Tag: Paul Tremblay

zombie

Paul Tremblay has managed to turn himself into one of my favorite authors currently writing horror; I can’t think of a single novel of his that hasn’t been utterly fantastic, or that I haven’t enjoyed. He manages to make his characters absolutely real–with flaws and hang-ups; so much that sometimes you want to shake some sense into them–and the situations they find themselves in, while certainly horrific, are realistic. That, of course, is what makes the so horrible and terrifying; it’s easy to see yourself in his characters and stories. I also love his writing style; there’s something lyrical and poetic about his sentence construction and word choices, creating rhythms that make the words kind of sing in your head.

I wasn’t sure if I should, in that case, listen to one of his novels as an audiobook–would that musical sense of language carry over?

I needn’t have worried.

This is not a fairy tale. Certainly it is not one that has been sanitized, homogenized, or Disneyfied. bloodless in every possible sense of the word, beasts and human monsters defanged and claws clipped, the children safe and the children saved, the hard truths harvested from hard lives if not lost than obscured, and purposefully so.

Last night there was confusion as to whether turning off the lights was a recommendation or if it was a requirement in accordance with the government mandated curfew. After her husband, Paul, was asleep, Natalie relied on her cell phone’s flashlight in the bathroom as a guide instead of lighting a candle. She has been getting clumsier by the day and didn’t trust herself to casually carry fir through the house.

It’s quarter past 11 a.m. and yes, she is in the bathroom again. Before Paul left three hours ago, she joked she should set up a cot and an office in here. It’s first-floor window overlooks the semi-private backyard and the sun-bleached, needs-a-cost-of-stain picket fence. The grass is dead, having months prior surrendered to the withering heat of yet another record-breaking summer.

The heat will be blamed for the outbreak. There will be scores of other villains, some heroes too. It will be years before the virus’ full phylogenetic tree is mapped, and even then, there will continue to be doubters, naysayers, and the most cynical political opportunists. The truth will go unheeded by some, as it invariably does.

To wit, Natalie can’t stop reading the fourteen-day-old Facebook post on her town’s “Stoughton Enthusiasts” page. There are currently 2,312 comments. Natalie has read them all.

This was a book I didn’t want to read at the time of its release; and I am kind of glad I waited to get into it for a few years; while I was certainly reading a lot of plague fiction in the summer of 2020, when this book was released, the thought of reading something new about a plague whilst in the midst of one seemed–I don’t know, too real for me? The older stuff I revisited, both fiction and non, were things I had already read at some point in my life and therefore couldn’t be applied to the quarantine situation we were experiencing at that time. Of course, four years later, my own time-line is kind of fuzzy and off; it was a disorienting time, and it clearly broke the brains of a lot of people. Reading (listening) to the book four years later–without access of any kind to the pub date of the book, which I couldn’t remember in the car–I thought, wow, he really captured the insanity of the quarantine AND how people would react to it, so you can imagine my surprise to see it actually was written and already moving through the publishing pipeline for release before the pandemic began, which is frightening how eerily prescient Tremblay’s book actually is/was. (Although, imagining the right launching into conspiracy theories and blowing off quarantines and safety precautions and arming themselves–is it that prescient?)

The pandemic/plague in Tremblay’s book is a highly infectious, rapid onset variant of the rabies virus–so animals get it and become dangerous, and the infections can spread to humans. Once bitten or exposed, the human doesn’t have long before the virus takes over and leads, after a mad frenzy of attacking anyone or anything, to a painful death. Natalie and her husband Paul are coping with the quarantines, the breakdown in supply chains, the shortage of necessary supplies; a trip to the grocery store, never more than an hour to and from, including the shopping, can now take up to or more than four hours, as she is finding out that morning as she waits for him to come home. She’s in her ninth month of pregnancy, and that’s what she primarily focuses on, like most normal people do. Unfortunately shortly after Paul comes home, an infected man breaks into their house, kills Paul, and manages to bite her in the arm before she can finally kill him and escape. Natalie calls her best friend and college roommate–a doctor named Ramola–for help.

Ramola comes to pick up her friend, and the rest of the novel is the two women desperately trying to get to a hospital to try to get her treatment as well as a c-section to deliver the baby in case the treatments don’t work. It’s a race against time, and the suspense ratchets up to a unbearable level, as the two women–and everyone they encounter–encounter difficulties and roadblocks, not sure who they can trust and who they can’t, as they try to save both mother and child. Tremblay also takes the opportunity, whenever it arises, to chastise the anti-science movement in this country (which was saw in force that summer of 2020) for it’s radical views and beliefs that endanger everyone because of their own selfishness; again, was that prescience or simply the obvious conclusion to make? Even Ramola and Natalie, in their desperation, sometimes act in an incredibly selfish manner to achieve their own ends that makes me want to shake them both–which is another terrific insight on human behavior; we will always put our own individual needs ahead of the abstract “group” needs.1

It’s a very good book, and like the best fiction, it make me think. A lot, not just about American privilege and selfishness, but about dystopian fiction and disaster-type novels like this–which will inevitably become a Substack essay at some point.

Definitely recommended.

