night. It was gorgeously shot, and Craig is much closer to the Bond Ian Fleming wrote about in the books so many decades ago (I was very young when Fleming died), and while watching last night I thought about the original thirteen Bond books that Fleming wrote all those years ago and how badly those stories have aged–and how little the movies based on them resemble the books. The book Live and Let Die was horrifically racist (I read it again a few years ago, since it’s been decades since I read them) and then watched the movie again, which is also bad in that respect. Live and Let Die was also the first Bond movie I saw in the theater–and parts of it were filmed/set in and around New Orleans, so that part of it has always been sentimental for me in some ways…but yikes. The stereotypes! And the Bond books themselves celebrated imperialistic colonialism–many of the books are set in Jamaica or other possessions of the British empire, and that oh-so-British sense of superiority is very present in the books. But No Time to Die was a perfectly adequate Bond thriller film; Daniel Craig is a commanding presence on the screen, even if the villain, played by Oscar winner Rami Malek (which prompted me to say, “Freddie Mercury would have made a great Bond villain”) wasn’t really developed enough to really hit hard as the bad guy.

Then again, are any of the Bond villains ever really developed?

But watching a James Bond movie, coupled with me reading The Great Betrayal about the 4th Crusade, has me in mind of writing a Colin thriller again–I could of course set it at any time, so it doesn’t necessarily have to be current; the lovely thing about a Colin series is I could literally go back and set them in and around Scotty books, which would/could be very fun to do–but I am just not so great about writing action, I suppose–and thrillers are a lot of action, from beginning to end. I also don’t know enough about guns, really–how can I write about a gunfight or being shot at, or shooting back–but it could be fun….I already know the opening scene (set in 1204, as the city is on the brink of falling; the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church calls in a couple of warrior priests to smuggle something to safety, and that something is the MacGuffin the entire story turns on: the Pope/Rome wants whatever it is, and the Patriarch would rather burn in hell than let what he considers the Roman heretics have it) and I also know what the first chapter would be–Colin rescuing a politician’s daughter from the terrorists who kidnapped her–and then we would get into the MacGuffin/treasure hunt, with of course the Vatican being the bad guys (seriously, only Nazis make better bad guys than the Vatican) and all kinds of fun stuff.

Someday, perhaps.

And on that note, tis time for me to get back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader.

Paparazzi

Memories lie.

There are things and moments from my childhood I remember completely differently from my parents and my sister, for example, or moments from early on in Paul’s and my relationship. My memories differ from those of kids I went to high school with, and those of my fraternity brothers. Memory and experience are always, of course, colored by our own internal beliefs, values, fears, and opinions; which is what makes being a crime writer interesting.

I remembered, for example, that we moved from the city out to the suburbs in the winter of 1969. I’ve always thought that was the truth; we moved to our house in Bolingbrook that winter and would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that was the truth. Imagine my surprise, during my recent visit to my parents, to hear both of them insist that wasn’t true and we moved out there in either the winter of 1971 or 1972; and I sat there, confused, and then a key piece of my history snapped into place in the jigsaw puzzle that is my memory: you were ten when you moved; your eleventh birthday was your first birthday in the new house so it had to be 1971. I’d always remembered that we’d lived out there for much longer than we had. We only lived in Bolingbrook for four and a half years; I was in the sixth grade when we moved and we moved to Kansas after my sophomore year ended.

Interesting, isn’t it?

I was rather startled the other day to hear that David Cassidy is in early stage dementia; David Cassidy was a part of my childhood, and it’s hard to remember the years when The Partridge Family aired without hearing their music in the echo chambers of my brain. The Partridge Family Album was, in fact, the first album my sister owned. She had one of those little portable record players that either ran on six enormous batteries or could be plugged into the wall, and she played the album over and over and over again. I didn’t mind because I kind of liked the music myself; and we watched the show religiously every week. My sister, of course, was madly in love with David Cassidy, who did nothing for me. (Even as a nascent gay child, my crush was Kurt Russell.)

Before buying that album my sister primarily bought 45’s; it amazes me that there are any number of people who don’t know what those are, or how you used to stack them on the record player, so the next one would drop when the previous one finished playing and the needle cleared out of the way, or the scratchy sounds from collected dust and/or scratches on the record that you could always hear in the background. David Cassidy replaced Bobby Sherman in my sister and her friends’ affections; Bobby Sherman replaced Davey Jones of the Monkees.

The show itself was pretty dreadful, really. The idea was derived from the Cowsills, an actual family musical group, and it was designed to appeal to young girls and hopefully sell some records; another prefabricated music group along the lines of the Monkees and the Archies. They’d never intended for “Keith” to sing lead vocals on the music, but David Cassidy auditioned and got the part and to their surprise, he could sing and had musical ambitions. (Alas for him, he became a huge teen idol but never got the rock stardom he always dreamed of.) His stepmother in real life, Shirley Jones, was cast as his mother, widowed Shirley who worked in a bank to support her five kids. (Jones was actually an accomplished singer herself, and had an Oscar for playing a prostitute in Elmer Gantry.) Even at the time, I didn’t think the show was funny, but it wasn’t as bad and corny and hokey as The Brady Bunch, which was admittedly a low bar. But I was delighted several years ago to discover that the Partridge Family’s music was on iTunes, and I downloaded some, out of a sense of nostalgia.

And it wasn’t bad. I downloaded more, and still listen to it from time to time. It’s glossy, well produced, and slick pop music, but it’s not terrible. It certainly holds up better than Shaun Cassidy’s hits or New Kids on the Block.

And am I ever glad I didn’t have to go into the office today. I am worn out, frankly, not sure how I am going to survive tonight’s parades.

Heavy sigh