Tag: Somebody Somewhere

Drowned World/Substitute for Love

Saturday morning in the Lost Apartment and I finally slept well last night, and I even slept in for an extra two hours this morning. I could have easily (and gladly) stayed in bed for even longer, but I have too much to get done this weekend to allow myself to slovenly lay in bed for the entire morning, so once Scooter’s outrage about not being fed at six a.m. manifested itself into non-stop yowling, I got up and fed him. I feel very rested today, which is lovely. I was tired and dragging all day yesterday, and when I finished work I had things to get done. Paul and I ran out to Costco for a restocking (I hate that sometimes they have stuff and sometimes they don’t; they didn’t have several key things I always get when I go) and then I picked up the mail and a prescription. I need to get gas this weekend as well as make groceries, and the tires need to be aired up as well (the low pressure light came on in Alabama last weekend, but only one tire was low and it wasn’t officially low; it was simply lower than the other three tires), and there’s all kinds of other things I need to get done this weekend. I am editing a manuscript which needs to get finished this weekend; I’d like to do a little more work on my own manuscript; and I would absolutely love to finish reading Lori Roy’s brilliant Let Me Die in His Footsteps this weekend as well. It’s seem rather daunting when it’s put that way, but I am confident that not only can I get all of it completed but without driving myself insane, either.

Always a plus!

We watched The Boston Strangler film on Hulu last night (after an episode of Somebody Somewhere, which I am really growing fond of), and it was quite good. It focused on the two women reporters who figured out there was an actual serial killer and did all the pursuing of the case, all the while tweaking the police who were falling down on the job and forcing them to actually do their work. I wasn’t old enough when the killings were actually happening, but my dad had a copy of Gerold Frank’s The Boston Strangler and I did read that, as well as watched the Tony Curtis film version of the story when it was released to the television networks after its theatrical run. I don’t really remember much of reading the book, other than one landlady who was certain one of her tenants was the Strangler, and the story kept coming back to her and her suspicions. That always stayed with me over the years (what if your tenant/neighbor was a serial killer and you started to suspect? which became my story “The Carriage House”–yes, Virginia, that story gestated in my head for nearly fifty years before I wrote it) and to this day I still remember how chilling that was and how much I worried for the landlady. (It’s also the plot of the ancient Hitchcock film The Lodger, in which the landlady suspected her tenant was Jack the Ripper.)

I was thinking yesterday about the entry I wrote yesterday morning and the way I was/have been feeling for quite some time, and I realized that I’ve been a very passive participant in life; I’ve been kind of letting it happen to me for a while now rather than living my life actively. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional, or a reaction to trauma; or maybe, perhaps, even both. The last few years have been rough on everyone; I don’t think we’ll ever know the full extent of the trauma we all experienced as a result of that paradigm shift back in March of 2020; the shutdown, the battles over what was responsible and what was irresponsible; the insanity of the anti-vaxxer movement and everything else that was just plain wrong over the last few years. I suppose for some of us the trauma goes back even further, to the 2016 election. But it’s kind of true. I think I was very active in my own life and the pursuance of goals before 2016, and ever since 2016 I’ve just been kind of coasting along, letting things happen instead of making them. As a general rule I don’t like coasting through life; it was the recognition that was what I was doing in my early thirties that led to the big changes in my life, which was followed by the achieving goals I had always dreamed about, since I was a little boy.

But roadblocks and speed bumps encountered aside, I think had I been able to look ahead twenty-one years when my first book was released to see where I am today, I’d have been pleased and thrilled and more than a little bit smug about what I’d accomplished. A character trait I’ve never wanted to have is arrogance, and I am always afraid of sounding arrogant when talking about myself and my career. I never want to sound arrogant or smug (well, unless I am dealing with haters, in which case I love giving rein to smug condescending arrogance), but over forty novels? Over twenty anthologies? Over fifty short stories? Fifteen Lambda nominations, and seven Anthonys in total? Nominations for the Macavity, the Shirley Jackson, the Lefty, and the Agatha? How could I not be satisfied and proud of myself?