  1. This is something that often irritates me in these types of novels; leaders in these books will inevitably always put their own selfish needs ahead of those of the group (looking at you, Cell). ↩ī¸Ž

Is It Wrong (For Loving You)

Well, that was a fun, if tiring, weekend..

I got to the hotel after dark Friday and felt very tired. Dad had gone to his alma mater’s football game with two of his teammates (I started to say old in the generic sense and then realized Dad IS old and so are they so best not to, or at least write a caveat so here we are). It was a peaceful, lovely drive and I was listening to my audiobook (Paul Tremblay’s Survivor Song and I HAVE THOUGHTS), and there wasn’t much traffic, if any. It was a beautiful drive, and I never cease marveling at how beautiful Mississippi and Alabama are. I had planned on stopping to eat at the Whataburger in Tuscaloosa, but for some reason the map app did not take me that way this time; it seems like I never come up here or leave the same way twice in a row. It always takes the same amount of time, though it’s been interesting seeing parts of both states I am not familiar with. I almost stopped at a Jack’s in some small town I passed through after leaving 20/591; but I thought there would be somewhere else before getting here.

NARRATOR VOICE: There was, in fact, nowhere else.

I always forget how little there is between Meridian and Tuscaloosa, or between Birmingham and Chattanooga. It’s best to eat when you get hungry, and get gas before you get down to a quarter tank else you could be fucked. I know I’ve been ravenous sometimes when I’ve had to wait till past Chattanooga to eat, and same for going up from Mobile to Montgomery. It’s weird to feel so anchored to Alabama, isn’t it? I don’t remember living here; I was two when we moved north. We came down to visit a lot, and I know for Mom and Dad (and my grandmother who also lived in Chicago) they always referred to these trips as “going home” and so I, too, have always thought of Alabama as home in a corner of my mind. I never felt like I belonged almost everywhere I lived once I became more aware of just how different I was from everyone else. I felt displaced, like my life was supposed to have happened in Alabama but it didn’t, so in addition to feeling different I felt almost like a transient everywhere. New Orleans is home now, was always meant to be my home, and I have never felt more like I belonged than I do there. I think my life would have been very different had I grown up here, maybe even harder or more difficult; I don’t know. New Orleans and Alabama are, oddly enough, the only places where I don’t feel like a tourist.

I’ve always written about Alabama, and I do sometimes think that somehow my Alabama stories are my best work, as far as the writing is concerned. The story I’m revising right now was the first work I turned into a college writing class (after the first course I took was such a horrific, unmitigated disaster that basically pulled the rug out from under me and derailed my life for years) that not only the professor was incredibly enthusiastic about, but the entire class was as well. This was the story that made me start believing in myself a bit more after the asshole professor derailed my life2 when I was seventeen. Anyway, I digress. Driving through the countryside after getting off the interstate up there always is weird to me in many ways, because it’s so different than I remember. When I was a kid, most houses in the county were old and made of wood, and there were still tin roofs around, although mostly on barns and out buildings on the farms. Now the houses are mostly brick, there are a lot of McMansions, but there are still a lot of blighted buildings rotting and falling to pieces where they stand. There are abandoned country stores and dead gas stations, the store built from cinder blocks and the rusting pumps still out on a crumbling concrete island. It’s also funny because I wrote Bury Me in Shadows from memory, having not been up there in over twenty years, and seeing the differences now…I guess I never had to worry overmuch about basing that book in a county based on where we’re from, and the differences are so striking no one would recognize it as the same.

Saturday I went with Dad to his high school reunion lunch, which was at a nice restaurant where we always eat every time I’m up there (they have the most amazing chicken fajitas), and that was nice. We headed back to the hotel after and spent the rest of the day watching college football games. The LSU game was amazing, but they sent me into despair a lot during the night. They won the game without ever having the lead! A bitterly disappointing loss for Mississippi (how many times have their dreams died in Tiger Stadium? It’s really no wonder why they hate us so much), but a very exciting game. The Tigers are now ranked in the top ten–which is great, but a big win does not a season make, if you know what I mean–and the rest of the schedule isn’t easy, either. Two road games in a row, then Alabama before one more road game at Florida before finishing out the season with two home games in a row. There has been a lot of great football games this season already, which has made it a lot more fun to watch than it has been in years. Saturday alone, there was the LSU game; Alabama-South Carolina (Alabama eked out a two point win); Tennessee beating Florida in overtime; Penn State-USC went to overtime; Oregon beat Ohio State by one point; and Vanderbilt kept up its winning ways by beating Kentucky. I ain’t going to lie, I am rooting for Vanderbilt to have a great season.

Yesterday I drove home, finished listening to Survivor Song, and then listened to the “My Dad Wrote a Porno”. I was very tired when I got home, very tired, so I spent the day in my chair getting caught up on the news from the weekend before we started getting caught up on our shows. I went to bed early and slept well–I was tired all weekend, but had slept well both nights, but not long enough. I did sleep a little later this morning (I took the day off) than I was expecting (but I also woke up at 5:30 the first time), and feel good. There’s still some residual trip hangover today, but I don’t mind that in the least. The apartment is a mess–I left it one when I left Friday afternoon, and so that needs to be handled today and I am also going to have to run some errands and get reoriented back into normality before heading back into the office tomorrow morning bright and early. I also have some things that I need to get done today–probably will be able to get all that done this afternoon–and then probably will settle into a relaxing evening. We started watching season four of Outer Banks last night, so we’ll watch some of that I am sure.

