Tag: saints and sinners

New Orleans Notes, No. 11

One advantage of going to Saints and Sinners is the chance to meet people I’ve only communicated with online. That was the case with a fellow Houstonian who writes under the name Gavin Atlas. We first got to talk at the opening party on Friday night, then he came to the Fool for Love reading on Saturday. I would have sworn that there was a photo of us talking to each other, but I can’t find one in either my files or anyone else’s Flickr sets from the festival. Maybe I imagined it. But I didn’t imagine our conversations or his quietly engaging personality.

I’m not sure when Gavin and I first began talking via LiveJournal, but I do remember that when I found out he lives in Houston I asked if he’d read The Deal, which is set here. He hadn’t, and since it’s out of print and I had a few extra copies, I sent him one. I enjoy sharing that book with other Houstonians because it features places that have since gone, like Crossroads and Lobo bookstores and Ming’s restaurant, along with several other Montrose restaurants as well as Houston museums, stores, and neighborhoods.

He didn’t have to, but in a gesture of kindness, Gavin sent me a signed novel by a friend of his, Kimberly Frost. I’m not normally a reader of paranormal romance, but Would-Be Witch blended its witches with humor and Texas hair and WEREWOLVES! Who would have thought that I’d find myself lying awake at night anxious about werewolves? Oh, the power of the written word.

When I got a recent newsletter from Murder By the Book, I discovered that Kimberly will be signing her second novel in the Southern Witch series, Barely Bewitched, at 6:30 p.m. on September 2. This time Gavin won’t have to send me a copy; I’ll be there!

On Tuesday (that’ll be today by the time I post this), Kimberly is beginning a seven-day contest on her web site. She’ll be giving away copies of her new novel as well as novels by other paranormal authors to people who comment on her blog. So get yourself over there and to her web site to find out more about Kimberly and her work. While you’re at it, check out what’s going on with Gavin’s work on his web site.

New Orleans Notes, No. 10

Back when I was a wee young teen reading books from my parents’ library at a voracious rate, I loved any fiction or biographies that were about writers or artists or performers or crazy kids struggling to make it in the big city.

Everything seems romantic and exciting when your life experience is limited. Writers living in near poverty in Paris, gathering for drinks and conversation in a favorite little bar or bookstore. Artists bumping against each other in New York, competing for gallery space and reviews, little dreaming that together they were reshaping the entire concept of art. Actresses stunning the world in roles of a lifetime, then going mad for the love of great actors. Musical prodigies dying of disease and starvation at the hands of rivals who could never measure up to them. All of these brilliant, talented people with their connected lives, inspired and destroyed by one another–it was dazzling and enticing and larger than life to Wee Me.

Now that I’m older, I realize that most of those people–the real ones–probably had no idea what big lives they had. They probably got just as worn down by daily reality as anyone–the frustration of a colicky baby, the need to find enough fuel to get them through a harsh winter, the dozens of rejections that made them feel their work would never come to anything, physical limitations, familial obligations.

But sometimes the magic is so strong it breaks through our perspective of life as ordinary, mundane.

There’s a crowded little bookstore in the Faubourg Marigny where creative voices are always welcomed and nurtured by the owner. A reading is scheduled for a sultry May night. The usual smells permeate the streets of New Orleans–the river, the bars, the sweat and urine and sick of tourists, the droppings of mules. Dough frying and crawfish simmering. I’m a little tired and overheated after a long day, so I persuade my friend and writing partner Timothy to take a cab with me to the bookstore. Earlier, we saw our friends walking. They decide to stop for drinks along the way, so we get there just before them.

The store is hot, even hotter because we all stand close among the stacks, or get brushed by people on their way to the back of the shop, where a few bottles of wine have been opened. A couple of red plastic plates hold crackers and pretzels. Most of those will be eaten by two or three men who probably missed lunch and are overdue for dinner.

The reading is kicked off by the dynamic Theresa Davis. She mesmerizes me. Others I can’t hear because late arrivals whisper and rustle and cause people around me to shift, blocking the opening that allowed me to see and listen to the readers. A couple of writers reinforce my conviction that I should never read my work aloud–some of us just don’t have the voice or the skill to do right by our stories. As the event ends, the air is so thick with humidity and performance anxiety that I have to get out of there. I can’t breathe.

