I am really stoked about the Inanna part. There’s stripping and fucking and history and magic and my Grandma (people, yes, for a story about Nashville, it’s filling up with dead people who married Phillipses) and omni-gendered priests and Inanna dressed like the twilight sky. And the importance of trying to live with the truth about history and not the lies that make it easier.
And can we just acknowledge that, out of all of the Baxters I could find pictures of on the internet, poor Jere was not as fortunate in the looks department as Ed or their cousin Baxter Smith? I almost regret siccing The Thing on Baxter Smith. On second thought, could it just be that Jere looks like my Uncle M and so I’m immune to his relative charms? I’m just saying, if you want to make Jere Baxter your history boyfriend, I’ll only judge you a little.
But the seance. Ugh. I don’t know. Luckily, this is still the first draft, so other things will happen and that will firm up whether what needs to happen in the seance does. But we established that Metcalf is back, though something is very wrong with him, that the other Sue Perkins is freshly dead, and that the living Nancy Perkins is marrying Bobby Overton, thus paving the way for the return of Lee Overton, my bad guy, and his methed out homicidal son, who he has unleashed on the past, because he is a giant baby. Lee, not his son.
And you’ll be unsurprised to learn that Bobby Overton’s name is Robert Lee Overton. Because nothing says “We’ve accepted defeat” like naming your kid after General Lee. Makes you wonder what the fuck Robert Frost’s parents were thinking.
But the seance scene. Ugh. Writing it was just like pulling teeth. It felt too mechanical–this happened, and then this happened. But, like I said, no diagnosing it until the whole thing is done.
I’m also debating whether to leave the butt sex scenes in. I’d decided to cut them, but upon rereading them, I felt like they told you a lot about the characters and why they didn’t quite fit in polite society, so now I’m tempted to leave them. I mean, there’s already temple prostitutes and grown men kissing teenage war widows on the cooter. Why not just go whole hog?
See? So, next draft, I rewrite the seance as an orgy. Then it will be fine.
Our relationship with our own history makes us kin to Salome, as she’s using the soft, solid curve of her shifting hip to draw attention to the contrast between the loud, driving rhythm of the palace drums and the silent, gentle motion each of her seven veils makes as it floats toward the mosaic floor. Our blatant seductions–”We will say that our men were heroes,” “We will say that our grandfathers’ motivations were noble,” “We will love them without complications,” or more importantly, “We will let you love them without complications”–promise what we will give in exchange for the death of truth.