I didn’t have time to do much reading or writing this weekend, either, but I feel like today I can get to some of that. I do want to finish Gabino’s book this week, so I can move on to another as well.

And on that note, I’m heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; one never knows.

  1. The two highways run together from Meridian to almost Georgia–somewhere in northeast Alabama at any rate; it really is always mostly a blur. ↩ī¸Ž
  2. I also realized this weekend that horrible professor fucked up my life for a very long time, and I’ve never given him enough credit for unmooring me and setting me adrift. I’ve always hated him, but now I hate him even more, and what an abuse of power and control! He shouldn’t have been allowed near students under any circumstance. ↩ī¸Ž

That Song Is Driving Me Crazy

Friday, and after I get my work at home duties finished, it’s time to head up to Alabama. It’ll be nice seeing Dad again, and I will be listening to Paul Tremblay on my way to and fro; Survivor Song, in case you were wondering. I’ve almost finished all of his canon, which means the last book will be saved until his next new one drops, so I won’t be out of his work to read (I know, it’s silly to do this, and maybe I’ll finally stop holding books in reserve because I don’t want to be out of that author’s work to look forward to *coughs* Daphne du Maurier *cough* Mary Stewart *cough* Shirley Jackson *cough*)1. I think I am going to have some down time while up there, so I can possibly get some reading of the new Gabino done as well. (Dad is doing some things with the other survivors from his graduating class2.) I did wind up sleeping in a little later than I intended, but I was very worn out by the time I ran my errands and got home from everything. I relaxed last night once I was home–Paul was at an event and didn’t get home until later (we watched this week’s Agatha All Along and the season debut of Abbott Elementary)–with Sparky (who was a demon cat for a lot longer than usual) and got caught up on the news while resting and waiting for Paul to get home. I feel a bit more rested this morning, but I have to drive for between five and six hours tonight, so I worry that I’ll be super tired when I get there tonight. We’re having a cold spell (for us) and the temperatures are very fall for us. Next week it’s going to be in the fifties at night, with highs in the seventies during the day. Woo-hoo! The season of sweat appears to be behind us at long last.

I saw hints and rumors that the same area in the western Caribbean that spawned both Helene and Milton might be looking to hatch up another one of these accelerated storms that will follow the same approximate path, which is horrifying; Nadine will be the name3. What a horrible season–and I also can’t help but remember former patterns, in which New Orleans and Louisiana got slammed pretty hard the year after Florida got hit four times in one year. (I always look for patterns, because on a deep level I find patterns very soothing)

I did do some work on writing last night; I started looking through the new Scotty to see where I was already wrong on things (I have always based his grandparents’ home in the Garden District on one specific house; I was writing it from memory, but in reviewing a lot of the photos I took of the house at one point, I saw my memory had been faulty and incorrect. I need to have some things wrong, of course, so people won’t know the actual house (or so the owners can’t sue me for having people murdered on their property), but it cleared up some confusion in my brain about what I was writing, and so I will need to go in and fix that. I think that’s my project for the next week; revising and correcting the chapters I already have finished, while also preparing a cast list and an outline as I go. I also have to come up with a synopsis and cover text and marketing copy for it; so those are all things I can work on over the next week. I also have to finish revising that short story for the anthology whose deadline is the 15th; I think I know how to really make the story finally work after all these years…and if they don’t take it, I can put the revised version in my new collection. I love that for me, and I also figured out what story I am going to write for another anthology I’ve been asked to contribute something to; and I also want to write something for another anthology whose due date is November 1–so I’d best get cracking on that, don’t you think?

I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed and stretched pretty far this past week–lots of things to do, more pressure at the day job (and it’s temporary, Mary, so get over yourself), a messy home, a trip to take and another to plan, and of course my own pressures from deadlines and writing. That’s not even taking into consideration the existential crisis facing us in this upcoming election–blocking and avoiding all legacy media has been wonderful; their corrupt betrayal of the American public since 2015 (if not sooner; I am pretty sure they didn’t report on Obama fairly, either) has rendered them forever meaningless in my eyes. I am not nearly as stressed about any of this as I usually am. I am sure that’s partly the generalized anxiety disorder being medicated properly, and the other was a conscious decision. The deletion of Twitter has been probably the best thing I’ve done for my mental health since deciding last year to get the right medications for that (properly diagnosed at sixty-two at long last). It has freed up so much time–I thought of myself as a casual Twitter user, but now that I no longer have that wretched app, I am seeing that I used it a lot more than I ever thought, so breaking that wretched addiction and walking away from it for good was incredibly wise. Paul isn’t on social media at all, and he is much happier without it than I was with it all this time.

But now that I’ve had a good night’s sleep and got some extra, I am feeling good and like I can handle everything. I am not going into the office on Monday–I have some appointments so took the day off–so I am going to be able to get the house worked on some and run some necessary errands on that day to prep for the week. I’m going back to Kentucky later this month for a longer visit, but I’ve not really figured that out just yet, either.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines so I can get my work done and head north. Have a great Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow–and if not, definitely Sunday after I get back to New Orleans.

