Queer and Loathing in America

The Metro

Tue, 21 May 2013 15:05:01 GMT

Yesterday I downloaded Upstairs at Eric's by Yaz, as well as a ridiculous amount of Berlin. Yay!

I also got a lot of work done; Baton Rouge Bingo is coming along nicely, thank you very much for asking, and I couldn't be more pleased. Making the deadline is an entirely different matter, so we just won't talk about that, okay?

Have I shared the cover art?

I like it!

Amie arrives tonight, which will be fun, despite the fact I have a rather lengthy day tomorrow.

It never ends in Gregworld.

And now back to the spice mines.

Wild Heart

Mon, 20 May 2013 15:14:39 GMT

A day off! I don't have to go into the office today!

Of course, the to-do list is absolutely ridiculous, Constant Reader, you have NO idea.

Meh, what can you do? I shall simply apply my bloodied and battered nose back to Ye Olde Grindstone, and get back to work.

Seriously, I need to focus, which is never easy for me at the best of times.

But Saints and Sinners is this week, which is always a wonderful and lovely time for me. Lots of friends descending upon New Orleans--people start arriving as early as tomorrow; when I get home from bath house testing tomorrow evening Amie will be in my living room, which is always a treat. The Lost Apartment has been thoroughly cleaned in preparation, and there's just some odds and ends that need to be put away.

I've also boxed up everything paper having to do with Dead Housewives of New Orleans and Anything for a Dollar to put into the storage attic for now; I also need to make a new box for Baton Rouge Bingo, which I absolutely MUST work on today. I also need to get packed for the lengthy weekend in the Quarter; we are again staying at our usual haunt, the Olivier House. There will be, I am sure, plenty of pictures for your delectation, Constant Reader.

But in other exciting news, this arrived last week (one of the things I had to do yesterday was clear the enormous stack of mail which was threatening to take over my kitchen counter) and I cannot tell how you excited I am!

S. J. Rozan is one of my writing heroes (none of her books disappoint, and Winter and Night is one of my all-time favorite mystery novels), and she mentioned on Facebook after the Boston Marathon bombings that if people donated to any fund for the victims, she would send a signed copy of one of her books to the donor. Naturally, I was all about that, and did so--even girding my loins and sending her the obligatory email about the donation.

She sent me a signed, limited edition hardcover of Lydia Chin short stories, pictured above.

AND she introduced herself to me at the Edgars!

AND THERE'S A PICTURE!! (That's me, mystery reviewer extraordinaire and Raven Award recipient Oline Cogdill, Kris Montee who is part of the P. J. Parrish writing team, and S. J. ROZAN!)

Sigh. How I love my life.

And now, back to the spice mines.

If Anyone Falls

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:27:45 GMT

I am scattered every which way but loose. Seriously.

So far today I've had a massage, met Jean at the gym, done laundry, cleaned my oven, worked on making the bookcases presentable again, gone to the Ace Hardware AND the Vitamin Shoppe, washed the bathroom rug, cleaned the toilet and bathroom sink and mirror, have worked on my book, and am working on editing a manuscript (a really good one, Constant Reader, which really excites me) and on and on and on, ad nauseum ad infinitum.

I have some serious ADD working today. Seriously.

Yesterday I wrote a rather lengthy post about racism and Live and Let Die; I didn't post it because I want it to simmer a little while longer. As a white male in a society, country and culture that is overwhelmingly tilted in favor of the straight white male (and I qualify for privilege on two of the three), I am not entirely certain I have the right to talk about racism in America; despite the fact that it sickens me on every level--just as I am never certain I have any right to talk about women's issues.

But I will say this to anyone who thinks we live in a post racial society--if you really think that, go look at the comments on any on-line article on the subject of race, President Obama, or Trayvon Martin--and then ask yourself again if you think we are living in a post-racial society; I now have a strict "don't read the comments" policy because I am tired of wiping off my computer screen after my head explodes.

Last night, as Paul and I relaxed and before we started watching Season 5 of Fringe we discovered that Christine was airing on the Fear Channel (I love that we get the Fear Channel now, even if most of what they show isn't particularly good), and so we watched for a while.

I saw the film at the theater, and have seen it a few times since--but not in years. I always thought it one of the better King film adaptations, but seeing it again last night, I have to revise my opinion of that. It doesn't really hold up well; but a remake would be awesome. Imagine what they could do with CGI for the car regeneration scenes!

It also led to a long discussion about film versions of King; and I realized that I had fallen into the trap of believing that no good films had ever been made from King's work--especially when I started listing the 'exceptions': Carrie (the original), Misery, The Shawshank Redemption, Stand by Me, Dolores Claiborne, The Green Mile, Children of the Corn, Creepshow, Creepshow 2--one can't really make a case for that anymore, can one? I even liked the mini-series they made of The Stand for television.

I didn't like either version of The Shining, though, and Pet Sematary was awful, as was The Dead Zone.

I really want to reread Christine again, though.

Okay, back to whatever it was I was doing.

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

Sat, 18 May 2013 22:45:49 GMT

When I was a kid growing up in Chicago, the only relative who lived near us was my grandmother and her second husband; all the rest of the family was back in Alabama--so of course my sister and I spent a lot of time with my grandmother; she watched us a lot so Mom and Dad--barely out of their teens themselves--could actually have a night off every once in a while. This grandmother was the one who was undiagnosed bipolar/borderline personality disorder--but I don't really have a lot of memories of her being completely insane when I was young and she was watching us; it was later that I realized she was batshit crazy and I began privately referring to her in my head as Psycho Gramma.

I digress.

Anyway, she LOVED LOVED LOVED old movies, and she was a huge mystery fan. I've mentioned before how she always encouraged me to write (although she wanted me to write 'the story of (her) life'--as if), and how she introduced me to Mary Stewart and other mysteries whenever I was looking for something to read. She also introduced me to old movies, and curiously, she not only loved mystery films but she was crazy about noir movies. (One does have to question a woman who allows her eight year old grandson to watch The Postman Always Rings Twice with her; even cut up for television it's kind of a racy story...) The first one I remember watching with her was The Strange Love of Martha Ivers with Barbara Stanwyck (sometimes I think Psycho Gramma might have been really a gay man; she loved Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, and Katharine Hepburn movies), and it was the first of many.

Flash forward to when I was a teenager and discovered a used book store in Emporia, Kansas, when I was about seventeen. This, by the way, is the same used bookstore where I first got a copy of Peyton Place and where I also got copies of Harold Robbins' earlier novels; my first copy of Valley of the Dolls also came from there. Anyway, I was most surprised to discover there that The Postman Always Rings Twice had also been a book; I purchased three James M. Cain novels that day--that, Double Indemnity, and Mildred Pierce (I've never quite gotten over how different that book was from the movie). I later went on to read Love's Lovely Counterfeit, which was my favorite of Cain's novels.

Over the years, I've gone back and reread those four novels constantly, and have been through several copies of each. I love noir; and while I still consider myself to be a novice when it comes to noir, I hope to become more expert the more time passes.

Anyway, I was having a wonderful conversation several months back with Megan Abbott (I've raved about her books before, seriously, Constant Reader, she is fucking amazing, you NEED to read her), and we were talking about Cain, and one of the books of his I've never read, Serenade, came up. Megan confessed it was actually her favorite of his, and I decided there was no better recommendation than that. I talked about it with Aunt Julie shortly thereafter--and she also mentioned how much she had loved it as well.

