Queer · and · Loathing · in · America

As always, I am behind and trying to catch up. The revision of Timothy is coming along nicely, if too slowly, and Night Shadows is also nearing completion. I might not make this coming Friday's deadlines for everything, but that last extra weekend might just do the trick.

Fingers crossed, people.

Heavy sigh.

For today's entry into Short Story Month, I gave myself the daunting task of picking out my favorite Stephen King short story--which was no easy feat; Mr. King is certainly a master of the short story (as he is of writing in general, frankly) and he has produced any number of magnificent short stories--from "Children of the Corn" to "Word Processor of the Gods" to "Night Shift" to "The Last Rung on the Ladder" to "Ur" to "Riding the Bullet"; the list goes on and on--and that doesn't even take into consideration the novellas: The Body, Apt Pupil, Hearts in Atlantis, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, The Langoliers, and Big Driver,--another list of great work that goes on and on.

But if forced to choose, I would have to say ( my favorite King short story )

Today's title is an insanely catchy dance-type song that has been stuck in my head for, oh, I don't know--about three fricking weeks now? Oy.

I am taking a break from my short story entries--not to worry, there are plenty more on deck--to shriek about how busy I am. I don't know, I honestly don't know, if I am going to get everything done.

I want to get everything due by June 1st done indeed because I don't want to spend June trying to get caught up on all the stuff due by June 1; I want to spend June getting caught up on the things I keep letting slide because there's so much else for me to do. AUGH.

Right now, for example, I should be working on Timothy. In fact, I should have been working on it all morning. But other shit keeps interfering, and I am really getting sick to death of it. I'm really not sure what part of "I have a full time job, I have an anthology AND a novel to finish and a novel to edit by June 1" doesn't compute with other people.

Sigh.

I also love how I have been lectured over the years by people for 'not being a good friend' or 'being selfish' because if I am on deadline I won't drop everything to hold someone's hand or talk them through some inanely childish self-induced drama.

Because of course that's more important than getting my book in on time--although people never seem to think others SHOULD LEAVE WORK in the same situation.

Whatever.

Back to the spice mines.

I have to be at a panel at 10:30 this morning--yikes!

I did get work done on the book yesterday. Yay!

So, in keeping with Short Story Month (proclaimed by n8an), I decided to spend the rest of the month talking about my favorite short stories. I will undoubtedly forget some--as is my wont; I do this while drinking coffee and waking up in the morning, sue me--but today's choice is, I believe, a most excellent one, and a story I never tire of rereading.

Daphne du Maurier is primarily remembered today because she wrote the definitive Gothic romantic suspense novel of the twentieth century, which still holds up all these years after its initial publication: Rebecca, which is one of my favorite books of all time. I always have a copy of Rebecca in my house; I don't know how many copies I've gone through over the years.

Du Maurier was an amazing writer, although her novels weren't always that great, frankly. But she was always critically acclaimed, and her books were always bestsellers. She was also an extraordinary short story writer--her stories were always longer that the traditional short story--but her writing style was remarkable. I am always amazed, when rereading my favorite short stories of hers, what she was able to do in the short form; I tried to mimic that style with my story "An Arrow for Sebastian." Some of my other favorite short stories written by DuMaurier include "The Blue Lenses," "Kiss Me Again, Stranger," and "The Birds."

But my absolute favorite is( Don't Look Now )

I am ensconced in the Lost Apartment this weekend all by myself--at least for today. Paul and Amie are down at Saints and Sinners 9.5; and are staying at the Monteleone Hotel. So, I am here by myself--well, there's an incredibly needy kitty in the house with me--and the house is already clean; we did a very thorough cleaning before Amie arrived Thursday--so I really have absolutely NO excuse for not getting a lot done today, do I?

I do have to run some errands around noonish; and if I can get a lot done today I might even go to the gym and do some cardio later this evening. I have some reading to get done as well, and editing--always there's editing to do. Heavy sigh.

But what am I going to do for breaks? The house is already clean. Oh, yes--the windows.

So, keep your fingers crossed, Constant Reader--I am hopeful I can get so much done today it's scary. :)

Last night, when I got home from the S&S Anthology Book Launch party, I sat in my chair with a purring kitty in my lap and re-read a short story that I absolutely love; and decided it might not be a bad idea to occasionally discuss short stories that I love.

And this one is one of my absolute all time favorites.

( short story )

I was a freshman or sophomore in high school, I think, when I first heard Donna Summer's "Love To Love You Baby," the song that made her a star. Honestly, I didn't much care for the three minute version of the song that was played in heavy rotation on Top Forty radio--even though all the other kids at school talked about it in hushed whispers--she was simulating orgasms in the song!!!!