  1. There are also a couple of Agatha Christies I’ve not read–Death in the Air and Murder in Three Acts. ↩ī¸Ž
  2. Yes, I can hear how grim that sounds once I started typing it out, but it’s accurate. How else to say it simply? They all graduated sixty-three years ago (and yes, I was born three months after my parents graduated), so they are all at least eighty-one–and much as modern medicine has extended longevity, they are also the last generation that was encouraged to smoke, along with all the other unhealthy ways they loved. Imagine cooking with lard, for one. ↩ī¸Ž
  3. IMPORTANT CORRECTION: It was fake news. There’s nothing there right now, but it’s possible and any potential path of something that doesn’t exist is obviously incorrect. Sorry for including this, but I did say it was a rumor. ↩ī¸Ž

Love is Like a Butterfly

Tuesday morning and I feel good again. I was very tired when I got home from work yesterday (my supervisor being in Europe is just as stressful as I suspected it would be), and just kind of chilled out last night. I did start outlining what I’ve already written on the Scotty, and I did start looking at stories for this anthology I am going to try to submit something for–I think I can finally change and edit a certain story that’s been in my files for decades. We started watching the new Menendez Brothers documentary on Netflix last night, and will probably finish it tonight. And despite the stress of yesterday morning, I did manage to get all my work done at the office, so I am pretty caught up.

I am going to Alabama this weekend; I heard from Dad and so I am going to drive up there after work on Friday, and come back home on Sunday; a short visit with Dad and then back home. I am going to go up to Kentucky later this month; I need to reschedule some things, but that’s all do-able.

I just looked at the Hurricane Milton updates and am very worried about all my friends who live in Florida. I lived in Tampa for five years in the nineties, when I worked for Continental Airlines; yes, the Tampa airport is the airport where I worked, with the white shirt with epaulets and the navy blue pants and the name tag. (The opening scene of The Orion Mask is set at Tampa Airport; my main character was an airline employee.) We never had anything really major happen there of a tropical nature when I lived there, so it was never anything I worried about before moving to New Orleans. I think about the barrier islands in Tampa Bay, and how narrow the peninsula that St. Petersburg sits on actually is; it’s not impossible that this monster storm could wipe a lot of that area clean. I remain hopeful that somehow this won’t be the coming disaster it appears to be; I can’t even imagine how bad the best case scenario could be. There was significant wind damage to New Orleans with Katrina, which people tend to forget about because of the catastrophic flood that ensued when the levees failed. Roofs will come off, trees will be uprooted and flung about with great force; if it’s as strong as they are saying it could be when it comes ashore, the wind could move cars. I hope everyone gets out that is able. It turns my stomach to think about what could happen there. I hope none of it comes to pass–but I am also realistic. I hope everyone I care about who lives in Florida was able to get out and is okay, and worst case scenarios do not come to pass.

I think I’m going to take Gabino with me to Alabama, and I was looking for a horror novel to listen to in the car, and I am leaning towards listening to Paul Tremblay’s Survivor Song or The Pallbearer’s Club. I do love his writing, though, so it’s fun to read Tremblay; but I do love his work and he’s probably one of my favorite horror writers of this current epoch of horror fiction. I’ll have to pick out some more later for the trip up to Kentucky.1 It seems a bit surreal to be thinking about trips and such things–the minutiae of life–while destruction looms for Florida, doesn’t it? (And what does this mean for the Florida football team? They are on the road at Tennessee this weekend, but supposed to be playing at home the following weekend; I suspect that game will be moved to Lexington.) It’ll be hot without power, but at least October is cooler than August or September. Small favors, indeed.

And on that sad note, I am heading into the spice mines. Keep everyone in the path of the storm in your thoughts, and send some positivity their way–and hope they won’t need it.

  1. It also just occurred to me that I am being counter-intuitive with the trip up there; there’s certainly no reason for me to go from weekend to weekend; I can also go during the week and come back the following week. I hate being so obtuse as to think that ‘trip for a week’ means Sunday to Sunday. ↩ī¸Ž

That’s Why God Made the Movies

I love nothing more than a good horror movie, unless it’s a well-written horror novel…and with his latest, the amazing Paul Tremblay has somehow managed to give his readers both.

Our little movie that couldn’t had a crew size that has become fluid in the retelling, magically growing in the years since Valentina uploaded the screenplay and three photo stills to various online message boards and three brief scenes to Youtube in 2008. Now that I live in Los Angeles (temporarily; please, I’m not a real monster) I can’t tell you how many people have told me they know someone or are friends of a friend of a friend who was on-set. Our set.

Like now. I’m having coffee with one of the producers of the Horror Movie remake. Or is it a reboot? I’m not sure of the correct term for what it is they will be doing. Is it a remake if the original film, shot more than thirty years ago, was never screened? “Reboot” is probably the proper term but not with how it’s applied around Hollywood.