So off to ebay I went, and I bid on, and won, a James M. Cain lot that included Serenade.

Might I just say, FUCKING WOW?

I cannot believe this is not the most famous Cain novel; it's unbelievably subversive. I cannot believe it was originally published in 1937; I cannot believe it wasn't banned for indecency back then, I cannot believe it isn't SO much more famous than it is--and while I can certainly see why it was never filmed (and I doubt it could be today, either; I cannot go into why without giving spoilers), it really is a shame, an absolute shame.

If you like mystery fiction, and if you like noir--if you haven't read Serenade, you need to.

I HATE that I cannot talk about it more, but it would be impossible to do so without spoilers. I even thought about going behind a cut and discussing it--I may yet do so, if the desire to talk about this amazing work becomes more than I can control.

Seriously, amazing.

Mamma Mia

Sun, 12 May 2013 19:15:42 GMT

And a Happy Mother's Day to all!

You will undoubtedly be pleased to know, Constant Reader, that I finally finished both books I was reading--Ian Fleming's live and Let Die and James M. Cain's Serenade. Each deserves a blog entry of their own, of course, and I am still ruminating and digesting both books, which were each fascinating and interesting in completely remarkable ways of their own. I also started reading a book by Rae Foley called One O'Clock at the Gotham. I'd never heard of Ms. Foley before, but when I bought a lot of Victoria Holt books on ebay, included were some of hers--and yes, they were given those classic style Gothic type covers--yet the books themselves don't seem to be remotely Gothic any more than Mary Stewart's or Charlotte Armstrong's were. In fact, I am thoroughly enjoying it.

I need to get back to work on Baton Rouge Bingo; I've made quite a mess out of what I've already written, so I need to go back and revise, revise, revise. I so love revision. Sigh.

I've also been having some serious issues with the battery in my iPad; the same problem a friend had been having with hers--which she got taken care of by reinstalling the firmware and then reloading everything. So, fingers crossed that this took care of the issue. I'd hate to have to get another one. Oy. I think Apple's gotten more than enough of my money thus far.

Interestingly enough, I had an issue with syncing my iPod Touch (don't judge me) and had to also take it back to factory settings to get it to sync again.

Mysterious.

Okay, the spice ain't gonna mine itself, Constant Reader.

Slipping Away

Wed, 08 May 2013 22:26:51 GMT

I am still feeling recharged, refreshed and revitalized from my trip, and have high hopes I'll be able to get my book done on time--just in time for the official release of Dead Housewives of New Orleans.

It never seems to end, does it?

Anyway, over the past couple of days a couple of my short stories have returned to my consciousness; "Unsent" and "Everyone Says I'll Forget In Time."

A reader emailed me about "Unsent"--and, as its wont, it had made him cry. "Unsent" is a terribly sad short story, and is probably one of my proudest achievements in writing short fiction. I wrote the story originally in about 2004, with no place to publish it. It did see print eventually--in Spanish and German, but not English. When la Beck and Timothy were putting together Fool for Love, this is the story I sent them--but it was too sad for them to publish, so I put it back away and sat down and wrote a much happier romantic story, "Everyone Says I'll Forget In Time."

And just yesterday, 'Postroph blogged about THAT story; which is another one of my personal favorites.

It's interesting that these two stories, who have that wierd connection, have come up in the past couple of days. "Unsent" was included in my Todd Gregory collection, Promises in Every Star and Other Stories, so it's finally in print.

Oh, wait, I'm sorry--"Unsent" was included in Lawrence Schimel's Big Book of Gay Erotica--how could I have forgotten that? Lawrence emailed me to tell me that the typesetter had told HIM it made her cry when she was prepping the book for production.

To be honest, I cry whenever I reread it.

It is one fucking sad story.

But "Everyone Says I'll Forget In Time," which is also about dealing with loss, isn't nearly as sad as it is melancholy, and of course, it's also about hope--which I always love to write about.

Back to the spice mines.

On the Radio

Tue, 07 May 2013 14:59:15 GMT

I have to go tape a radio interview today with Paul about Saints and Sinners, which is looming on the horizon.

So is Mother's Day (note to self: MUST ORDER ROSES TOMORROW).

So much to do, so little time to do it in. Seriously.

But I'm actually getting excited about some things, many things, everything.

Must get back to the spice mines--but before I do, Constant Reader, I am going to leave you with this, one of my favorite pictures of the past weekend, courtesy of Rose Templeton:

From left to right: Harlan Coben, Laura Lippman, me, Margery Flax, and Daniel J. Hale.

Will You Ever Win?

Tue, 07 May 2013 00:35:33 GMT

In my humble opinion, not only as a mystery writer but as a lifelong fan of crime fiction, one of the most exciting writers to come along in the last ten years is one Megan Abbott. I know I've raved about her before, but I'm sorry; as I work my way through her canon I can't help myself. She's just brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: she is the true heir of the amazing James M. Cain. I don't mean to give the impression that she mimics his style (I am currently reading a Cain novel that I hadn't read, and as I had just finished reading a Megan Abbott just before, I can see the striking differences between their writing styles very clearly) because she doesn't; she most definitely has her own style and her own voice. Yet as Cain was arguably the greatest noir writer of his time, a case can certainly be made that Abbott is the greatest of hers.

And how lucky are we that she's publishing in our time!

And like the others I've read, this book is haunting, disturbing, and just gets under your skin.

At the heart of the book is starlet Jean Spangler; the setting is Hollywood of yore, the days when the original noir films were actually being made and finding their audience. Yet Jean herself isn't in the book--the first chapter is set on the last day she was seen, and the book picks up two years later. The point of view is that of Gil Hopkins, whom we also meet in that first chapter--when he meets Jean Spangler and her African-American friend Iolene on the set of The Petty Girl. "Hop" is a reporter for a paper, but when the book picks up again two years later he's working for a film studio in the publicity department--he's one of those people who cleans up messes for stars and keeps the dirt out of the paper (which really makes one long for those days; I am so tired of celebrity scandals and sex tapes and on and on and on....).

And soon Hop is on the downward spiral that makes noir so disturbing, on the two years cold trail of Jean Spangler, a trip that takes him through the sleazy world that existed just below the glittering surface of the klieg lights and the tinsel...and as that descent spirals further and further down, it's not just about what happened to Jean Spangler, but it's also about what happened to Hop--and what's still happening to him.

GENIUS.

Abbott doesn't waste a word, nor does she ever misplace one. Each word is careful chosen, each image carefully yet tersely drawn. She is SUCH a master of mood, of creating character with five words spoken out of a twisted mouth. And you can just feel the period, you can smell the stale cigarette smoke and the sour alcohol.

Her books work on so many levels that reading each one is like a master class in noir.

Wow. Just--wow.

Baby Baby

Mon, 06 May 2013 22:45:27 GMT

Coming soon! :)

Together (Havin' a Ball)

Mon, 06 May 2013 13:29:01 GMT

Well, that was a helluva trip!

Last Wednesday morning, I got up at the crack of dawn to fly to New York for the Mystery Writers of America Agents and Editors Party that evening, and the Edgar Awards banquet the following night. (Whenever I make wisecracks about the so-called glamour of my life and career, henceforth I need to remember this trip. Seriously.

So, here I sit, on Monday morning at my desk, and it seems like it's been a million years since the last time I sat here, swilling coffee and writing a blog post. I am not even sure where to being with updating you, Constant Reader, on the exceptional glamour that was my life for the last five days or so.