I stumble outside, inhaling, craving air conditioning, and hear someone call my name. Catty-cornered from the bookstore is a restaurant with benches on the sidewalk around it. Without my glasses and in the dim street light, only my familiarity with their voices enables me to recognize Rhonda and Lindsey. I cross to them. A waiter has come from the restaurant and persuaded them to accept a hookah. It’s my first experience with this, though I decide it’s really not that different from the water pipes of my distant youth. I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore, but I enjoy the scent and taste of the hookah’s sour apple tobacco.

The mouthpiece is passed among us. Not all of us smoke. We’re passing time, waiting for Trebor and Timothy. We decide we’ll all meet at a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner. I go with the first group, and once inside, I sit with Rob, Melissa, ‘Nathan, and Dan. The restaurant is busy, but not too noisy, and it’s easy to hear their banter. I’m laughing a lot, as anyone would be with this group.

Lindsey and Rhonda come in with Mike and Jeffrey. They put two tables together–close to us, but not close enough for our conversations to intersect. There are bursts of laughter from their table, and I feel utterly content to know that all these people I enjoy and admire are getting to know one another and form new friendships.

Trebor and Tim finally enter the restaurant. This is a dinner we’ve tried to have for two years, and I join the two of them at our table. I’m enchanted all over again by Trebor. We jump from subject to subject, and he always has something intelligent, provocative, or entertaining to share. Occasionally I throw in a comment, but really, I’m happy to sit back, savor my grilled vegetables and basmati rice topped with feta cheese, and listen to two people who make me think and laugh and feel wonderful life from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.

It’s only later, much later, that I step outside the memory of those moments and realize that they are, in fact, made of that big magic that some biographer or storyteller of the future might put in a book. I have no idea which artist or writer or photographer or musician among us will be the principal and who makes up the supporting cast. But I dream that some young reader invited into this night will have lit within her the vision of a life made of creative work that she loves and gifted friends to illuminate the path to her dreams.
Performance artist and poet
Theresa Davis.
Poet and fiction writer Trebor Healey.
Poet, artist, and photographer
Lindsey Smolensky.
Writer Jeffrey Ricker.


Writers Mel Spenser and Timothy J. Lambert. Writer and photographer ‘Nathan Burgoine with his husband, photographer Dan Smith.


Writer and photographer Michael Wallerstein. Writer Rob Byrnes. Photographer Rhonda Rubin.

My Evil Twin: New Orleans Notes, No. 9

I often hear people say that if they just didn’t have to earn a paycheck, if they could win the lottery or find someone to support them financially, they’d finally have time to write that novel.

I’m not sure I believe them. For one thing, I know plenty of people who write and are published even though they have other careers. For another thing, I’m an example of a person who occasionally has months at a time when I don’t work other than taking care of my home and family, and I still have trouble prioritizing and managing my writing time.

So I was quite interested in the panel I was given to moderate at Saints and Sinners in May. The topic was “Making Time For Creativity: How to Write With a Full-Time Job,” and the panelists included prolific and award-winning writers Jess Wells, Rob Byrnes, Greg Herren, and Martin Hyatt.

After I introduced the writers and made my confession about not always using my creative time for writing, Jess got the ball rolling by listing many of the things writers think we “have to do” that keep us from writing. I immediately sent guilty looks toward Tim, who was sitting on the front row, because I thought “going to the gym every day” would be one of those Who’d argue with that? time-spenders. Later, at the closing party, I told Jess we should do a panel next year called “Bitching You Into Writing,” because she’d motivated me to stop making excuses and get to work. She’s a brilliant and funny speaker, and if you ever get a chance to hear her, grab it!

Her co-panelists were equally witty and smart. Marty talked about how writers may, in a sense, be writing all the time. Even though there are periods when we’re not putting hands to keyboard, pen, or pencil, we are always observing, taking in, filtering, and reshaping information that will end up in our writing. I’ve found this to be true. It’s also been my experience that many of those things, like bad relationships and crappy jobs, that I resented over the years because I felt like they stole writing time from me, actually provided a lot of the material that I’ve used in nine novels.

