Leigh Grissom |

THE LONGEST DAY

Leigh Grissom — Wed, 02 Jun 2021 23:42:35 +0000

Here’s the second post. – the Author

Engage autopilot.

Phase in Longest Day protocol.

Run program.

Sit.

Wait.

Let the hospice nurse in. She didn’t have a reason to be there other than she cared about our family and wanted to be with us awhile.

Doorbell.

The nurse lets in the hospice chaplain. Nice guy. He didn’t argue the week before when he offered to counsel me and I growled, “Not now.”

Eat? No mental record if I did or not.

Talk nonsensical bullshit with the siblings and the grandchildren. File the anger away for later.

Make sure Mom still gets her medicine.

Feel the cold blasts of air as I walk through the ghosts waiting around her bed.

Wonder which one threw the decorative wall cross across the breezeway several weeks before. Figure it was Faye. She would do that just to hear me cuss.

Wait some more.

Pace.

Sit.

TV. Feels wrong; Mom hates stupid lip-synch shows like this. But it beats the 24-hours of LifeLock infomercials that day she wouldn’t relinquish the remote.

Check the clock.

Time: 9:30.

“Guys?”

Oh dear God no…

Feel her soul slip past me. Feel the other ghosts leave the room.

Feel my sweet Papa puff up with pride as he walks her Home.

Disconnect.

Make a few calls that all sound the same.

“The fight’s over.”

Run from the pain for a very, very long time.

Five years.

Where the hell did five years go?

I miss you so much, Momma

It never rains in southern california

Leigh Grissom — Wed, 17 Feb 2021 20:39:11 +0000

… and it damn sure doesn’t snow like this in Texas.

I never thought I would lose friends, even internet ones, over a snowstorm. But I’ve quietly unfollowed several who have laughed, made jokes, said things like “suck it up, buttercup,” and referred to us as “Silly Southerners” while people all across the state are without power and water, and have been for days.

People are dying, and they think it’s funny.

The temptation to write a Twitter thread for the ages is strong. I want so much to tell them to go fuck themselves with an iron stick. But, being the non-confrontational, “don’t engage in a battle of wits with an unsympathetic asshole” person that I am, I hit the unfollow button and continued on about my life. I’m glad they’re finding reasons to laugh during such an awful time. In the wake of a pandemic and a godawful winter storm, everyone needs a giggle or two to warm them up.

Just don’t expect me to be there when you’re doing it at the expense of people who aren’t wired to handle weather like this.

Hang in there, friends. The warm is coming.

Seven Months

Leigh Grissom — Sun, 18 Oct 2020 22:36:33 +0000

It’s been seven months.

Seven months since this fucking virus locked the doors of the nursing home.

Seven months since I’ve seen my father for more than the occasional FaceTime call (something I’m forever grateful to his nurse for setting up for us.)

At long last, the VA hosted a conference call to tell the loved ones some new rules, however strict, to let us see our family members. I called, I got on the list, and I went today. I knew I couldn’t hug him, but at least I could get eyes on him. At least I could talk to him.

The years since his stroke in 2013 leading up to today? I never missed a week. I promised my mother before she passed on in 2016 that I’d look after him. I made sure I was there every week, every Father’s Day, every holiday, and especially his birthday. I swore he’d never feel alone. He’s not my biological father, but he’s the only one I’ve ever known.

I know, I know. This virus wasn’t my fault. The lockdown wasn’t my fault. But I still feel like I failed. Today was going to be a breakthrough for me. I’d be back with my daddy!

If I cry, don’t tell anyone.

There was an outbreak in the assisted living part of the complex — staff and residents both. My father isn’t in that part, but they locked down the whole thing, retested vets and staff alike, and shut down all face-to-face visitation without letting anyone know.

I saw him, but I could only do it through the window.

Don’t judge me — I’m extremely grateful for today, but yeah, I’m whining a little. It’s just hard, because my dad is almost deaf, so having to struggle to hear me through a cell phone was tough. He did smile, and wave, and tell me he loved me, which lifted my spirits tremendously … but that damn pane of glass, the specter of the virus … I’ve never felt so relieved, so angry, so helpless, and so fucking heartbroken all at once.