How's about my room at the Grand Hyatt? Seriously, it was almost too glamorous for me.

It also had an enormous bathroom, and an enormous glassed in shower. Color me a fan.

Then it was off to the Agents and Editors party, where I actually met MARY HIGGINS CLARK:

I was too starstruck and nervous to ask her to be in a picture with me--although she was so nice, gracious, and charming, I have no doubt she would have smiled and said yes. She looks amazing for eighty-five, doesn't she?

She presented the Mary Higgins Clark Award for Outstanding Suspense Novel by a Woman to the magnificent Hank Philippi Ryan for her extraordinary book The Other Woman:

Hank herself is always the epitome of chic glamour.

That evening I met the amazing Oline Cogdill for a drink in the bar at the Grand Hyatt, and it was like we were a pair of old friends who simply hadn't seen each other in years and immediately picked up where we'd left off. LOVE her, and her wonderful husband Bill.

The next night, it was the Edgars. I hadn't planned on ever attending, as I never do black tie--but Margery Flax came up with an amazing suggestion for me, and I went for it.

Yup, a kilt! This is the MacGregor tartan, part of my ancestry (going back a ways). It would probably be more appropriate for me to wear the McDonald, but it's red and green and a little Christmassy. This photo was taken by the wonderful Megan Abbott, who I met for a drink before the Edgars. I had just finished reading her EXTRAORDINARY novel The Song Is You, which I will write about later this week. But while we were in the bar, Reed Farrel Coleman showed up, and Megan snapped this awesome shot of us:

Reed always can make me laugh, and is an excellent writer. I am behind on his work, and hope to get caught up soon.

At the Edgars, I sat in with these two GORGEOUS women:

Yes, the ALWAYS drop dead beautiful Jess Lourey and Harley Jane Kozak. I was lucky enough to have Harley sit on one side of me during the banquet itself, and my buddy Patricia King (aka Annamaria Alafieri) on the other. I adore both women.

And the Edgars themselves! My word! Can you imagine the thrill it was to be in the same room as Mary Higgins Clark, Ken Follett, Margaret Maron, R. L. Stine, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Linda Barnes, Hilary Davidson, Dennis Lehane, Ace Atkins, Gillian Flynn, Dana Cameron, Charlaine Harris, Sandra Brown, Walter Mosley, and so many other glittering stars of the mystery world? I felt like such an imposter. But EVERYONE is so delightful, kind, friendly and charming.

S. J. Rozan, who is one of my heroes, even came up and introduced herself to me. I could have died right then and gone to heaven.

After the extravaganza, many of us adjourned to the hotel bar for more drinks (like I needed more), and intense silliness ensued:

Here I am with Oline Cogdill (who was awarded the Raven Award for her outstanding contribution to mystery criticism), the fabulous Margery Flax, Kris Montee (half of the writing team that is P. J. Parrish), and Dana Cameron, whom I fell a little bit in love with--she has a great sense of humor and is just adorable.

The next morning, Margery, Oline and Daniel Hale (the executive vice president of MWA) rode the Acela together to DC along with Rochelle Staub and Frankie Bailey, where we caught the red line to Bethesda for Malice Domestic.

Ah, Malice Domestic.

I had the absolute best time there. My head is still whirling from meeting superstars like Peter Robinson and Harlan Cobin and Carolyn Hart (an incredibly kind and gracious woman). I bonded with the amazing Sara J. Henry (we sat next to each other at the signings, and she has a wicked sense of humor). I got to hang with old friends, and had some amazing food, and my panel was amazing. I was on it with Carolyn Hart, Ellen Byerrum, and Kathleen Ernst--and it was moderated by the exceptionally able Chris Roerden. All weekend long people complimented me on my recent piece on Phyllis Whitney over at the Jungle Red blog, or my piece on Daphne du Maurier in the recent Third Degree, the MWA newsletter. I met so many kind and friendly and wonderful people--but I think my absolute favorite was G. M. Maillet, whom I sat with in the bar one night and we just howled with laughter. I am really looking forward to her books; if they are half as witty and charming as she is, I will love them.

Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon with dear friends, and then it was off to BWI and a Southwest home and back to reality.

I already miss my old friends and my new ones. :(

And trust me, I've merely scratched the surface here, Constant Reader--just scratched the surface.

Sigh.

It truly is a wonderful, wonderful life.

You Turn Me

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 22:33:40 GMT

It's pouring outside--bad news for those at Jazz Fest, methinks--but I am dry and warm inside the Lost Apartment. I should be working--in fairness, that is pretty much an all purpose statement for any time of the day or night--but I'm just not feeling that right now. Sue me.

Paul turned fifty today, so he's enjoying a relaxing birthday. I will be making his birthday dinner shortly. I am making something I've never made before, so let's hope it's tasty, shall we?

I leave for New York on Wednesday for the Edgar Award festivities, and then on Friday morning it's off by train to Malice Domestic in Bethesda. I am very excited about this trip, needless to say. I should probably have started packing by now...meh.

Anyway, the books I am taking with me to read are The Song Is You by Megan Abbott, Murder on Ice by Alina Adams, Dead White Female by Lauren Henderson, Dearly Beloved by Wendy Corsi Staub, and Serenade by James M. Cain. I also need to get all the loose ends tied up on Anything for a Dollar so I can get it turned in, as well as the manuscript I've been editing. Then I can focus on the manuscript I am editing for June 1, and hopefully finish Baton Rouge Bingo by then as well.

Sigh, this is making me tired...okay, back to the spice mines.

I'll Go To My Grave Loving You

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 18:23:53 GMT

On principle, I abhor reality television.

Yet somehow I can't stop watching it.

And while I draw the line at those horrible shows on TLC, VH1 (Mob Wives, Basketball Wives, etc.) and anything Kardashian, I can't stop watching the Real Housewives on Bravo.

Why this is, I couldn't say. I used to be embarrassed by watching, and refused to watch the shows as they aired--but when Bravo would air a marathon preparatory to a reunion show, I'd be parked there in my easy chair, a book in my hands, looking up every once in a while to keep tabs on what's going on.

(Note: Again, when it comes to Real Housewives, I also draw some lines. I won't watch Miami or Orange County; and will only watch Atlanta and New Jersey in marathons. New York and Beverly Hills, though, are like crack to me. Not only will I watch them when they air, but I'll watch the marathons, read the blogs on BravoTV.com, read the recaps--Julie Klausner's at vulture.com are priceless must-reads for me every week.)

It is astounding, though, how easily these shows can suck you in and how quickly you can form opinions about the women, taking sides with a passionate devotion which I can only compare to the passionate arguments tween girls used to have over who was better, *NSYNC or the Backstreet Boys? Bieber or New whoever they are? (For that matter, the way gays debate over Mariah or Whitney, Madonna or GaGa, Christina or Britney?)

What is it about these shows that suck me in? I wish I knew. Why do I feel an affinity for some of the women and such deep antipathy for others? Can the producers and editors of the show, who cut and splice these shows together with an eye to drama and viewer interest, be trusted to actually be showing us what these women are really like? Many times, a woman who comes off looking badly on the show blames the editing.