I didn't become a fan until "I Feel Love," which to this day is still my favorite Donna Summer song; it's also the only one that doesn't sound dated when you listen to it now.

But after I graduated from high school and discovered the wonders of drinking and going dancing in bars, Donna Summer became ubiquitous; a constant presence in whatever disc jockey who was working's set. "MacArthur Park Suite," "Last Dance," "Hot Stuff," "Bad Girls," "Dim All The Lights," "Sunset People", "On The Radio," and "No More Tears (Enough Is Enough)"--the hits just came, one right after another, and always pushed people out on the dance floor. All the d.j. had to do was put on the latest Donna Summer hit, and the dance floor got packed.

She tried to change her image--she released an album that was more rock than disco called The Wanderer, which was actually quite good. Around that same time disco died, she became born again--blah blah blah, she disappeared from public view.

SHe recorded more music over the years, even had some dance hits with songs like "This Time I Know It's For Real" and "Stamp Your Feet", among others; although my favorite post-superstar Donna Summer song was "I Will Go With You."

So, I was a little melancholy today to say goodbye to Donna Summer.

Amazing voice, some awesome music.

RIP, Queen of Disco.

Amie arrives tonight, so I have to spend at least part of the morning cleaning the Lost Apartment.

Time has been flying right past me; I've been so focused on writing Timothy I keep forgetting other things, and the next thing I know another week is gone. Heavy heaving sigh. I am certain this all has something to do with being old; I remember when I was younger time seemed to take forever to go past. But it's always lovely when friends come into town. I suspect I am having lunch with 'Postrophe at some point, as well as Ricker-san.

Huzzah!

Anyhow, I don't have to be at work until 4 today, which is kind of cool...I only have to put in four hours this evening and then it's home to hang out with Amie and Paul and Scooter.

Yesterday wasn't an easy writing day, so I've decided to tell the deadline to go fuck itself and not write anything today. However, while I am running the Lab tonight at the office I am going to reread everything I've already written on this bitch, and maybe--just maybe--plan out the rest of the book so I don't have to fly by the seat of my pants. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know how the book is going to end and I have a vague idea of what all has to happen in this bitch, but I think maybe planning out the rest might make the writing come a little easier.

OH! In other exciting news, I replaced our wireless router yesterday. When we originally got wireless when we moved back into the Lost Apartment back in 2006, I bought a router at Office Depot, a Linksys, and remember this was when I had that crappy (shudder) PC desktop (which I didn't use for long because it sucked), so I was unable to set up the network properly. As such, over the years, we were constantly having to restart it because for some reason one of the computers would get knocked off-line, the new Air would knock every other computer off-line if I tried to connect, blah blah blah.

Well, the other day I finally had enough, and ordered the Mac AirPort Extreme router, and it arrived yesterday. I had it hooked up in two minutes, the new locked network set up, and let me tell you--the extra money I spent on it was worth every penny. Both desktops, the Air, both iPhones, my iPod touch, my old iPhone, the iPad, and Paul's laptop? All on-line at the same time, without a problem...and this bitch is fucking FAST.

I really regret not getting it sooner.

And with that, I fear I must return to the spice mines. This place ain't going to clean itself, alas.

There was an article in the New York Times the other day about how, in this new age of the e-reader, rather than producing a book a year authors are expected to produce a lot more work per year than they used to; James Patterson was used as an example--but the article also didn't point out that Patterson merely comes up with the characters and the story, then hires someone else to write it and shares credit on the cover.

Of course, the reactions to this peice--especially on Facebook--have been both amusing and insulting.

You see, the blanket assumption is that if you produce more work, clearly it MUST be inferior to those who only produce one book per year--or take longer.

I, for one, am tired of apologizing to the world, and to other writers because I am more prolific than they are.

I'm not the best writer; I freely admit that. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I am even in the top tier of writers--gay, mystery, whatever. I prefer to think of myself as a competent writer; one who can put words together and can create scenes and characters and do a pretty decent job of setting. I'm not Stephen King or Laura Lippman or John Morgan Wilson or any number of high-quality writers whose work I enjoy and whose talents I envy.

But this blanket assumption some people seem to feel justified in, that if you can produce a lot of work in a short period of time clearly you're obviously just a hack is insulting, but also kind of pisses me off.

I'm tired of apologizing because my mind works quickly, and because I can write a lot in a short period of time.