I love you so much, Daddy. I really hope you don’t think I’m a bad kid for not coming in. It’s not my fault.

Moping

Leigh Grissom — Sat, 22 Aug 2020 19:35:01 +0000

Hey, it’s my blog, and I can mope if I want.

I encountered the phrase “Creative Misfit” this week. It’s really made me think. I’ve been struggling with “what’s my place on this virus-wracked blue marble” and I have to admit that even the title Misfit doesn’t, well, fit.

So I’ve adopted a new phrase — Creative Outsider.

It’s been like this since I was very young. I could move through virtually any group, but I never belonged to any of them. Fast forward to me being forty-toomuch, and I still don’t. I even work in two departments at the day job and don’t truly belong in either one.

I am a Creative Outsider. I can’t explain my process.

How long should chapters be?

They end when they stop.

How many beats are in this scene?

(insert confused Scooby-Doo look here) What the fuck is a “beat?”

How many words will your WIP have?

Uhhhhh … I’ll let you know when it’s done?

This can get frustrating for someone who wants to interact more. I don’t have answers. I have nothing else to offer other than my writing and the occasional rage-fueled rant. I go to work, I come home. That’s it. When the gods see fit to let my brain and the amount of time I have in the evenings work together, I write. (Which I did today — Natural Born Savior is almost done. I think.)

I really don’t have a destination in mind for this post. But the more I think of it, I may have to have a T-shirt with “CREATIVE OUTSIDER” on it. Y’know, just to remind me I don’t have to fit in with the group to churn out some kick-ass stories.

There’s more on my mind but — I’ll save it for later. I’ve got a “Lower Level Exclusive” idea for a short story I need to chase.

Wow

Leigh Grissom — Sat, 01 Aug 2020 22:45:51 +0000

Just … wow.

Social media and I aren’t getting along like we used to. Well, wait — I should say Facebook and I aren’t getting along like we used to. Twitter and I are still on speaking terms, and Instagram and I still enjoy each other’s company.

But that old warning about avoiding the comment section? I forgot I won’t do that again.

I’m impressed with how great the initial poster fought to maintain civility, but damn, he and the PIC (Person In Comments) have been friends for forty years. This dumpster fire of a world we’re living in is eating away at good people, and now they’re turning their anger on each other. Friends are turning on each other in a time where we need each other more than ever.

This is bullshit.

I know not many people read these blog posts (and I love everyone who does). I’m grateful for my friends and my family, and I respect how you feel and what you think about everyfuckingthing out there. You want to rant? Rant. You want to be pissy? Be pissy. I’ll listen, and unless your intention is to cause harm to yourself or someone else? What you say stays with me.

I don’t know what else to say about this. Just … I miss the days when people could talk without being attacked.

Train wreck a-coming

Leigh Grissom — Fri, 24 Jul 2020 17:27:54 +0000

I’m a little cranked right now.

It’s going to be hard for me to keep names out of this entry. If you know me, you know who has pissed off my inner beast. If you don’t know and are part of the Writing Community, message me and I’ll holler back with information.

Indie publishing houses. I know you all are careful and do appropriate research before signing with one. You’re all amazing like that.

There’s one out there, however, whose true colors flared to life last night, and I’m glad I didn’t accept their repeated offers to join their ranks. I’ve cancelled my subscription to their magazine, and while I’m grateful for the short-story exposure … they haven’t paid their authors in months.

This house passed the blame for low sales and no promotion off onto the marketers (which were all fired) and the authors themselves. They owned none of their part in this.

“The marketers did nothing. The authors did all the promotional work.”

“The authors expected all the promotion to come from the publishing house.”

Wait. What?

What he says about the marketers and the authors is not true. I can back it up with pages upon pages of promo posts, promoting each other, and working their asses off to get the word out. I’m disappointed; I’d hoped this house would be different. It’s not.

To the honest and aboveground houses out there – thank you. You know who you are.

To this one? I’m on the front row to watch the fallout. I just hate it for all the authors who believed in them … like I almost did.

The Conference Death Match of 2019

Leigh Grissom — Mon, 04 Nov 2019 03:42:28 +0000

I attended my first writer’s conference last weekend.

I know, I’m impressed, too. And boy, did I learn a lot.