I'm not the only one, of course, fascinated and repelled by these shows at the same time. Beyonce, Camille Paglia, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar are among the many celebrities who watch and have talked about the Real Housewives publicly. The shows clearly are ratings winners for Bravo (although they haven't launched a new franchise since Miami; DC was the only franchise to last only one season--quelle surprise!), and when I'm standing in line at the grocery check-out, the tabloids and magazines there that used to always have actors and musicians on the covers are dominated by reality television coverage--it's usually a Kardashian or a real housewife on the covers these days. Bethenny Frankel from the New York show has parlayed her popularity into a fortune worth several hundred million dollars; Theresa Giudice has had several cookbooks on the New York Times bestseller list; Nene Leakes from Atlanta has landed gigs on scripted television series; and Brandi Glanville's (Beverly Hills) memoir was also a bestseller.

America is apparently fascinated by these women, and the phenomenon doesn't seem to be going away any time soon--thank the Lord; I don't know what I'd do without my bitches. Even Paul has given in to their siren song--not to the ridiculous extent I have, of course--but he's come home on Monday nights and been flipping through the channels when it was time for the latest episode to air, and has said, "Isn't it time for those crazy bitches on Bravo?"

There actually have been rumors that Bravo tried to launch a franchise in New Orleans, but were unable to get the kind of women they wanted in the cast and as such abandoned the attempt.

And yes, that's where the germ of an idea for Dead Housewives of New Orleans came from.

I'd originally thought about making it a Scotty book, and having his sister, Rain, be one of the housewives; I was going to call it Garden District Gumbo, but I just couldn't make it work in my head. Rain hardly seemed the real housewife type--none of the women Scotty is related to seemed quite right for it. When Aunt Julie and BooksBNimble asked me for a Paige ebook series--making the second Paige novel Dead Housewives of New Orleans seemed like a natural.

And writing it was a lot of fun for me, obviously.

Paul wants me to write a play with the characters from the show in the book (in the book, it's Grande Dames rather than Real Housewives), which Southern Rep is actually interested in doing as a fundraiser for the TWFest; not like i have the time to write it, but I am going to try to do it--I already have the characters, after all.

More information on my play Real Housewives of New Orleans will be forthcoming, of course, as things develop.

Later, Constant Reader!

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 16:07:10 GMT

I think maybe I should start going to bed earlier.

So much to do this week, particularly since next week I'm jetting off to New York and then Amtrak-ing down to Maryland for Malice Domestic. Ah, the glamorous life, no? Alas, I have to get up ridiculously early on Wednesday morning for my flight; that evening I am attending a rather glamorous party (there will be pictures, as there will also be pictures from the Edgar Award banquet on Thursday night). I have my outfit both for the Edgar banquet as well as the Malice Domestic banquet that Saturday night. It will be a bit of a madcap week, methinks.

AH, well, there are worse things--like rereading my old work, which I keep putting off.

I am still slogging through Ian Fleming's Live and Let Die--Fleming, for writing such short books, is never a quick read, which is very odd--and am constantly appalled by the horrible racism in it. Granted, it was written and published in a time where racism was a lot more acceptable (just typing that made me wince; it really boggles the mind even though I see it every day when I sign on-line; not to mention that horrible Brad Paisley song), but the book is STILL in print, which makes me wonder if it's been revised in any way to lessen the racism.

(Out of curiosity, I went to amazon, pulled up the page for the most recent printing, and 'looked inside this book'--the racism is still there.)

I have to say it's jarring, and I suppose one does have to excuse the less-evolved time when the book was written and published; the racism is very casual and matter-of-fact; but then I suppose it's a sign of how far we've come as a society that it is so jarring; just as the casual sexism of books from the same period is shocking.

Last night I streamed two of the original Bond films starring Sean Connery--Doctor No, which I'd actually never seen, and Goldfinger, which I haven't seen in over thirty years.

The two films were the first and third Bond films; I believe From Russia With Love is the second film of the series; it wasn't available for streaming, and I've actually never seen it before, either.

It was interesting, to say the least.

Doctor No was so vastly different from any Bond film I've seen, it startled me. It was similar in tone to the books; serious, no humor, and Bond was very cold. Sean Connery played the part perfectly, and my God, was he gorgeous as a young man! Yet Goldfinger, two films later in the series, had already started down the path that became the almost-parodies of the Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan films. Goldfinger still took itself more seriously than the later films, but the quips and one-liners from Bond had already started, and some of the credibility stretching had begun. (Although the film can't be blamed for the name 'Pussy Galore'--the fault for that lies with Ian Fleming.)

But what an awesome theme song!

My original intent in re-examining the Bond novels was to write about them; I still might, but the original idea continues to transform in my head.

And so, back to spice mining.

Yes We Can Can

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 15:26:34 GMT

In the introduction to his novel Cadillac Jack, Puliter Prize and Academy Award winning writer Larry McMurtry says:

Perhaps the most severe drawback to a long career in writing is that one is forced to read the same author every day for a great many years.

The author, of course, is oneself.

I got a copy of the book--and several others by McMurtry (The Desert Rose, The Last Picture Show--the latter a long time favorite which I will blog about later)--after a lengthy discussion of McMurtry with my friend Laura, and she recommended several of his titles (my position was the McMurtry was, despite his talent, so hit-and-miss that I'd stopped reading him; she, in turn, recommended most highly Cadillac Jack and The Desert Rose; I generally agree with her on books so I bought copies). Yesterday, as I cleaned and organized and wrote and edited, I found an old short story I'd been looking for. My alter ego Todd Gregory is doing another anthology, Anything for a Dollar, and I'd been meaning to dig out this old story for quite some time; it actually has the same title as the anthology. I found the story, and printed it out--but while it was printing, I was quickly looking it over on the computer screen and found myself cringing. "Anything for a Dollar" was actually one of my first short stories to get published, and certainly was one of the first without any explicit sex in it.

I've often talked about how much I dislike reading my old work. This is primarily because I think I get better as I write more; I am a far different writer than I was when I started publishing--I cannot read an old work without thinking "Oh, you could have done this better." (You can only imagine the hell putting Promises In Every Star and Other Stories together was for me.)

So, I was listening to my Nano (Paul was watching tennis in the living room) and picked up my copy of Cadillac Jack, opened it and found those rather insightful words. (I also want to say that while I've read some McMurtry I haven't cared for --Terms of Endearment and Texasville spring to mind immediately--The Last Picture Show is one of my all time favorite novels, and I also loved Horseman Pass By, which was filmed as Hud) I had to laugh, because McMurtry was most definitely speaking to ME with those words, which I could completely relate to. I hate rereading my work after it's published--I was just bitching about this yesterday, wasn't I, since I have to go back through old Scottys--and so, rereading "Anything for a Dollar" is going to be incredibly painful. It was published originally in Harrington Gay Men's Fiction Quarterly; I'd originally written and submitted it for a rather prestigious anthology being edited by a top gay editor. It was rejected, of course (years later, I actually had a conversation with that same editor, and casually mentioned the story. I wish I were making this up, but the editor actually said to me, "Oh, I remember that story! It was quite good. I would have published it had I known who you were going to turn out to be." Needless to say, my respect for said editor plummeted.)

Anyway.

So, Constant Reader, that is what I am facing today--rereading my old work. I am going to revise this story to make it more appropriate for the anthology (ironically, that means adding a sex scene), and while I work on Baton Rouge Bingo, I'll be rereading the old Scotty novels for reference to try to ensure continuity.