Rob and I expressed differing views on “writer’s block.” I tend not to believe in it (since I do see myself as an example of Marty’s theory of “always working”), but Rob talked about some of the hindrances a writer faces, including how sometimes even though everything falls into place to give us the time and opportunity to write, the words just don’t come. I think most of us sitting up front and in the audience exhaled a huge sigh of relief when a couple of panelists simultaneously said, “And that’s okay!” Because there is no single rule that applies to all of us about how much or how often we should write. Maybe there are times we shouldn’t be writing.

One of Greg’s points about his own process is how he keeps folders of notes that include ideas he’s had, things he’s seen or heard that spark a story idea, great potential first lines, and various other jottings and phrases that he may use or turn into something. Other people who’d come to hear the panelists agreed that they do this, as well. Jim Gladstone wondered when notes for a specific piece of writing go unused, are they discarded or saved for potential later use?

After some discussion of that, Carol Rosenfeld suggested that those notes, and the words we use to develop or explore them, become a part of our writing process. It was a salient point and added to a general sense that as writers, we don’t have to feel guilty about everything we do that’s NOT writing. Doing other work, both menial and fulfilling, or extended periods of thinking about or planning our next writing project, can all fill the well of creativity that will eventually pour itself in our stories and poems and essays.
Me with Jess Wells.
Marty Hyatt during the panel.
Rob Byrnes and Greg Herren on the panel.
Jim Gladstone, S&S 2007.
Carol Rosenfeld, S&S 2006.

I had quite a good time, heard much to think about, and ultimately was glad that I, and not my Evil Twin Betsy, moderated the panel.

Houston exhibit and New Orleans Notes, No. 7

I’ll begin by telling you the truth. I was coming home from getting my hair cut a few weeks ago when I had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. So urgent that I called Tom and said shrieked, “CLEAR THE PATH TO THE BATHROOM BEFORE I GET HOME, AND WOE BE TO MAN OR BEAST WHO GETS IN MY WAY.”

It became apparent that Tom’s efforts would not be enough, and thank all that is Art that the Menil Museum was open with parking near the door, because I swear, no one is EVER in their restroom–perhaps the reason why it’s always clean. But once my urgent need was taken care of, I felt guilty. I couldn’t go to the Menil Museum to use the restroom and not visit my Rothkos. By “my” I mean the paintings that would adorn the walls of my home on The Compound were there any justice in the world. Stupid unjust world.

I never made it to my Rothkos because I stumbled over the Menil’s current exhibit: Marlene Dumas: Measuring Your Own Grave. This is its FINAL WEEKEND for any locals who might like to see this South African artist’s mid-career retrospective. Dumas’s paintings are made from photographs of people and have been described as “haunting images of sex, birth, death and political repression.” That quote is from Patricia Zohn’s excellent article for The Huffington Post, which explains it all better than I can. Dumas’s paintings are particularly timely considering the events of the past few days in Iran.

One reason the exhibit has stayed with me is that for months, while I’ve been washing dishes or watching TV or sewing doll clothes or sitting outside with the dogs or brushing my teeth or even sleeping, my mind has been grappling with the concept of art and its purpose(s). I have initiated conversations with other writers and just folks (i.e., sane people who are not writers) and strangers at the gym as I attempt to work this out in my head. Many thoughts have been triggered by recent novels I’ve read by Michael Thomas Ford and Scott Heim, as well as poetry Steven Reigns read at Saints and Sinners, and some discussions he and I had there and a message he sent me after the festival.

All I can say is that the topic hasn’t formed itself into a coherent diatribe from me. Yet. Aren’t you lucky?


Steven Reigns reading at Faubourg Marigny Art & Books.
Me with Steven in the lobby of the Bourbon Orleans.

As well as being a poet, Steven is an artist. Check out his his web site for more information about him and his work.

You light up my life

I don’t want to belabor this, but back in 2007, when I first met David Puterbaugh, he was near-cocktailed out of his mind. Since he knew full well I’d wanted to meet him sober, he asked what he could do to get back in my good graces. I pointed ceilingward and said, “You must get that for me.”

No, it wasn’t a palmetto bug, even though I always say it’s not a true Southern story of the coast until that flying cockroach makes an appearance. (Which it did, but that was later.) No, what I was seeking was this:

Please click here for more.