Producer Guy’s name is George. Maybe. I’m pretending to forget his name in retribution for our first meeting six months ago, which was over Zoom. While I was holed uip in my small, stuffy apartment, he was outdoors, traipsing around a green space. He apologized for the sunglasses and his bouncing, sun-dappled phone image in that I-can-do-whatever-I-want way and explained he just had to get outside, get his steps in, because he’d been stuck in his office all morning and he would be there all afternoon. Translation: I deign to speak to you, however you’re not important enough to interrupt a planned walk. A total power play. I was tempted to hang up on him or pretend my computer screen froze, but I didn’t. Yeah, I’m talking tougher than I am. I couldn’t afford (in all applications of that word) to throw away any chance, as slim as it might be, to get the movie made. Within the winding course of our one-way discussion in which I was nothing but flotsam in the current of his river, he said he’d been looking for horror projects, as “horror is hot,” but because everything happening in the real world was so grim, he and the studios wanted horror that was “uplifting and upbeat.” His own raging waters were too loud for him to hear my derisive snort-laugh or see my eye-roll. I didn’t think anything would ever come from that chat.

Horror that is “uplifting and upbeat.” Oooo-kay then.

I’ve been a fan of Tremblay since I read his brilliant A Head Full of Ghosts, which was so real and believable and so original that it blew my mind. It was one of the more ambitious horror novels I’d read this century, and having enjoyed that thoroughly, delved more deeply into the Tremblay canon. I’ve yet to be disappointed in one of his novels–they are always very original, even when taking on a horror trope; they are hard to stop reading or put down at any point over the course of the narrative; and his characters are always believable, absolutely real, and completely relatable, even if they aren’t the nicest people around.

The “cult horror movie” trope is one that has been used before, of course, both in fiction and on film. The primary reason for the success of The Blair Witch Project back in the day was due to no one being certain whether it was a work of fiction or if the film’s conceit–found footage of something that actually happened–and that huge success resulted in the rise of the “found footage” trope. Tremblay plays a bit with this here–the original film in this book, Horror Movie, is also named Horror Movie. Five kids made the movie back in the day, with everyone participating and everyone having off-camera duties as well as their on-camera performances. The movie was never released, but about ten years earlier than the time of the novel, the director released some scenes on line and also published the script, posting links on every horror film board and horror fan board she could find. This has stirred up interest in the movie again…and the book is about the “reboot/remake” of Horror Movie, and the person telling the story is the only survivor from the original movie…but we don’t learn that right away. (Part of the lore of the movie is its “curse”.) He also played the monster the kids in the movie “create”, by isolation, torture and mind control–and the use of a mask that he (only known as The Thin Kid) is forced to wear.

The story has two timelines–the current day with the making of the new version, and his memories of making the original. There are also flashbacks to periods in his life between the bookends of the film being made–the film being made reminds me of Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door–and as the book goes on, the timelines cross over and over again and once again, we have a completely unreliable narrator–but that doesn’t become very apparent until the book continues to move on and this blurring of fact and fiction is done so incredibly well that you can’t help but wonder how all of this is going to play out and what is real and what isn’t–while the tension keeps building and building as everything spirals out of control.

This book is utterly amazing, and I am so grateful I started reading Tremblay. Highly recommended, and will make a lot of Top Ten lists this year.

Daydream Believer

Ah, Saturday morning. I have to make a brief errand run today, nothing major or horribly annoying, but it still means going outside. Tomorrow….tomorrow I am not leaving the house. We did all our errands last night, including a Costco run (we made it out for less than $300! It’s been years), and then we just hung out and watched television–the gymnastics Olympic team trials–and called it a night relatively early. I also managed to get some things done around the house, too–the bed linens laundered, the dishes put away and another load washed, cleaning up the kitchen–and was in a pretty good mood almost the entire day. I realized something else, too; I also bought the new car and took on all that additional monthly expense right around when Mom had her first stroke, too–so there was the Mom subconscious worry on top of monetary stress; something I hadn’t experienced in a very long time and I. Did. Not. Like. That. One. Bit. I am finally beginning to see a distant light at the end of a very long dark tunnel in that regard, but still. I don’t regret the car purchase; I am very pleased with the car and intend to hopefully keep it until I die. It’s hard to believe that I’ve had it now for almost eight years. That’s INSANE.

It was strangely cool and beautiful yesterday–granted, it was 86 degrees, but after the last few weeks it felt heavenly, and the damp in the air was cool not hot. I imagine that was the aftermath of Thursday night’s downpour, but regardless the reason it was lovely. The sun wasn’t out as much, either–there were a lot of clouds, so no endless punishing direct sunlight was also a pleasure to experience this close to the 4th. I am also going to have to keep watching Tropical Storm Beryl. Ah, hurricane season is already revving up for a long and busy summer.

I was also exhausted after we did the errands. I fell asleep in my chair for over an hour after getting back home, and the place is a mess. I was too tired when I got home from Costco (the last errand) to put everything away properly, and I’d also intended to do some work on the workspace, but…tired. I slept later this morning and feel better now that I am up and swilling coffee, but whew, it was hard to get up this morning and my joints all ached. The joys of being an elder, I suppose, but sheesh. I literally thought when I woke up (when Sparky woke me up) that I was too tired physically to get out of bed, but I got there eventually. I do have some errands to run today, but it shouldn’t take very long and then I can come back home and work on the house more. I also want to write this morning (and maybe this afternoon) and hopefully today I won’t get sidetracked or distracted.