So, yes, Mr. McMurtry, you are correct--but I would like to add that it's even worse for writers who write series, because we have to constantly go back and reread the books in the series to make sure we don't fuck things up.

Sigh. And now, back to the spice mines.

Joy to the World

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 19:00:10 GMT

My friend J. M. Redmann often says that she believes mysteries are popular "because we are always looking for justice--and all too frequently in life justice is not done. In a mystery novel, you can almost always be certain that it will."

I've thought about that myself many times--and have even stolen it when asked the same question on panels or at author appearances, and now, after having written fourteen mysteries for adult audiences and about five for a younger, it still holds true for me.

I finished the revisions of Dead Housewives of New Orleans this morning, and I actually started the physical task of writing Scotty VI, Baton Rouge Bingo, yesterday. It's been awhile since I've written a Scotty--Who Dat Whodunnit came out in early 2011; I wrote it in the fall of 2010. So, surprisingly enough, it's been about three years since I've inhabited Scotty's world and head. I find myself wondering, as I write the book, about things I really should know--like what the name of Scotty's paternal grandparents are, or does Scotty's mother have any siblings, where is Frank originally from, and so forth. Ironically, the story is already evolving from what I originally planned, which always seems to happen where Scotty is concerned--case in point, Jackson Square Jazz is NOTHING like the proposal I submitted to my publisher--the only things that remained the same were the death mask of Napoleon, and the figure skater (whose name I can't recall; I always liked that character and wanted to bring him back at some point). The main story is going to remain the same, but a side story is starting to take shape--a side story that probably should have been told already.

Sigh.

Part of the joy of being a writer, I suppose. ;)

Ironically, this past week I was doing some electronic organizing (my e-files are always a mess, and it's frequently very difficult for me to find a short story file--which is what triggered the organizing; I wanted to revise my short story "The Email Always Pings Twice" in order to submit it to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine; which I did on Wednesday) and I actually found my original short story "Bourbon Street Blues". I had completely forgotten that I'd actually written it; I knew I'd thought of it when I received the submission call for an anthology called Mystery Street. Apparently I wrote a first draft, but never revised it or rewrote it. You can imagine how much fun it was to read again, after all these years--and stunning how similar the action in the story was to what the novel was! There were, obviously, some serious differences--in the short story Colin actually turns out to be a Fed, for example--and the writing was incredibly sloppy, almost embarrassingly so--but nevertheless, there it was.

I also found a rather gritty lesbian noir short story I'd written, for an anthology of lesbian mystery stories--I actually submitted it but it was rejected. As I reread the story, I was actually rather impressed with it--and again, rather annoyed it was rejected (I suspect it had more to do with my gender than anything else), and even MORE annoyed that I'd forgotten about this story when we were doing Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir; it was perfect for that anthology. Anyway, I just might submit it somewhere. Why not? I have so many short stories, what can it hurt to do some revisions and submissions? I generally don't write on spec anymore--I haven't in years--but why let them sit around collecting dust while waiting for another chance to submit to an anthology they would be appropriate for?

I suppose I should get back to the spice mines...

More Than a Feeling

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 16:19:59 GMT

I've loved Boston since I was a little boy.

My two biggest passions as a child were reading and history--and nothing was better than reading about history. As such, of course, I fell in love with feisty Boston at a very early age. Boston was where the American Revolution was truly born; those money-making merchant descendants of the Puritans coming up with the very peculiar (for the time) notion that 'taxation without representation is tyranny!' So, of course, one of my all-time favorite books when I was a kid (I still love this book) was Esther Forbes' award-winning classic of Boston in revolt, Johnny Tremain:

Boston is such an integral part of American history, perhaps more so than any other American city--even my own beloved New Orleans. It was one of the first English-speaking settlements in North America. It played an integral part in all of the French and Indian Wars; and after the utter defeat of the French in 1763 and the collapse of their empire in North America, Boston was in the forefront of the struggle for American independence. There was the Boston Massacre in 1770--and the subsequent triumph of American jurisprudence in the trials of the soldiers who fired at the mob; the fabled Boston Tea Party in 1773; and her citizens are a Who's Who of American independence: John Hancock, Paul Revere, Joseph Warren, Samuel Adams, and his cousin, John--destined to found one of the first American political dynasties. (His wife, Abigail, was also an early feminist.)

And after the Boston Tea Party, the notion of this small American village continuing to boldly defy the King and government of the world's greatest and most powerful empire is surely the definitive example of courage and defiance. More moderate Americans and those who were still loyal to King and country often dismissed the conflict, even after the shooting started in 1775, as "Boston's fight."

Boston--and Massachusetts--defied the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 as an affront to free peoples everywhere; a mob rescued Shadrach Minkins from the officials who were going to return him to his Southern owners; in the subsequent trial a Bostonian jury refused to convict the men who masterminded the plan to help Minkins escape.

I first went to Boston when I was in my thirties, and reverently visited sites such as the Old North Church ('one if by land, two if by sea'), Bunker Hill, and found myself falling in love with this remarkable city and its remarkable people. One of my first book signings ever was in a Borders in Boston. I've been back any number of times since that first visit, which has only deepened my love for the city. I love the city's literature as well; Robert S. Parker and Dennis Lehane top the list of my favorite Boston novelists, but there are many, many more--William Martin's Back Bay and Cape Cod are also two of my favorites; treasure hunts inticately interwoven with Boston history.

And the people! Granted, I am perhaps not an expert, but I've never met anyone from Boston that I've disliked; I have very dear friends in the city and it's environs.

The last time I was in Boston was several years ago, when I had a book signing in Provincetown, and took the ferry across the bay. On the way back, I went out to the front of the ferry and watched as Boston took shape as we sped over the water. It was such an incredibly beautiful sight, one that I took many pictures of, and I thought to myself that perhaps someday I could write about Boston...but not being a local, I'm so not qualified to do so.

So many others have written so eloquently about what happened in Boston on Monday, that there is really nothing else left to say...other than I dearly love that city and its people, and its history.

And we also cannot forget that it was Massachusetts, and Boston, who first granted marriage equality.

So, I thank you, Boston, for what you are and who your people are, and for being such a shining example of freedom and liberty.

We would be a vastly different nation were it not for you.

Loving You Isn't The Right Thing to Do

Sat, 13 Apr 2013 15:19:41 GMT

I was visiting my grandmother one summer and was looking for something to read. My grandmother loved to read, but she didn't read as voraciously as me. As I was very much into mysteries--I'd read all the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books I'd checked out from the library, and there were several days still left before we went back to the library, so I was going through my grandmother's bookcase when I saw a book called The Secret Woman. "Hmmm," I thought to myself, "surely if secret is in the title, it's a mystery." So I took it down from the shelf, went into the back yard and climbed into the hammock. I opened it up, and began to read.

When my Aunt Charlotte died suddenly many people believed that I had killed her and that if it had not been for Nurse Loman's evidence at the inquest, the verdict would have been one of murder by some person or persons unknown; there would have been a probing into the dark secrets of the Queen's House, and the truth would have come out.

"That niece of hers obviously had the motive," it was said.

The "motive" was Aunt Charlotte's possessions which on her death became mine. But how different everything was from what it appeared to be!

And so began my long term fandom of Victoria Holt.

I was enthralled, lying in my hammock slung between two enormous live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss in the breeze off the bay as young Anna Brett was sent to England by her parents to live with her spinster aunt Charlotte for schooling. Aunt Charlotte was a bit of a bitter old bitch, but Anna eventually made her piece with her--especially after Anna showed an aptitude for antiques.