The average length of my books is about 80,000 words. So, in the last ten years I've published 17 novels, so in novels alone (not counting essays, blogs, columns, opinion pieces, and short stories) I've written 1, 360,000 words--and really, I have two coming out this year not included in that, so you can add another 160,000 to my output.

So, over a million and a half words. You add in the other stuff, and I have put out over two million in ten years; which of course averages to 200,000 a year.

Since the average novel now really comes in at an average of say 120,000, really, my output is the equivalent of writing one really long novel every year.

Do you see how stupid those snide remarks look now in that context? So, if every year I merely published one really long novel--well, then I'd be a quality writer. But since I chose instead to break it up into a couple of novels and other things, I am therefore a hack and a fraud and my work couldn't possibly be of any quality whatsoever.

It's bad enough that I am marginalized as a genre hack; and if that isn't enough, then I am even further marginalized as a GAY mystery writer. Horror of horrors!

I get bashed by the mainstream mystery world, I get bashed by the gay literary world, pretty much every where I turn my work is diminished, demeaned, marginalized, insulted and degraded.

I was told by the programmer at a major mystery conference I couldn't be on panels because I was a nobody--"I looked you up and all I found was you'd edited a couple of anthologies, and surely you have to understand that doesn't qualify you to be on panels, given how many Bquality writers we have coming to this event" are the exact words the homophobic bitch used in her condescending, insulting email to me when I asked why I wasn't assigned anything for the second year in a row.

My gay dollars are now spent elsewhere. I'll never go back to that conference again, needless to say.

And that buck-toothed bitch better hope we never meet face to face.

I'm not going to grovel to nobodies who think because they are in a position of "power" they can insult me and condescend to me because 'my work' isn't somehow worthy.

I, for one, am sick to death of this elitism.

I'm not going to apologize for being able to write more than most authors any more.

I'm not going to apologize for writing about gay characters and gay life.

If you want to think I'm a hack, be my guest.

Because I'm not going to slow down or stop writing as long as I have the ability to type or dictate.

Sorry to disappoint you.

Man, writing yesterday was kind of like having teeth pulled; and while I did manage to get about three thousand or so words down, it took a ridiculously long period of time, which was highly annoying, as I am sure you can imagine, Constant Reader. And alas, Saturday was rather similar, in fact. Meh, it happens. Today I need to get quite a bit done, fortunately I don't have a long day at the office, so I am also hoping to get to the gym and get some cardio in as well. (I've actually lost like seven pounds in the last ten days or so, which is very awesome.)

I am starting to panic about the due date of this baby; which is a lot sooner than I would prefer. But I am almost finished with the edits for Night Shadows, which is awesome, and so I should feel pretty good about everything, methinks.

We also started watching Boardwalk Empire this weekend, which is rather well done if a little on the flawed side. I suppose we're too early into it to judge; sometimes you have to get really far into a show to judge it accurately.

The mini-Saints and Sinners weekend is coming up; yay!

I suppose it's okay to mention this now--in a moment of complete and utter insanity, I agreed to serve as local chair of the committee putting on Stoker Weekend here in New Orleans next year; June 2013, to be exact. And if Stoker Weekend wasn't enough, we are also going to be hosting World Horror Convention as a combined event! Woo-hoo!

I am joking of course--it's going to be a lot of fun, and the Stoker board folks have been very helpful and easy to work with thus far.

And it looks like my y/a ghost story, Lake Thirteen, will be out by then. DOUBLE HUZZAH!

Okay, the spice mines beckon.

Lord, I have a lot of work to do this weekend. I have managed to get off schedule a bit this past week, which last night very nearly sent me into a panic attack--but this morning everything's back to fine. If I can somehow manage to stay focused, I have no doubt that I can get back on track rather quickly.

Timothy is coming along, thanks for asking. I'm behind, but when am I not? But if, as previously mentioned, I buckle down and push I can get through. I have some short stories I need to write, and a shitload of editing to do, but again, I am confident I can get through it all.

If I can get this all out of the way, June is going to be catch-up month; I am way behind on reading for an award I am judging, and there are some other odds and ends I want to work my way through and get out of the way. I don't have another novel due until January 1, so my hope is that June-September can be spent getting caught up and as much out of the way so that three month period can be spent writing my next y/a, Lake Thirteen.

I don't even want to think about the five novels I have to write next year. Yikes!

Amie is coming in this week, so there must be cleaning done.

Today was supposed to be riddled with thunderstorms, but the sun is out. Perhaps today I can finally get the windows cleaned.

And now, without further ado, back to the spice mines.