The gymnastic trials were fun to watch; I always forget how fun it is to watch athletes trying to reach their dream goal of the Olympics–but of course the thrill of victory also carries with it the agony of defeat or worse, injury. It’s also hard for me to conceive that it’s an Olympic year and I’ve heard so very little about the Olympics (other than Parisians treating it all as a horror and inconvenience; I do sometimes think the Olympics will eventually die because they are too expensive to host) because naturally the election and the horrors that the Christofascists’ puppet SCOTUS are inflicting on our country are sucking all the energy and air out of the room.

I was too tired to make a Pride post yesterday, so I will definitely have to make up for it today by doing perhaps two? I am going to continue Pride through Independence Day, haters be damned, because Pride is about freedom and so is the 4th and therefore Pride should lead into a celebration of everyone’s freedom. And if straight people don’t like it, they can literally just fuck right off. I am so tired of being told how to behave and how to be an adult and how to “not upset the heteros” and you know what? Fuck the heteros and their delicate sensibilities. They’ve been tiptoed around and catered to more than enough, thank you very much. You know what offends me? Abused children, adultery, deadbeat dads, racism, transphobia, homophobia, and misogyny. Clean up your own fucking house before you come for queers, thank you very much. But it’s easier to blame us than take any responsibility for the messy world you’ve created, isn’t it?

And may no one else ever have to fear about their rights every election cycle–although SCOTUS has already delegitimized itself and we know they are coming for marriage equality at some point, too–and sooner than we think. And just remember–there is no divine right of Republicans to rule. How are they any different from the Jacobean Stuart kings of England? Claiming a God-given right, or a “divine mandate”, to be in power is hardly a Christian thought; Jesus said very clearly (if you believe the Bible) that his kingdom was not of this world, and coerced religious conversion isn’t what the Jesus I read about and studied would have wanted for anyone. (I still don’t believe that, if Jesus were real, that he was sent here to start a new religion, but rather to teach by example what a life devoted to good works and godliness looked like.

Funny how all they care about is the Word and not the Deeds.

Well, that got feisty for a bit, didn’t it? I guess I am more awake than I gave myself credit for! I also managed to finish reading Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay, which I really enjoyed (he is a masterful writer, and the language is superb). I am still digesting that book today, because it was a lot of ideas and intense creativity, which is why he’s one of my favorite writers and I am saddened to realize I am running out of his backlist to read, which means postponing reading more of him because I never want to be out of things to read by authors I really enjoy. I am planning on starting the new John Copenhaver today as well, which is exciting. I have quite a recent-release TBR pile–Kellye Garrett, Amina Akhtar, Angela Crook, Angie Kim, and Scott Carson, to name a few glittering names from the stack–and more just keep getting released every month. Sigh. I also need to do a book purge this weekend, too. Heavy heaving sigh. It never ends, does it?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday wherever you are, Constant Reader, and I’ll definitely be checking back in with you later.

Seasons in the Sun

Tuesday and back to the office this morning with me. It feels right, you know? Yesterday I was kind of bored and low energy. I did some chores, worked on the files some, did some writing, and reading (Horror Movie is terrific; Paul Tremblay is really a spectacular writer), but overall I was feeling pretty low energy by the time the late afternoon rolled around, and I didn’t have a problem with it, really. I got up early, after all, to get used to it, and I’d done a lot over the previous two days; and everything else that needs to be done in here can be broken down into separate small chores, which is far easier to scratch off the list and a lot more satisfying. Paul had to go out for the evening last night to go to a reading, and didn’t get home until after I went to bed. I slept very well, too.

So I am feeling up for going back to work this morning; I feel very rested and relaxed, and I only have to be in the office for three days this week, and three days next, too. I think I am going to take Friday the 5th off, might as well have another four day weekend when it presents itself this way, don’t you think? I thought it would take much longer to get through the filing, in all honesty, and to be sure, it’s not exactly finished either. But I would have never dreamed I could get so much done so quickly, either. I have another drawer to go through, and then everything needs to be alphabetized…but most of the duplicates have been combined, all the files pertaining to a certain book have been also gathered togetherm and now I have to start finishing books, you know? Tonight I have to get the mail and go to the gym before I get home, which will be nice. There are a couple of chores I started and need to finish–laundry and dishes, as always–before I can settle in to write and/or read tonight. (I suspect I’ll be tired and reading is the most likely option. I do want to get Horror Movie finished so I can start another one.) It also rained overnight–more rain later in the week to come–and so I can probably put off washing the car for another weekend.

We’re also running out of Pride Month, and I have a lot of entries left to complete. Heavy sigh. It’s not easy when you don’t really have a plan. The ones that are left will wind up lengthier than the ones I’ve already done, and I don’t think I’m necessarily the best at winging it, you know? There are a couple that I’ve been wanting to finish for several years now–including one about masculinity, one about old Hollywood and physique magazines (which I want to write a book about eventually), and one about The Children’s Bible, because I looked upon those images inside with desire when I was a child. I should also probably do Playgirl magazine as well. So many potential entries, so few days. Heavy heaving sigh.

But I like the uncluttered look the apartment is now getting. I still want to do the drawers and the cabinets, and of course the attic is a big project I may save for Labor Day weekend. It’s so lovely to be making progress again.