Nearby was Castle Crediton, where the wealthy shipping magnate family, the Creditons, lived, and before long Anna is drawn into the drama swirling around that family, particularly when she falls in love with the bastard son of the patriarch, Captain Redvers Stretton. When Charlotte becomes an invalid, nurse Chantel Loman--whose mother got her name from a tombstone--comes to live at the Queen's House. Beautiful and full of life, Chantel and Anna become close friends, and after Charlotte dies and Chantel goes to live at Castle Crediton, her charge Captain Stretton's invalid wife...the story really begins to take off. ANd before long, they are all off to the South Pacific island of Coralle, where the novel comes to its amazing climax.

The Secret Woman is still one of my favorite Victoria Holt novels (my favorite being On the Night of the Seventh Moon), and I read all of her backlist, as well as her new ones when they were released. She wasn't always at the top of her form, (The Legend of the Seventh Virgin, for example, was most definitely a lesser novel) but when she was firing on all cylinders (Mistress of Mellyn, Bride of Pendorric, Kirkland Revels, The Curse of the Kings, The Shivering Sands) she was hard to beat.

She also wrote as Philippa Carr and Jean Plaidy--all told, I think she (her real name was Eleanor Hibbert) may have written close to a hundred novels.

Someone Saved My Life Tonight

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 01:41:51 GMT

Man, have I been busy lately. Sheesh. Just this past week, in addition to my full time job, I've--oh, never mind. No sense in wearing my own self out reminding myself just how hard I've been working lately.

I did finish the final revisions (huzzah!) on Dead Housewives of New Orleans. And now I can get going on Baton Rouge Bingo.

Did I say "huzzah" already? I thought I may have.

However,I would be most remiss if I did not talk to you, Constant Reader, about this amazing book I just finished reading: Into the Dark by Alison Gaylin.

Into the Dark is Gaylin's second novel with private eye Brenna Spector. Brenna has a brain condition called hyperthymestic syndrome--which means she has total recall of everything in her life she's ever experienced since it developed; with all five senses, when a memory is triggered she gets lost in reliving it. Granted, this is an exceptionally great gift for a private eye to have, it obviously can also be an enormous hindrance to her both personally and professionally. She is divorced, but has a great relationship with her ex and his perfect second wife (and what a relief it is to read about a woman who not only gets along with her ex's new wife but likes her), and she also has a daughter, Maya. Brenna is a strong character, and Gaylin is a master at character; she knows how to almost effortlessly flesh out her characters with tics and quirks that make her seem absolutely real. Brenna worries about being a good mother, worries about her burgeoning relationship with police detective Nick Morasco (whom she met in And She Was, the first book in the series), as well as her damaged relationship with her mother.

While each book in the Spector series stands on its own as a compelling mystery, there is also a long-running story which crosses from book to book: when Brenna was a young girl, her older sister Clea ran away—and Brenna saw her go. Clea asked her not to say anything, and she didn’t for two weeks while the police searched for her. Her mother has always blamed Brenna for Clea not being found (the mother is a real piece of work), and Clea’s disappearance has always haunted Brenna.

So when a on-line performance artist named Lula Belle disappears and Brenna is hired to find her—the case becomes even more important to her once she watches some of Lula Belle’s performance and Lula Belle tells stories from Brenna’s childhood that only Clea could have known.

Gaylin is a master of pacing. The story twists and turns, with surprise after surprise, in a suspenseful rollercoaster ride. I hated having to put the book down to do other things; a problem when you’re on deadline.

But Gaylin’s true strength is in her ability to create fully realized, realistic characters that live and breathe. Not only is Brenna immensely likeable, her daughter Maya is believable, boyfriend cop Nick is as well, and all the characters involved on every level of the case are well drawn.

But I have to say her crowning achievement is the character of Brenna’s business partner, Trent. Good looking, full of himself and convinced he’s irresistible, Trent is that fraternity guy you hated in college; that douchebag self-assured egomaniac you just want to smack across the face. In book one, Trent was just amusing and irritating; but in Into the Dark Gaylin masterfully exposes more of Trent’s layers…and despite all the douchiness, you can’t help but like him and root for him.

Gaylin’s first Brenna novel, And She Was, was recently short-listed for an International Thriller Award for Best Paperback Original.

I suspect there will be many more awards short-lists in Amanda Gaylin’s future.

The Bitch is Back

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 15:50:24 GMT

So, I finished the editor's revisions for Dead Housewives of New Orleans and turned it in yesterday.

Here's the cover again:

And here's the opening:

It was cold and wet the night Fidelis Vandiver died.
An unseasonable cold front had swept down from Canada, bringing a late snow to the Midwest as a late, and particularly cruel, April Fool’s joke. New Orleans had enjoyed a milder winter than usual, so when the front moved in and collided with the warm humid air from the Gulf, the temperature plunged as the sky turned gray and intermittent rain fell for several days. The gloom from the gray and black clouds was almost as depressing as having to attend the official world premiere of Episode 1, Season 1 of The Grand Dames of New Orleans, the latest franchise of an enormously successful basic cable reality series whose appeal mystified me completely. The shows, which began as basically a rip-off of a hugely successful prime time soap starring actresses too old to play love interests for men two or three times their age and too young to play grandmothers, had spread to many different locations after the mysterious success of the first show, Grande Dames of Marin County. Chicago, Manhattan, Baltimore, and Houston had all proven to be fertile ground for the shows. The formula really was the same, no matter which city served as the setting: women with money who had never progressed emotionally and intellectually beyond junior high school with too much time on their hands and way too much access to a plastic surgeon.
Narcissism and borderline personality disorders were also apparently a plus in getting ‘cast.’
A previous attempt to launch a franchise in New Orleans had failed spectacularly when the producers couldn’t find enough women interested in being on the show. The network had been getting complaints about racism and the lily-whiteness of its casts; even the Houston show was all white women with nary a Latina in sight. The producers plan had been to make the New Orleans show the ‘black’ one; but couldn’t find enough women of color with the requisite narcissism and mental problems to air their dirty laundry for the cameras. The New Orleans show plans were scrapped, and they’d moved on to Baltimore, where they’d had great success finding women of color to film – and the Baltimore show was wildly popular.
A year later, they’d come back to New Orleans to try again -- but this time they weren’t as interested in proving their commitment to diversity. The New Orleans cast wound up being all white.
They’d actually approached my boss at Crescent City magazine, Rachel Delesdernier Sheehan. That was how I found out they were trying again. On paper, she looked perfect for the show—she was forty but looked much younger, she kept herself in excellent shape, and not only was she from an old New Orleans political dynasty, but had married into yet another one. When Rachel declined (a lot more politely than I would have), they actually asked her if she knew of anyone who might be interested. She called me into the office after she got off the phone with them, and we had a really good laugh about the entire idea of Rachel being a ‘grande dame of New Orleans.’
“For Christ’s sake, I live in Old Metairie,” she’d said, which sent us off into even more paroxysms of laughter.
But less than a week later, they officially announced the cast -- and started filming.
I’d actually met all six of the women who’d decided to whore themselves out for notoriety and money (some of the women on other franchises had seen their businesses skyrocket through the roof). But I didn’t know them well -- enough to nod and say hello and make meaningless small talk at a party while waiting to get served at the bar.
No one had high hopes for the show -- television programs rarely captured the city properly, and no one had either forgotten or forgiven the two seasons of MTV’s The Real World that had filmed here.