New Orleans Notes, No. 6, plus more

Every morning but our last in New Orleans, Tim went out for breakfast and brought breakfast back to me in the hotel room. I felt SO spoiled. It was wonderful to have yummy food delivered to me as if I were some Very Important Person.

Our last morning in the Crescent City, we’d planned to meet Lisa, ‘Nathan, and Dan at the Clover Grill, but Tim was feeling a little under the weather, so I walked there alone. I was reminded when seeing Lisa’s photos that I, too, upon watching her whip out her camera, took the obligatory Clover Grill breakfast plate shot. Mmmmmm, grits: one of those things that say “back home” to me, even though my real “back home” is one state east and a few hours north of New Orleans. Roll Tide.

As we were eating, I watched the intersection of Bourbon Street and Dumaine come to life, including a house across Dumaine. Men emerged to sit on the stoop, squint against the sun, and wake up to the day. I noticed a “Happy Birthday” sign spraypainted on one of the windows and was idly writing a little story in my head in between the conversations at our table.

Later, when we stepped outside after our meal, I got one of my favorite shots of the trip, capturing an unexpected, happy moment, when Lisa strode across the street and asked the men, “How was the party?” Why hadn’t I realized that OF COURSE she’d probably been talking to the guys for days as she went back and forth to our favorite little café, and undoubtedly she knew all kinds of details about them. I just adore her. And if I’m wrong, Lisa, don’t tell me, ’cause I love the way you never meet a stranger.


Lisa, chattin’ it up with the dudes.

Lovely memories. But back to Houston and this week…

Monday morning I was reminded of how spoiled I got in New Orleans when Tim came home from the gym with a breakfast sandwich from Jack in the Box for me. It was a nice beginning to what could have been a yucky day. June 1 is the first anniversary of my mother’s death, and Sunday night, I finished reading Scott Heim’s We Disappear while sobbing. What an achingly moving book by such a good writer. In earlier times, I’d have grabbed my quill pen and written him a tear-stained letter of admiration and gratitude. Instead, I sent him an e-mail and received one back from him. There’s a lot to be said for today’s more immediate gratification, and those two e-mails will remain intensely special to me always.

In addition, my brother, sister, and I exchanged some funny e-mails. I’m so glad I was born into a family where we were taught the value of humor for release and coping.

I had an eye appointment on Monday afternoon, and since I knew my eyes would be dilated, Tim graciously agreed to be my driver. (Another thing I could get used to. What am I talking about? I already have.) Off we went to the Galleria. While I was waiting for my glasses (a new prescription because my distance vision has improved, while my close-up vision worsened–I blame all that sewing), Tim further indulged me.

As many of you know, Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum novels became some of my favorite escapist reading after a friend recommended them when I was just starting to write A Coventry Christmas. (She did so after she found out that I, like Evanovich, was giving my main character a hamster.) The characters in these books just slay me with their quirks and exploits. I was able to hook my mother on them, and we used to crack up as we recounted the shenanigans of characters like Grandma Mazur, Sally Sweet, Albert Kloughn, and Lula. I think Evanovich has done a masterful job of introducing three hot men–Joe, Ranger, and Diesel–into Stephanie’s life and balancing them over fourteen “numbers” books (Finger Lickin’ Fifteen releases the end of this month!) and four “between-the-numbers” books. When Tim was in the hospital in 2007 and needed something light to read, those were the books I took to him.

So Monday, being the friend he is, Tim agreed to go on a hunt with me for the Bvlgari shower gel that Ranger uses because I wanted to know how Ranger smells. But as we scanned the men’s fragrance shelves in Nordstrom and Macys, none of the names were jumping out at me. Then we went to Etoile Perfumery, where the sales associate pointed out that there were some unisex Bvlgari products, too. I still wasn’t sure about the name, so we went to Borders to look through the books. Tim finally spotted the exact name in one of the later books: Green Tea. Back to Etoile to check out the scent. They didn’t have the shower gel, but since Tim’s out of Marc Jacobs, he said he’d be willing to wear this because it smells as delicious as Stephanie Plum says. I happen to have a checking account that I shared with my mother that still has money in it, so we paid for it using that account. She’d have gotten a kick out of the Ranger connection. Plus it was ON SALE, as it originally had been part of a set, and the other item was missing. What budget-conscious mother doesn’t teach us the value of buying stuff that’s ON SALE, right?!?