It was also kind of nice that I really did take most of the day off yesterday because of the low energy and it seems to have worked its magic, so on this note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again later.

My Sharona

Saturday morning here in the Lost Apartment and I am feeling rather pleased with myself as I accomplished a great deal. After finishing my work-at-home duties yesterday, Constant Reader, I worked on the filing…and by that, I don’t mean “put files away”–no, I mean I went through the boxes of files in the apartment and cleaned them out. A lot of files are just titles and a quick scribbled note; I got rid of all files for stories/books that didn’t have at least a few paragraphs written; was able to combine duplicate files and pare them down; and I had files of research and ideas for multiple projects spread out over the various file boxes are now all consolidated and together. I still have the filing cabinet to work on, but I still feel like I accomplished quite a bit. Having everything together for the various projects will make working on them that much easier, and it’s exciting to know I went from four and a half boxes of files down to one and a half. GO ME! I also managed to launder all the bed linens, and also a load of dishes. I reorganized my workspace as well, so all in all, a most productive day and one with which I am very pleased. I am going to work on the kitchen cabinets today as well as the file cabinet and workspace. I also have to make a mail and grocery run, need to clean the car, and go to the gym for more arm rehab as well.

Sparky even let me sleep in until nine this morning, wasn’t that kind of the dear boy?

One thing I also noticed yesterday was that I turned on Spotify on the television in the living room while i was organizing the files and it helped me to focus–which reminded me that back in the day, I used to always listen to music while I wrote and it helped me go into the focus zone. Listening to headphones doesn’t quite work for background noise, but the reconnection with music as a tool for focus was wonderful. How could I possibly forget how necessary music was for going into the zone to write, or helped me focus while cleaning? It’s nice to know that I can start remembering methods and tricks that helped me write and zero in on things I was doing with laser-like focus. In some ways, I feel like I am learning how to write all over again, which isn’t a bad thing.

I also realized yesterday that what I have been feeling now for a few weeks is good. It’s been so long since I’ve felt good about anything and have been in a headspace of anything other than just getting through and surviving for so long that I am really not even sure how i managed to write and publish anything between 2016 and now, but oddly enough those books are some of my best work–Bury Me in Shadows, #shedeservedit, A Streetcar Named Murder, Death Drop, Royal Street Reveillon and Mississippi River Mischief, not to mention some of my best short stories. Go figure, right? I also have done some excellent essays during that time, too. Even on auto-pilot, as I dealt with a lot of personal and professional trials for nine years, I still improved as a writer.

Today I am going to work on the book around some more chores and the errands already mentioned, as well as work on the filing cabinet and finish the floors downstairs. There’s a load of dishes to be put away, and more organization in the living room; getting rid of those file boxes opened up space in the living room and I want to work on making the living room look more spacious rather than cramped–and that has a lot to do with paring down the books some more as well…and I haven’t even started on the attic. I also want to spend some time with the Tremblay novel this morning, which I am enjoying but want to get to the next read in my TBR stack–I am going to read two queer novels back to back, I think, and would love to be able to review them by the time Pride Month ends.

And so, on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a delightful Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back later.

Down by the Lazy River

Happy Father’s Day to all who celebrate. As for me, I’m meeting Dad in Florida on Friday for a nice weekend in Panama City Beach, although I seriously doubt that I’ll be going outside very much. The older I get, the less I can stand to be in the heat–which is something younger Greg would have laughed at very hard. I no longer care about being tan, either, as yet another fragment of vanity disappears from my head. Today I have to go out into the heat to make groceries, but other than that I am staying happily indoors and trying to get some more work done. We also have Wednesday off, of course, for Juneteenth, which is going to make for an odd work week, methinks, which is also payday.

I am feeling a bit groggy this morning but I haven’t had my first cup of coffee, either. Ah, there’s that first sip, sending warmth and energy through my system. I plan to do some writing today; I had a really good time yesterday unpacking and deconstructing the 20k+ words I already have done for this project, and I do think expanding it out into a novel is a good idea; I think it will make for a very good book if it accomplishes what I am setting out to do with it–and of course, as soon as I have those ambitious thoughts good old Imposter Syndrome rears its ugly head. AH, well, but feeling like I’m back inside my writer’s skin inevitably was going to trigger that, wasn’t it? Sadly, it’s all part and parcel of being a writer, and I just need to shrug it off entirely and focus on the work. So, while I generally despise Imposter Syndrome, I welcome it now because it’s a signpost on the way to getting back to being a full time writer after several years of being swamped and stressed and everything else that went on since 2016, really. It’s been almost a decade since Mom’s first stroke and she started living, essentially, on borrowed time. I think that was the start of the cloud in my brain, and that odd sense that time is running out. It feels lovely to be out of that; I’ve not experienced it for quite some time now, and I think the rest of this year might actually turn out to be incredibly productive for me. Here’s hoping, anyway.