Could This Be Magic

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 14:29:50 GMT

As you might be aware, Constant Reader, I've had issues with sleep for several years now.

I generally don't like taking something to help me sleep; despite having prescription medication prescribed on an "as needed" basis (highly addictive; and the last thing I need is an addiction), and occasionally breaking out the Tylenol PM or NyQuil, etc. The problem is not being able to risk not sleeping; exhaustion when you have a shitload of stuff to do is impossible. I literally cannot risk having a day where I cannot get things (anything) done until sometime after Labor Day. Seriously.

Heavy sigh.

And the other problem is the fact that sometimes taking something to help me sleep makes me groggy the next day; and I end up sleeping later than I should. This, as you can imagine, is problematic. For example, there have been days this week where I haven't woken up until almost nine (today being one of those), and I am still a little groggy.

Sigh.

This weekend i have to finish editing a manuscript as well as doing revisions on Dead Housewives of New Orleans. I then have another manunscript to edit as well as getting started on Baton Rouge Bingo. And the way time has been slipping through my fingers lately--I still am not sure what happened to March, frankly--I've really got to stay on top of things.

I have been reading Alison Gaylin's new novel, Into the Dark this past week, and it is fabulous, to say the least. She is truly amazing, that Alison Gaylin.

In other exciting news, I bought an enormous Japanese screen for the living room to delineate a storage area in one of the living room corners--and once I get bookcases and so forth moved around, it's going to be an enormous improvement in the way the room looks. I couldn't be more pleased. Huzzah, as I often say. :)

Okay, back to the spice mines.

All Time High

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 15:29:46 GMT

So, today I have to finish Dead Housewives of New Orleans, no ifs, ands or buts involved. I made some great progress yesterday, but it's very hard to focus when I'm exhausted from working out (LEG DAY), and I was noodly after my massage--somehow I managed to make groceries afterwards, but it's kind of a blur--so I just kind of repaired to my easy chair after dinner and enjoyed mocking the ridiculously cheesy The Ten Commandments, which aired on ABC last night.

And when you watch it in high-def, it's even more obvious they're standing in front of blue screens most of the time. I had never noticed before, but thanks to the high-def, the scene where Ramesses sends Moses out into the deserts of Sinai after they discover he's a Hebrew, I noticed in the background behind Ramesses--what I'd always thought were mountains were actually pyramids. Not the famous ones, of course, but definitely the ruins of other pyramids; it might have even been the step pyramid site at Saqqara.

Hilarious! As I said to Paul, "who knew the Egyptians built pyramids out there near the Sinai peninsula?"

The movie was quite an achievement in film-making at the time, but the dialogue! The acting! (Well, over-acting. Watching this movie makes you really wonder about the Academy Awards; this movie was released the same year that saw Yul Brynner win an Oscar for The King and I; it's really hard to believe that Anne Baxter was actually really talented--this woman chewing the scenery is the same woman who played Eve Harrington? Really?--and Charlton Heston was just a few years from winning his own Oscar. Every once in a while I couldn't resist saying things like "You'll get my staff when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.")

But it's visually pretty stunning. And imagine how much it would cost to make today--the mind positively reels. Not that anyone would make such a movie today, of course. And it's also pretty funny how deMille turned this Old Testament tale into a paean to American freedom and democracy. In the Red Scare 1950's, it was pretty much de rigeur for any Hollywood studio film. It's all about 'freedom,' see--even though the ancients CERTAINLY didn't think of freedom in the same way Americans did in the 1950's...and even funnier, this film was so embraced, and still is to this day, in the deeply Christian Southern states--well, I don't have to spell out THAT irony, do I, about the children of Israel being enslaved?

Anyway.

I suppose I should get to work, the book isn't going to write itself, unfortunately.

Heavy sigh.

Don't Worry Baby

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 13:47:24 GMT

I cannot believe how much I have to do this weekend.

I did, however, finish the edits on Lake Thirteen; another novel checked off the list. I believe it's official release date is now set for August 20th--my birthday! How lovely! I had originally thought it was coming out in June, but hey, but I just verified the release date. That's actually kind of nice that it's later; that gives me some more time to prepare for its release. Huzzah!

I need to finish the edits on Dead Housewives of New Orleans, as well as get the last chapter written. I also have a short story that needs to be finished this weekend, and there's always cleaning; which is a never-ending process. I have to go to the gym this morning to meet Kosta, and I have a massage later on this afternoon--4, to be exact--so I am hoping to get the edits finished this morning. When I get home from Kosta, I'll have some other things to work on, and then hopefully tomorrow I can get the chapter finished tomorrow.

March somehow just slipped away from me; I don't know how it happened, to be honest. I know it had a lot to do with being tired; I've lost days to exhaustion, both physical and mental, more times than I would like to remember. It's enormously frustrating, as I am sure you can imagine, to not be able to get things finished when you want to because you're so tired. There was one day the week before last when I was so tired I was actually sick when I got home from the office.

Really, there is so much to be said for a good night's sleep.

Right now I have dishes soaking in the sink, and a load of laundry just finished being fluffed again in the dryer. (There's also a load in the washing machine that needs to go into the dryer as well.)

It really never ends, does it?

We finished watching the final season of Weeds last night; I found it to be more than a little disappointing, to say the least. It was very clear, at least to me, that they have no idea how to end the series. And after eight seasons, that's really rather disappointing, as you can imagine.

Madness.

Okay, I guess I'd better get back to mining spice.

Be True to Your School

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 15:10:01 GMT

Yesterday, on the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival's young adult panel, the moderator (Amy Stolls, filling in magnificently for the ill Madaline Herlong) asked the panelists what young adult book had the biggest impact on us when we were young adults, and she went on to say that for it was, of course, S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders. Kristen-Paige Madonia agreed, as did Silas House, who also added the Little House books, and went on to mention that his two favorite TV shows when he was growing up were Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons, which coincidentally happened to be about writers.

Then it was my turn, and while I concurred with The Outsiders I added, "But probably the book that resonated with me the most, and has stuck with me through the years, was The Cheerleader by Ruth Doan MacDougall."

I read this book for the first time when I was in college, when I was about eighteen. A friend of mine gave it to me because she really enjoyed it and thought I would, as well. She was absolutely right, of course. I read it all the way through in one long marathon sitting, and simply couldn't put it down because I wanted to know what happened next. It was so well written, so original, and so subversive in its way that it really struck a chord in me, and in all those years since then, I never forgot about it. Several months ago, in a conversation with some other authors, I brought it up and was thrilled to hear that not only had one of them read it, but it resonated with her the same way it had with me. A little bit of research, and we were delighted to discover that while the original had gone out of print, an English professor named Ann Norton, who had the same reaction we did to the book, had spearheaded a drive to get it back in print, and delighted, I ordered a copy. I was also delighted to discover that MacDougall had written more books about these characters. Based on our recommendations, another one of our writer friends involved in the discussion ordered the book, read it, and loved it as well.

So, when I grew tired of my binge-rereading of Ian Fleming's original James Bond novels, I decided to go ahead and reread The Cheerleader, and was more than a little worried it wouldn't hold up after all these years.

My worries were, of course, needless.