As I was making room for the Costco purchases once we got home, I was putting some things up in the storage attic and needed to move a box, so I looked inside of it to see what it was. Clippings and things from my career, it turned out–once I carried the box down the ladder to the laundry room I could see I’d written Career Memorabilia on it in Sharpie–and inside was all kinds of things. Back issues of Lambda Book Report from the days when I was either its editor or did some writing for them (or when they were reviewing my work), and back issues of Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, too, along with Insightoutbook catalogues (what a serious blast from the past). Of course I had to bring that box down and keep it for sorting through and scanning purposes (I am serious about cleaning shit out of the storage attic this year), and hilariously found the September 2000 issue of Lambda Book Report, with Michael Thomas Ford on the cover. (Peering inside, I saw that Paul actually was the one who interviewed him!) Scanning all of this stuff will be a huge undertaking, and I do actually hate the thought of throwing it all out once it’s done; I don’t know if Lambda ever archived the back issues or not, so this may be all that’s left of it out there. Same with Insightoutbooks; it was very important and crucial to queer publishing between 2000 and when it went under sometime around 2009 or 2010 (that may be wrong; I also found an issue of LBR from 2008 or 2009, and I would have sworn under oath that LBR stopped publishing a print edition long before that. (You see why I no longer trust my memory? Mnemosyne no longer comes to my aid anymore these days, which is most unfortunate–and yes, the reason the goddess of memory comes to mind is because of Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Ghost Orchid–more to come on that score.)

But I also did some cleaning up and filing around here while I was making dinner (ravioli) last night, so this morning the office doesn’t look as bad as it usually does on Saturday morning; the sink is filled with dirty dishes and there’s a load in the dishwasher to put away, but more of the things I generally wind up doing Saturday morning are already done, so there’s no excuse for me not to be highly productive today other than malaise and laziness.

And on that note, I am going to get these minor chores handled while I keep drinking coffee and my mind finishes awakenening.

Don’t Cry for Me Argentina

It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange…

Work at home Friday for one Gregalicious, and yes, I feel marvelous after not having to get up to an alarm at the ungodly hour of six a.m. It doesn’t matter how many days, weeks, months or years I have to do that–I will never get used to it. I’ve had 9 to 5 jobs before and it didn’t matter. I never got used to getting up to the alarm, never failed to get tired or worn down during the course of the week, and was generally so tired by Friday all I could do was pray for the day to end. Why is this? I don’t know, but I have always been like this–even when I was a kid. I made some decent progress on the book last night–thank God–and hopefully will be able to do so tonight as well.

Last night I joined some colleagues and friends for a catch-up-we-don’t-see-each-other-enough ZOOM call, which was lovely. They taught me how to take my face off the screen (I don’t like looking at myself, which is why I’ve always hated doing ZOOM things) and I learned how to blur out my background so I don’t have to stress about open cabinet doors or a stray dirty dish or case of condoms in camera range (which is why I’ve always hated ZOOM things) and it was quite lovely. It was a nice cap on an odd day of weird energy. As always, I enjoyed my clients and there was cake again today (there’s been cake pretty much every day this week), but I felt like I wasn’t getting as much done as I usually can and like I was kind of drifting through the day, if that makes any bit of sense (USE YOUR WORDS, WRITER BOY). But after the call I got through another chapter, and I think I am over the hump now and can buckle down and get the damned thing finished at long last. I have a lot to do this weekend, and not much time for being lazy and recharging (my favorite things to do) my batteries.

But it’s going to take some more time. In fact, I am going to stop being so lethargic and talk to my editor today and let her know how behind this is and see what we can do. Avoidance always makes things worse, you know, and this is a lesson I learned a long time ago–which makes this regression back to a time when “avoidance” was my middle name puzzling, confusing, and worrisome. I used to evade responsibility at every opportunity; eventually I realized that stepping up and taking responsibility was better for me on every level. Maybe I tend to overdo that somewhat; I don’t need to take responsibility for everything as not everything is actually mu fault, but I have also found that taking responsibility like that gives everyone and everything the chance to deal and move on. And sometimes that’s the best thing to do; because things inevitably devolve to “who do we need to blame for this?” and that isn’t productive.