Then I almost got us eighty-sixed from the Galleria. Apparently, there are NO PHOTOS signs at every entrance to this shopping mecca. Which is weird, because I’ve ALWAYS taken photos there, especially at the ice rink. I guess it’s because only a terrorist would take a photo of a ginormous American flag. Ha, I got my shot before the security guard yelled at me. For scale, that’s Tim standing on the walkway directly beneath the flag.


He smells good, too.

New Orleans Notes, No. 5

I’m not sure the right order to tell this story, so I’ll just plunge in and trust you to keep up with me. A few days after our return from Saints and Sinners, I began reading a novel I picked up there. It’s not a new novel: Mysterious Skin by Scott Heim. In fact, it’s been around long enough that a movie has already been made from it. I hadn’t read the novel or seen the movie. After I began reading it, I couldn’t put it down until I had to because my eyes were crossing. I went to sleep, then picked it up from the bedside table as soon as my eyes opened the next morning. People, when your bladder has turned thirty-five a few times, trust me, THIS IS AMAZING. I didn’t get out of bed until I read the last page of the book. It was haunting, well-written, and–obviously!–compelling.

Before Saints and Sinners, the only thing I really knew about Scott Heim was that he and I had a mutual online friend on Facebook: amanda_mary, who I originally came to know through Mark G. Harris. You know how sometimes you start reading someone online and you just instantly like that person? And the more you read, the more reasons you have to like her (or him)? That’s the way Amanda is for me. She’s a lot younger than I am, way cooler, and has a pretty different life from mine. I like the way she thinks and the way she expresses herself. If she moved next door to me, I’d immediately think the hipness quotient of my street went up a notch (as long as she didn’t park her car in front of The Compound where I like to park mine when it’s outside the gates).

I decided as a little surprise for her, I’d make a point of meeting Scott Heim at Saints and Sinners and get my photo taken with him. David Puterbaugh made that easier at the opening party at the W Hotel when he pointed out Scott to me. David said he wanted to meet him, too, so we sashayed our butts over to where Scott was talking to someone.

Flashback: My very first year at Saints and Sinners (2006), I was in a conversation with another writer when two people came up and edged me away from him. It was annoying at the time, and I felt like a big geek standing there looking at the air around me. Then my gaze fell on the sweet, smiling visage of a stranger who turned out to be one Mark G. Harris; I asked him if he knew where a restroom was; he got that information and accompanied me to one; and out of that little incident came all kinds of wonderful things.

I did NOT MEAN to do the same thing, taking Scott away from his conversational partner, and I’m sure David didn’t either. But since it happened, I hope it freed this Unknown Man to meet someone as terrific as Mark G. Harris who will likewise enhance his life in myriad ways. Just in case, however, a big I’M SORRY to Unknown Man.

Scott Heim is a delight. When I mentioned Amanda, he said they’d been talking online for years. He recognized David from the S&S program, and before you know it, we had a merry little group surrounding him. I managed to get a few more photos, including these:


Authors Timothy J. Lambert, ‘Nathan Burgoine, Scott Heim


Authors Jeffrey Ricker, David Puterbaugh, Scott Heim

Tonight, Famous Author Rob Byrnes has been live-blogging on Facebook from the Lambda Literary Awards. So we could all learn AS IT HAPPENED that Scott Heim won for We Disappear in the Best Gay Fiction category. Congratulations, Scott! Fortunately, I picked up this book when I got Mysterious Skin. I know what just moved to the top of my To Be Read pile.

Happiness and joy on May 26

Happy birthday, Stevie Nicks! And Lenny Kravitz! And…somebody…somebody…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIMOTHY J. LAMBERT! You are simply the best. I hope you have a terrific day (in spite of the fact that you know frivolity awaits you in the evening). I can’t promise a food fight like last year, but there’s bound to be a bit of crazy along with everything else.

I have now discovered the key to getting a photograph in which both of us look happy and have our eyes open. We must always pose with Jeff and Mike. And really, who WOULDN’T be happy around these two?


Becky, Jeffrey Ricker (making spontaneous-Lindsey-face), Timothy J. Lambert, and my favorite Dr. Pepper, Mike W.

Thanks, Marika, for taking this photo with my camera!