I started rereading the book Friday night when I got home from the Tennessee Williams Festival's party at the Historic New Orleans Collection; I had limited myself to three glasses of champagne over the course of two hours so was a bit tipsy rather than staggeringly drunk as is so often the case with that party. I worked on the copy edits of Lake Thirteen for a bit, then wrote about a thousand words in Dead Housewives of New Orleans, and then rewarded myself with The Cheerleader.

The dance had begun. The gym was darkened now, and sawdust-wax had been sprinkled on the floor, but the smell of hot sweat from the basketball game still lingered. Down the darkness echoed record-player music.

Henrietta Snow, better known as Snowy, stood with another of the JV cheerleaders in the doorway. She was fifteen years old. She wore dungarees and her white cheerleading blouse, its collar turned up and its starch softened, and she wore her long dark-blond hair brushed into a ponytail that looked like an upside-down question mark. She said, "How disgusting!"

And just like that, I was back at Gunthwaite High in New Hampshire in the 1950's.

I wound up staying up much later on Friday night reading than I'd intended, as I had an early morning panel (the afore-mentioned y/a one) and was really rather reluctant to put the book down. I promised myself, as I went to bed, if I got enough work on Dead Housewives done yesterday I could read more of the book. I hit my goal for the day--actually surpassed it, frankly--and wound up staying up much later than I'd intended reading the rest of the book.

I had been wrong about the book for years; it was so realistic and so well-done in its time period that I assumed it had originally been written and published in the 1950's; actually, it was first published in 1973--but the fact that it was still in print and available six years later when I was eighteen says a lot about it. So, it wasn't quite as subversive as I'd originally thought--but still, even in the much more lax 1970's a book that was so frank about teenagers and their sexuality was still pretty damned subversive; if someone wrote such a book today I doubt very seriously it could get published--which says a lot about how far backward we as a society have gone, but that's a discussion for another time.

I was also wrong in that it was never intended to be a book for teenagers; its intended audience was adults, but it was still remarkably frank about teenaged sexuality in the 1950's. It was also remarkably frank about the lives of teenagers, their personal politics within groups and the power dynamics between girls.

I also loved the character of Snowy. Snowy was a smart girl who wanted to be a cheerleader and popular at a time when it was believed boys didn't like smart girls, so she constantly was hiding how smart she actually was. She was also driven and ambitious, wanting to go to college and willing to do whatever she had to in order to get there. There's a lot of complexity there, much more so than one thinks at first, and she's not always nice, and not afraid to do the wrong thing if it will get her what she wants.

On the surface, The Cheerleader is theoretically about teen love and heartbreak, but it is so much more than that.

I cannot recommend it highly enough, and I am really glad that I have a new copy.

And I cannot wait to read the rest of the books in the series.

Brava, Ms. MacDougall, brava.

One of the Living

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 23:40:27 GMT

So, this morning I had to appear on two panels at the Tennessee Williams Festival, and both went well, methinks. The first was the y/a panel, and the second was the mystery panel with the sublime Julie Smith, Nevada Barr, and Chris Wiltz. Talk about high-powered panelists, right? The point of the panel was diversifying your career--whereas it was once an accepted trope that you only wrote the kind of books that you were known for; if you write a mystery series, no one wants to read anything other than the series being one of the common examples--but it actually evolved into a rather candid discussion of the flux in publishing, the merits of ebooks vs. print books, and so on and so forth. And the question and answer period was all about ebooks and epublishing, so there you go.

It was a lot of fun.

Don't we make a rather motley crew?

I then came home and banged out a couple of thousand words of Dead Housewives of New Orleans. The end is nigh.

Huzzah!

This week I also finished reading For Your Eyes Only, and have decided to take a bit of a Bond break. I had never read this one before--it's actually five long short stories, and the book itself is only 143 pages long--but what I found very interesting is that bits and pieces of the stories were all lifted and woven together to make the movie For Your Eyes Only.

The story the book's title is taken from, "For Your Eyes Only," is about Bond hunting down some criminals who have murdered a wealthy British couple named Havelock on their estate in Jamaica; while he is stalking the killers' hideout in the woods of Vermont, he encounters their daughter with her crossbow--and she is bent on killing her parents' killers. There's even a scene where she gets one of them with an arrow as he dives into the lake--just like the scene in the movie where Bond is spying on the Havelocks' killers and one of them is killed by an arrow just as he dives into a swimming pool.

The story "Risico" introduces us to Kristatos, supposedly a British informer who tells Bond his enemy--whose emblem is the white dove--is the smuggler responsible for exporting heroin into England; there's even the identical scene in the story where the beautiful countess is having dinner with Colombo in a restaurant, storms out and winds up with Bond--and just like in the movie, it turns out that Kristatos is the real villain, and Colombo proves it to Bond in a raid on an Albanian warehouse.

"The Hildebrand Rarity" takes place on a huge luxury yacht in the Indian Ocean; perhaps this is where the screenwriters got the idea to have the whole undersea story and of course, the Havelocks live aboard a yacht.

The other two stories loaned their titles to films, "From a View to a Kill"--which is set in France, and as far as I can tell, that's the only thing they have in common--and "Quantum of Solace." I have not seen the film with that title, but I rather doubt the story--which is about a bad marriage--was the basis for the plot of the film.

The stories are well written, and they are fun reads that don't require a huge investment of time from the reader.

I decided to reread a book I originally read when I was eighteen next; I will save the story of that book for when I am finished reading it--although I did bring it up on the y/a panel today. :)

I do know when I go back to Bond, I will be rereading Live and Let Die.

And so back to the spice mines.

Carry On Wayward Son

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 16:02:59 GMT

I overslept this morning.

Not really a big deal--I have to meet Jean at the gym and go to the grocery store; other than that all I really have to do is write, write, write.

Sigh. It's amazing how hard it is to get me to start writing, isn't it?

Yesterday I spent most of the day cleaning and organizing--there's always more to do, of course, but what can you do? It was also Leg Day, the St. Patrick's Day parade, and over all, the kind of day where I was better off doing nothing creative. I do need those days periodically.

I did finish reading The Man With the Golden Gun yesterday, as well as the Bond short story "From a View to a Kill" from For Your Eyes Only. Ironically, The Man With the Golden Gun was probably the biggest best seller of the entire original series--it was Number One on the hardcover bestseller lists for over four months; it may have even been the first Bond to hit Number One on the list. But it seemed rather choppy and short to me; the big climactic gun battle between Bond and the villain, Scaramanga, was almost anti-climactic. And while Bond was always licensed to kill, this one was a bit different; Bond was actually sent to kill Scaramanga, rather than try to foil an evil plan. So, after reading it, I went hunting around for information on the Internet, and discovered Fleming had only written a first draft which he wasn't terribly pleased with before he died suddenly; his publisher read it and decided it was 'good enough' and then went all out with the 'LAST BOND NOVEL' marketing, which of course turned it into a huge seller. For me, it seemed like an unfortunate send-off for one of the most successful (and best) writers of secret agent thrillers of the twentieth century. But it alway comes down to filthy lucre, doesn't it?

I decided to go ahead and read For Your Eyes Only next, since it's really just a collection of Bond short stories--four or five, I believe. (For the record, the only thing "From a View to a Kill" has in common with the film is it is set in France.)

I think after I finish this I will reread The Spy Who Loved Me for reasons I will explain later when I talk about it, and then I am going to take a Bond break for a while--many others books have been piling up while I've been taking this Bond break, and they demand a reading. ;)

Okay, back to the spice mines.