After working some, Paul and I got caught up on The Other Two, which isn’t as funny in its third season as it was in its earlier ones, and then spent some more time with Somebody Somewhere, which I really do like. Today I have work-at-home duties as well as chores to get done before I can curl up with today’s edits; this weekend I have other things to do so I have to put the book aside once I take responsibility for my failures to get this revision done in a timely manner and get this back on the road to its completion. This morning I feel more clear-headed than I have all week, but then of course I should have expected to be tired this week; last weekend I spent over eleven hours driving between Saturday and Sunday and of course, the weekend was an emotional drain. It’s actually been quite a week, frankly; between the emotional rollercoaster of the weekend to the madness of getting three Anthony nominations and of course, the constant struggle to get this book finished, it’s really not a surprise that I was drained and tired and fatigued in every way (emotional, intellectual, and physical) by the time Thursday came rolling around. I also realized this morning/last night that the way I’ve been revising this book hasn’t been the best way to do it; I’ve been doing something different in my approach and as such, feel like no progress is ever being made and that makes it even harder. I was trying to work from the manuscript draft, with everything in one document, as opposed to what I usually do, which is every chapter has its own file with the chapter number and draft number as the file name (example: Chapter 2-4 means fourth draft of chapter two) and I can get the enormous satisfaction of keeping track and getting things done; working in one document there is none of that, and I think not getting that serotonin blast from the illusion of getting things done and moving ahead is what has been holding me back. I am going to go back to the old way of doing things while cutting and pasting the new stuff into the long document and see if that speeds me back up.

Never change the ingrained habits of over twenty years, for therein lies the path to madness.

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. May your Friday be as lovely as you are, Constant Reader, and I’ll clock back in tomorrow.

Little Star

Well, here we are on bleary-eyed Thursday morning and I am swilling coffee and hoping to wake up more. I slept very well, but this is the usual late-week battery running down kind of tired, the way I always feel by the end of the week. I was tired again when I got home from work yesterday, so didn’t get very much accomplished last evening. I have a sink full of dirty dishes I’ve been ignoring, a dishwasher full that needs to be put away, a load of laundry in the dryer and another full basket of clothes to launder as well. Heavy heaving sigh. I really just want to curl up into a ball and go back to sleep and pretend like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, but it is not to be.

I did, in my tired stupor yesterday, did manage to watch this week’s Ted Lasso again and it was just as lovely and charming and delightful the second time around, and I did catch some things I’d missed the first time (my favorite was when Jan Maas said “statistically there should be more than one gay person on the team” and everyone looked at Jamie, who just smiles and says “I’m flattered”). This show is really such a delight; I am always in a much better mood after I watch it. The character development and story arcs have just been phenomenal, and the attention to every little detail is exceptional–the developing friendship between Jamie and Sam, for example; not a major story in the scheme of things, something extra and small on the side, yet also incredible for showing the character development of them both from the first and second seasons when Sam couldn’t stand Jamie and didn’t want him back on the team. We’ve also started watching an adorably funny show on HBO MAX called Somebody Somewhere, which is set in Manhattan, Kansas and focuses on the most endearing odd characters. I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it at first–shows about oddballs are always iffy for me; I wanted to be sure we’re laughing with the characters rather than at them; otherwise it’s too mean-spirited for me, and this show is definitely not that. It’s kind of hard to describe; maybe as I watch more I’ll get it sorted in my head.

I’m hoping that I’ll get my act together this week–the jury is still out on that and it’s already Thursday–but now I am at that “I have so much to do and so little time to do it in so I will never get it done” paralysis that usually comes right before my brain snaps to attention and starts working at an insanely impossible speed. I don’t know why I always do this to myself, but it happens far too regularly for my liking and I really wish I could change my ways to not be like this anymore.

You’re sixty-two, Greg, or rather, almost sixty two (I always add a year to my age after New Year’s), what are the chances you’ll be able to change your methodology at this time in your life? Heavy heaving sigh. But one can always dream, can’t one? I am going to head straight home after work today because I have a ZOOM thing tonight with some friends and I need to clean the kitchen–or at least hide the dishes in the full sink…no wait, I remember! I learned how to blur the background so I don’t have to clean the kitchen! (But I do still need to clean the kitchen if I’m not too tired…)

Ah, well, such is life. And now into the spice mines….have a lovely Friday Eve, Constant Reader.