The Covidian Age, Part I: A brief reintroduction.

1.

Well, here we are. 20-motherfucking-22. We’re living in the future. And here you are. You’ve landed on the newest iteration of my blog, a kind of running diary.

2.

A brief (re)introduction: I’m married, I have three daughters, I work as a public school librarian, and I’m 44 years old. I’ve outlived Jesus, the Emperor Claudius, Elivs Presley, and Ted Bundy. I’ve written some books, including last year’s The South Never Plays Itself, and have three books in the pipeline. I watch too many movies. I read too many novels. I have a migraine condition. I live in Chicago. I write all the fucking time. I’m haunted by my childhood. I grapple with my southern Baptist upbringing. I’m a vegetarian. I wish I listened to more music. I’ve been drawn to darkness since I can remember, but I’m always fighting for the light. 

3.

The first iteration of this blog was Covid-19 Diary. It involved movies, my childhood, the editing of The South Never Plays Itself, and little funny interactions with my family, but included my often brilliant restaurant ideas, oddball bios of forgotten people, strange memories from Pensacola, brief summaries of my unpublished novel manuscripts, and other bits of ephemera, with withering asides from my wife. I exalted in the isolation early on, finishing up manuscripts. The second iteration, The Post-Covid Blues—and god, the unintended irony of that title—was supposed to be about my reading life and my childhood memories of my cousin Keith and promotional events for my book, but slipped into the drudgery of news and politics. I wanted to keep things light and airy. I failed. 

4.

So here we are. The third iteration. 

(read the rest here.)