I’m grateful I went. I met a lot of writers, had a bang-up hotel lunch, and had a crash course in traditional publishing. I met with an agent who was kind, very professional, and willing to tell me if I had a chance in hell getting the two books I’ve self-published picked up.

That answer, kids, is no.

She did outline a plan of action if I wanted to push the issue. Take both books off Amazon, change everything including the covers, and pitch them as new books. As I learned in later sessions, then it would be a matter of if an agent wanted to work with me, if a publishing house would buy it, and (if the planets aligned), it could be two years later before the first book returned to the shelf.

KLS-9 has already been on Amazon for two years. And … if you know me, you know I’m committed to keeping my cover designer’s memory alive. I won’t betray Vann; he was too good to me. The covers stay.

So that’s that, at least for Kerry’s saga. The whole series will be self-published.

Here’s the part of the day I bitched about on Facebook. The agent I spoke to was dynamite. The other three?

Lemme start from the beginning. The segment was called something like, “The Literary Voice.” Authors submitted the first page of their work, no name, just title and genre. The coordinator read it until two out of three agents raised their hands. She would stop, and the critiquing would begin.

That’s not how it worked. That’s not how any of it worked.

She would read, the hands would raise, and the “professionals” would criticize, rip up, and skewer everything that was submitted. One in particular would go so far as to make fun of the page in front of her. I will simply call her “N,” but — if you want to know her name, message me. No one should ever have to sit through a pitch session just to suffer abuse.

One of the writers (I’ll call him “H” because it’s his first initial and he was my hero for the day) calmly approached the table after the brutality ended and asked them why they felt the need to be so brutal. Two of the agents ran from him.

“N,” the potato-shaped lump of bitch, lost her temper in front of all of us.

“THIS is a cut-throat profession! You’ll sit with someone who’ll make you cry! You’ll sit with someone who’ll make you bleed! You just need to quit whining about it and suck it up! I am a professional!”

Really.

There’s more. She ranted and raved without lowering her volume or her blood pressure for over ten minutes. “H” stood there, very calm, and never once raised his voice. When he turned to leave, she came after him, still raving. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and simply said, “No, we’re done.”

“You’re damn right we’re done!” “N” stormed out and we didn’t see her again. As for my hero “H” — I bought his first book. It was the least I could do to show my appreciation for how he stood up for all of us. Nice twist on vampire lore, and there’s no sparkling. I’ll share the review when I’m done.

Wow. Just … wow. What an eye-opening day.

Maybe, after Kerry has fought her last battle, I’ll pitch the Next New Thing to an agent. Or maybe I won’t. I’m old, I’m cranky, and I like being able to tell my story my way.

We’ll see.

WHEN THE WORDS STOP

Leigh Grissom — Sun, 02 Jun 2019 03:23:57 +0000

(With a nod of gratitude to Writer’s Row on YouTube for making me think)

Does Writer’s Block exist?

You’ll get more argument over this topic than I expected, especially among the writer’s community online. You’ll hear that it’s very, very real, and then you’ll hear that it doesn’t exist. It’s just fear. It’s just lack of self-confidence.

Every theory, every definition, is right.

I went eight years without writing a word save for what my teachers assigned (and what I turned in to them was bad — very bad.) Was I afraid? Yes. Did I suffer from a lack of self-confidence? I still do.

What the naysayers are missing is this — the words stop coming. People going through it sit down to write, and nothing happens. Yes, it’s fear. Yes, it’s low self-esteem. Yes, it’s lack of self-confidence. But when you’re locked in it, when the words won’t come. We call it “Writer’s Block” because we can’t think of anything else.

It’s real, friends and neighbors. If you hear a writer say they’re suffering from writer’s block, don’t blow them off and say it doesn’t exist, that they can just sit down and write and it’ll be all better. Talk to them. Listen to them. Eventually, what’s stopping them from writing will come out. And the block will fall.

Thank you for indulging in one of my rant posts. There will be more.

Note To Self

Leigh Grissom — Sat, 20 Apr 2019 21:47:59 +0000

Dear Self,

The abject terror of starting a new manuscript doesn’t go away with the third novel.

Sorry,

Leigh

p.s. Now get moving.