Yesterday was lovely. Sparky got me up before eight, which was fine (he let me sleep until eight this morning), and I got up and started working. I did some cleaning, and I also did some writing, and some planning. Last night I scribbled away merrily in my journal, listing characters and figuring out backstories for them, so that they can be fully realized when I write about them. I do think this one, and the one after, are going to be some of my best work, which feels great, you know? I was also looking over the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys, and rewrote some of it in my head, which I will need to transcribe at some point today as well. I didn’t really leave the house yesterday, which was great. I spent some time reading the new Paul Tremblay, Horror Movie, which I am really enjoying. (I always enjoy reading Tremblay; he’s one of the best of the new crop of names in the horror community, and not a single book or story of his that I’ve read wasn’t an incredibly enjoyable experience.) We finished getting caught up on The Boys (it cracks me up that the right-wingers are suddenly realizing that the show actually makes fun of them, and the ‘heroes’ they were rooting for were actually the villains. Sucks to be MAGA), and then we dove back into After the Flood, which is absolutely terrific and interesting.

Oh! And House of the Dragon returns tonight. Huzzah!

I slept well again last night, so getting up to Sparky’s determination to get fed was fine with me this morning. The first cup of coffee is currently working its magic in my bloodstream and I am waking up, which is marvelous. I do have some things I need to do this morning–the kitchen is a bit of a wreck this morning, and the floors need to be done–but I am hoping to spend the day, outside of the grocery store, inside working on the book and getting my shit together for the week. Make a to-do list, try to remember all the things I want to submit to, and get organized. I never feel organized, and haven’t in a while, which is part of the off-balance thing that’s been going on since 2016 or so.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday/Father’s Day, and I may be back later with some other posts about being gay and Pride and other great moments from my gay life.

Roll Away the Stone

Saturday morning and Sparky flatly refused to let me sleep in this morning, but in fairness, I got a little more than an hour of extra sleep. My back feels a bit stiff this morning, but I do feel rested, and the coffee will most likely clear the cobwebs. I have to run to the grocery store today, and that may be all I need to leave the house for today, which is perfectly fine with me. It looks beautiful outside, but I am sure it is the usual forecast for New Orleans: hot, humid, chance of rain. I haven’t looked at the hurricane center yet to see what’s going on with the tropical systems trying to form, but I’ll most likely do that once I’ve finished this.

Yesterday was a nice work-at-home day. I did pick up the mail (got my copy of James Polchin’s Shadow Men, a queer true crime case from the 1920s, which is all kinds of awesome). After I finished working for the day, Paul and I finished watching season 3 of Bridgerton, which we both greatly enjoyed, before moving on to The Acolyte and the new season of The Boys, which is its last. I did some writing–I started pulling the novella apart, in order to do an outline and get a better idea about how to expand it; I actually want to start writing today, if I could be so lucky, I also intend to spend some time reading today; I need to reread some things I have in progress, and would also like to get started on my next read, Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay, which I am really looking forward to; Tremblay is one of my favorite writers. I also want to get the house cleaned up some, as well as make a grocery run at some point in the afternoon. (We don’t need much, really, but really need what I have to get.)

I also worked on my body culture pride post, which actually has now turned into quite a lengthy personal essay; so much so that I may not ever post it here. The essay itself can go on my Substack; I’ve been putting the Pride posts there as well as here because, I don’t know, it just seemed like a better place for them–which seemed silly to post them in both places. Last night, the recognition that the essay was probably a Substack only post made me think about what I am doing with a Substack and a blog, and last night I realized that I should use the Substack for longer form personal essays and keep the blog as it has always been; a daily report on my life and the occasional discussion of a book, television show, or film I’ve greatly enjoyed; the reviews might go in both places, too. I think I can still make the body culture post, but the essay will have to be whittled down and revised; maybe I should do it from the perspective of life lessons learned from getting in shape and actually working as a personal trainer. (Again, seeing that turn into a longer form essay even as I talk about it here and think about it as I type.) Writing these is also an exercise in memory for me, which also is kind of helpful as I am researching the early 1970s in the Chicago suburbs.

I have to admit I greatly enjoyed season three of Bridgerton. Penelope has been one of my favorite characters since the show started, and I’ve always deeply empathized with her as she was ignored, made fun of it, and made to feel invisible. It made sense for her to be Lady Whistledown, and the choice given to her by the show–either Lady Whistledown or the love of her life–was very cleverly done. I wanted her and Colin to resolve everything and get their happily ever after, but I didn’t think it was fair she had to give up who she was in order to get it, you know? This season really emphasized how shitty life really was for these society women during that period, and I’ve always been fond of the actress who plays her mother (she was magnificent in Rome as Atia of the Julii), and this season gave her a chance to really shine as well, as she realized the daughter she always overlooked and never thought would amount to anything was actually the true jewel of her children–and who made the best match in the end. (I also predicted the end several episodes in, involving the Featherington money and title.) It was, all in all, very well done, and I think it may be my favorite of all the seasons, and precisely because Nicola Coughlin is such a compelling actress. It’s nothing serious, of course; Bridgerton is a light fluffy confection, meant to look beautiful and present this wonderful tapestry of what Regency England could have been like, and who doesn’t love a tricky romance with obstacles that must be overcome?

I’ve always wanted to write a romance, but in all honesty am not really sure if I can. I think I’ll put that on the writing agenda for 2025. Why not try? It would most definitely be a challenge to write, and I always prefer challenges.

And on that note, I am going to finish this, get another coffee, and get my day underway. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later on. I’m tricky like that. 🙂

This is NOT why I am a football fan, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. 🙂